RGL e-Book Cover 2018©
RGL e-Book Cover 2018©
The Australian authoress Mary Helena Fortune (ca. 1833-1911) was one of the first women to write detective fiction, and probably the first to write it from the viewpoint of the detective. Her opus includes several novels and over 500 stories, many of which feature a detective by the name of Mark Sinclair. She wrote under the pseudonyms "Waif Wander" and "W.W."
LEO VANSILTART was no ordinary young lady, you could recognize that in one glance if you had seen her that October morning as she sat at the breakfast table opposite to her very commonplace father, James Vansiltart. She was far from being what is usually understood by a "beautiful girl," but there was that in Leo's face that you might look upon a hundred beautiful women's faces without finding—I mean the expression of a strong mind in a strong body, and a perfect conviction that she held the working out of her own life in her own right hand, and that her gasp was strong and firm enough to control it against the whole world.
Leo's face was of a pure creamy tint, with a flush of damask rose on cheek and lip. Her eyes were large and dark, and met you with a straight gaze that unflinchingly read you like a book. Her hair was abundant, and of the richest, darkest brown; her nose straight and well formed; but it was not a beautiful face after all, only a fine one with plenty of power and expression in it.
But where would you find a figure to equal that of Leo Vansiltart? Rather above middle height, slight, yet beautifully rounded, she was supple and lithe as a willow wand, and quite as elastic. In long climbs up the grand ranges of her patrimony—in dashing rides across the rolling plains—in rough sports that might seem to the conventional unsuited to her sex, the girl's youth had been spent, and its reward was the perfect specimen to healthful womanhood that, on the threshold of her twenty-first year, poured out the coffee on that October morning at the breakfast table at Cooinda Station.
I have said that her father was commonplace, and I may add that he was more—he had been called vulgar by his dead wife's friend who had never ceased to wonder at her choice. He was a stout man, getting on for fifty, with a slight baldness, and a round rubicund face. He was inclined to be a little afraid of his clever daughter Leo, but would have angrily denied the fact behind her back; yet this morning, as he sat there snatching glances at Leo from under his eyebrows, one must have decided that he stood in slight awe of her, and had some especial cause for the feeling.
The morning mail bag was lying on the table by Mr. Vansiltart's plate, and from among the letters it had contained he had tossed two over to his daughter, who had barely glanced at them as she attended to her breakfast with the wholesome appetite of a healthy young woman.
"Why don't you read your letters, Leo?" her father asked, when his patience appeared to be exhausted in watching her furtively.
"Oh, I have no interesting correspondence, pa! One of these is Mercer's account, I can see, and the other—it doesn't matter."
"Are you in such a hurry with your breakfast that you cannot open the letter? One never knows of what importance a letter may be."
"Or may not be, pa; but since you are so curious about my letter, I will make time to read it, though I am in a hurry this morning."
"Indeed? What is the programme this morning, then, Leo?"
"My programme is a ride with Rupert and the dogs to the back station. Good gracious! The world must be coming to an end!"
She had torn open the letter as she spoke, and the exclamation of surprise was occasioned by her rapid perusal of it. If she had been watching her father's face she must have seen the deep interest he had in it and its effect upon her, but she took no notice, though his voice actually trembled as he asked:
"What is the matter? What wonderful thing have you discovered, Leo?"
She laid down the hand that held the open sheet, and fixed her brave eyes full upon her father's face.
"What does this mean, papa? You must know, since the writer of this lovely gush speaks of you so much."
"Who are you talking of, Leo?"
"Of Miss Katherina Leila Merionvale, as she signs herself, a detestable creature of a girl, who was at school with me for one term at Madame Motar's. Where on earth did you make her acquaintance, papa?"
"I met Miss Merionvale at a friend's in town, Leo, and I was quite charmed with both herself and her mother; indeed, they were so particularly kind to me that I felt myself bound to invite them to spend a few weeks at Cooinda with us."
Leo's face flushed warmly as she crushed the letter into a ball and tossed it into the fireplace.
"If there is one creature in the world that I utterly despise it is Katinka the doll, as we used to call her at school and before inviting her or any one else of my own sex to Cooinda, papa, I think you might have remembered that Cooinda is mine."
It was Mr. Vansiltart's turn now to exhibit the anger he could no longer hide.
"You are rather too fast, young lady," he said. "Cooinda is not yours until you are of age."
"Which will be in exactly three months," she retorted.
"Nonsense!" he cried, doubtfully, "you are not yet twenty."
"I shall be twenty-one on the twenty-third of January next —you have not kept good count, papa."
