“It must be old man Jack and his family,” answered M‘Nab. “I have been wondering what had become of them for ever so long. I heard Wildduck was very ill. Yes, this is our tribe, sir; not a very alarming one, but all that brandy and ball-cartridge have left.”
“What has the old fellow got on his back?” inquired Mr. Bagemall; “the men carry nothing if they can help it.”
“Poor Wildduck,” said Jack, half to himself, “I had forgotten all about her of late, with the allowable selfishness of misfortune. By Jove! it’s she that the old man is carrying. She must be ill indeed.”
The old savage, followed by his aged wives at humble distance, marched on in a stately and solemn manner, until he reached a mound near the garden gate. Here the little procession halted; one of the gins placed an opossum rug upon the earth, and upon this the old man, with great care and tenderness, placed the wasted form of the girl Wildduck. She it was, apparently in the last stage of consumption, as her hollow cheeks testified, and the altered face, now lighted by eyes of unnatural size, brilliant with the fire of death. The three men walked over.
“Ah, Misser Redgrave,” said she, while a dreamy smile passed over her wan countenance, “stockman say you sell Gondaree and go away. Old man Jack carry me from Bimbalong—me must say good-bye.” Here a frightful fit of coughing prevented further speech, while the old man and the gins made expressive pantomime, in acquiescence, and then, seating themselves around, took out sharp-edged flints, and, scooping a preliminary gash on their faces, prepared for a “good cry.” Strangely soon blood and tears were flowing in commingled streams adown their swart countenances. Wildduck lay gasping upon her rug, and from time to time sobbed out her share of the lament for the kind white man who was about to leave their country.
Jack leaned over the ghastly and shrunken form of what had once been the agile and frolicsome Wildduck. The dying girl—for such unquestionably she was—looked up in his face, with death-gleaming and earnest gaze.
“You yan away from Gondaree, Misser Redgrave?” she gasped out. “No come back?”
Jack nodded in assent.
“Me yan away too,” she continued; “Kalingeree close up die, me thinkum; that one grog killum, and too much big one cough, like it white fellow. You tell Miss Maudie, I good girl long time.”
“Poor Wildduck,” said Jack, genuinely moved by the sad spectacle of the poor victim to civilization. “Miss Maudie will be very sorry to hear about you. Can’t you get down to Juandah? I’m sure she would take care of you.”