"I have not if you are right; but, in any case, the matter has nothing to do with my invitation to Mrs. and Miss Merionvale, and it is your place to write and assure them of your welcome, and to receive them as particular friends of your father."
"I shall not write a lie either to Mrs. or Miss Merionvale, papa, nor shall I receive them at Cooinda, if they are impertinent enough to come without an invitation from me; and now that you know my decision you can make what arrangements you please."
Leo had risen and gathered the skirt of her habit on her arm while she was speaking; when she had concluded she lifted the hat and whip that lay on a chair near her and, without waiting for an explosion from her father, walked proudly out of the room.
Mr. Vansiltart stood for a few moments in such a rage that the veins on his bare temples stood out in knots, and then, as the awful passion of his nature would have vent, his fist was dashed among the china on the breakfast table, while amid the crash he went out, seized his hat in the hall, and strode across the home-paddock like a man bent on some irretraceable step.
He was bent and determined on a particular course, yet, like many another man, he was going to ask for advice he was not intending to take unless it should coincide with his own wishes. He was going to Greensmead, the neighboring station, where his old friend, Colonel Brocksbury, resided; and he walked rather than rode, because he wanted time to think, and to cool, as he passed through the two miles of bush land that separated the stations.
Colonel Brocksbury was a man so entirely different from Mr. Vansiltart in every way that many wondered at the strong friendship that existed between them. The Colonel was a handsome and aristocratic looking man, with a truly military carriage, and a handsome, open countenance. His fifty years sat very lightly upon him, and many found it difficult to credit that Rupert, the finest horseman, the most finished scholar, and the handsomest young man in the district, was really Colonel Brocksbury's son. The Colonel was smoking on the veranda at Greensmead when Mr. Vansiltart joined him, and he at once noticed the unusual agitation on his friend's face.
"How heated you look," he said, when greetings had been exchanged. "Did you walk all the way?"
"Yes, I have walked. I want to speak to you alone, Brocksbury. Can you come down to the summer-house out of the way of listeners!"
"Oh yes. But there are no listeners; Rupert has gone out to Cooinda, I think."
"Yes; Leo told me she was going out with him."
Then, as they walked toward the shady summer-house, where the roses and wisteria had completely enveloped the pretty wooden building, there was silence between the two friends.
"Something is wrong," the Colonel said, when they were seated at either side of the rustic table. "I hope it is nothing serious?"
"I hope not either, but I am afraid it is," was the unsatisfactory reply.
"Light your pipe, my dear fellow; the weed is a great consoler and inspirer."
"I cannot smoke, I am thoroughly upset. I have come over to tell you my troubles as I used to tell them twenty years ago, when we had the world before us, and now that I am here I don't know in what words to do it."
Colonel Brocksbury looked keenly at the speaker, and in his drooping face and downcast eyes he saw that the matter was serious.
"It is nothing about Leo?" he asked, quickly.
"No! Yes!" was the strange reply. "I mean that the trouble is principally mine, but that it is Leola who is inclined to be greatly the cause of it. I see you don't understand me, so I must dash into it at once—Leo and I have had a serious difference this morning."
If Mr. Vansiltart had been observing, he might have seen a flush rise to the face of his friend, as he stammered:
"An affair of the heart, Vansiltart?"
"No! Yes!" was again the answer.
"How strange you are! Rouse yourself, Vansiltart, and tell me what it is?"
"I will begin at the beginning," the squatter said, suddenly, as he nerved himself. "During my second last visit to town I became acquainted with a young lady whose charms made the very greatest impression upon me—Brocksbury, you are laughing at me!"
"I beg your pardon, my dear fellow, but I could not help laughing, though it was at myself. I was afraid, for Rupert's sake you know, that the love affair was Leo's, and now that I find it is your own, I am relieved, that is all."
"Oh! You are relieved! You do not think I am a ridiculous old fool, eh? At my time of life to be thinking seriously of a young lady's charms does not seem to be absurd in the extreme?"
"Certainly not, Vansiltart; why you are younger than I, and why should you not marry again if, by doing so, you should add to your happiness? I certainly never had any idea that you were a marrying man; but how will Leo take it?"
"Ah! That's just it. The young lady in question was a school-mate of Leo's, and when she discovered this morning that I had invited Miss Merionvale and her mother to Cooinda she flew out on me like a tigress, and reminded me promptly that Cooinda was hers."
The Colonel looked grave, but said nothing.
"That will of poor Marion's was a great mistake, Brocksbury; it puts a father in such a ridiculous position to be dependent on his daughter, as it were."
"You are not depending on Leola or Cooinda, Vansiltart. You have still what property you owned when Leo's mother brought you Cooinda as her dower; and I cannot agree with you about the will—it was but just that Leo should have her mother's dower."
"Independent of me?"
"Certainly. Suppose you should marry again—suppose you should have children, sons—is it at all likely that you or any man would be just enough to remember that, no matter how many should follow, her mothers own should be Leo's? My dear friend, I am glad for your sake, as well as hers, that Marion was firm on that point."
"But look at the position I am placed in, Brocksbury; you do not know the worst. Leo, it seems, will be of age in January next, while I thought she was only in her twentieth year, and I have proposed and been accepted by this young lady she refuses to receive at Cooinda."
"Has it gone so far as that? Does Leo know this?"
"No; I dare not tell her in the face of her refusal to invite Miss Merionvale to Cooinda. What am I to do?"
Colonel Brocksbury shook his head gravely, as he replied—
"I cannot advise you, Vansiltart; you are truly in a distressing dilemma, but how you could have made such a mistake about Leo's age astonishes me. I thought everyone was looking forward to the festivities sure to take place at Cooinda when the young heiress comes into full possession. I do not know how to advise you; you cannot allow Leo to live alone at Cooinda, and I do not suppose she would go with you to your own place under the circumstances. There is only one way. You must let her come to Greensmead until she marries, that is if you are quite determined to take another wife yourself."
"I do not see my way out of it. I had calculated on Leo's taking to her old schoolmate kindly, and the visit I have invited them for smoothing things every way; as it is I don't know what to do. I think I shall go back to town and explain to—to Miss Merionvale."
Now Mr. Vansiltart had quite determined on doing that long before he reached Greensmead, and now he got up from his seat without a bit of the cloud he had brought into the pretty summer-house on his face.
"My dear Vansiltart, we are old friends," the Colonel said, "I may venture to speak—to ask a question without offending you. Are you quite certain that the serious step you contemplate will be for your real happiness? Is the young lady you propose to marry one suitable to take your dead wife's place? I do not want you to answer me these questions, but I pray you to ask them seriously of yourself. It is a grave matter for a man of your age and mine to take a young wife, and of all things in the world do not let her take you under false colours—I mean, as the owner of princely Cooinda, which must pass from you with Leo."
"To you I suppose?" Vansiltart said, sharply.
The Colonel's face flushed hotly, but his reply was ready:
"You mean to Rupert, I presume? I assure you that I know no more how it is between the young people than you do, but I need not add, my dear friend, that I think both Leo and Cooinda might be in worse hands than those of my son."
The two men walked together as far as the gate of Greensmead, where they paused, and the Colonel held out his hand.
"You have my best wishes at all event—you know that, Vansiltart."
"I know it. I will write from town when I have decided."
"You will not tell Leo?"
"No, I think not—there is no use of having an extra scene, for there is sure to be one at all events. Good bye, Brocksbury."
"Good bye!"
THE cottage occupied by Mrs. Merionvale and her daughter in town was one of those pitifully genteel tenements that try to seem superior to the suburb they are in, and the room in which they were seated, as I introduce them to you, was furnished with an attempt at finery, principally consisting of ornamental work in the form of wool antimacassars. It was about one o'clock, and the postman had just left a letter for Mrs. Merionvale, who was reclining in her armchair, as her daughter dashed into the room with the letter in her hands.
"It is from Mr. Vansiltart, ma. I suppose I may open it, though it is addressed to you? Whatever can it be about that he should write to you instead of me?"
"You are so fussy, Katherina, and my head aches so. Do sit down and read the letter, if that will keep you quiet even for a few moments!"
With this permission Miss Merionvale sat down and tore the letter open impatiently. While she read it her mother's eyes were fixed on the round, fair, doll-like face with the heavy frizz of gold-coloured hair falling over its low forehead. She saw a piece of paper flutter to the ground while Katherina read, and, stooping to pick it up, she saw with some surprise that it was Mr. Vansiltart's cheque for a considerable sum.
"This is a cheque, Katherina. What does it mean? Why don't you read the letter out and let me know the meaning of this?"
"I can't tell you the meaning of it, ma," the young lady said, as she laid the letter on her knee and lifted her grey eyes to her mother's face. "That is to say, I cannot account for Mr. Vansiltart's change of intention, but, of course, the cheque is right enough."
"Change of intention!" echoed Mrs. Merionvale, with a blank look.
"Oh, don't be frightened, ma; it is not the change you fear. Mr. Vansiltart only wants to hasten our marriage—but I had better read you the letter."
Cooinda, 24th October, 18—
My Dear Madam,—
Circumstances have occurred that made me anxious to secure your approval of an earlier marriage than we had proposed, and I hope I may prevail on Katherina to make me the happiest of men at a very early date. In the event of my succeeding, it will be as well to postpone your visit to Cooinda until after our marriage. I shall be in town in a day or two to make the necessary arrangements.
I trust you will have no hesitation in accepting from me the enclosed, as you will have a good many little extra expenses on my account, and you need feel no delicacy in the matter, as I shall so soon have the honour and happiness to be your son.
I need not send my love to my dearest Katherina, as she is already possessed of my whole heart, and I am, Dear Madam,
Yours most affectionately,
James Vansiltart
"What do you think of it?" the girl asked, as she folded the paper
thoughtfully and laid it on the table before her.
"I don't know what to think of it. I wonder what the circumstances he alludes to are?"
"I think I can guess: the circumstances are that proud minx, his daughter. Oh, how I hate that girl!"
"Katherina!"
"It is true, I hate her! It was greatly owing to her that such a fuss was made at Madame Motar's, and the opportunity of revenge my marriage with her father will give me is the greatest triumph of my life!"
As the girl spoke the whole character of her appearance was changed. She straightened up the petite, doll-like figure, and flashed her grey eyes with an anger one could scarcely have accredited her fair loveliness with, and her mother looked at the distorted face with a positive shudder as she fell back in her seat.
"You terrify me, Katherina!" she said. "This offer of Mr. Vansiltart's is an excellent one for you; but if, as I dread, you hare accepted him only to cut out his own daughter, you will repent it every day of your after life."
"No, I shan't. I wonder to hear you talk so, mamma! The one object of your life has been, as you have always said, to see me well married; and now when I am about to marry one of the wealthiest squatters in the colony, you tell me I will repent it every day of my life! I don't understand you at all!"
"You will not understand me, child. I have only dreaded your motives in accepting Mr. Vansiltart. Oh! Katherina, you treat it so lightly, while I dread every moment that he may hear of your worse than folly at school."
"If he heard of it tomorrow he would not believe it," the girl said, decidedly. "Why, he is infatuated with me, and I do believe that, of all infatuations, that of an elderly man for a beautiful young girl is the very greatest. Do put off that gloomy look and let us go out and buy pretty things. Thank Heaven, we have done with pinching and shabbiness for ever!"
"I hope so, dear; but there is a fear of I don't know what over me, that I cannot conquer. I wish you were fonder of the man you are going to marry."
"Fonder of him! One would think you were the girl, and I the parent! Not that I am a girl after all, for do you realize that I am twenty-six, and that Mr. Vansiltart's proposal was a regular piece of luck? Come, cheer up, and dress to go shopping, and when I get you up to Cooinda you will forget all your silly presentiments."
"I wish Miss Vansiltart had replied to your note, dear."
Katherine's cheeks burned hotly in an instant. "I shall not forget her insolent silence," she cried; "but I know her so well, and I was a fool to try and conciliate the proud thing! No doubt she expected to be heiress of Cooinda, and it is a heavy blow to her. Why, ma, Cooinda is the finest property on this side of the Murray, and the mistress of it may be a very queen!"
"If you are to be queen of Cooinda, my dear, I pray that your reign may be a long and happy one."
"I will make it a happy one, ma, if all the Fates should be against me. Money can do anything, and as queen of Cooinda I shall be one of the richest women in Australia!"
THEY were a splendid young couple, and everyone who saw them as they rode side by side across Cooinda Plains that breezy summer day said so, as they had often said before. There was Bill the boundary-rider, who pulled off his hat, and blushed up to his ears, as Miss Leo and Mr. Rupert saluted him pleasantly; and there was old Sam the shepherd, and Mark Latham the super at Little Cooinda, and Mrs. Harkaway driving her butter to the store at Pallas in her old rattletrap of a spring-cart. They all and every one said there was not a finer looking couple in the colonies, and that it would be a mortal pity if they did not make a match of it.
We know what Leo was like, and in her dark green, short-skirted and serviceable habit, seated on the back of her favourite, "Brown Bess," and with her eyes bright as diamonds and her cheeks flushed with the colour of a wild rose, she was the very picture of a handsome, healthful woman; and that Rupert Brocksbury thought so one could easily read in the deep, thoughtful grey eyes that so often looked on the girl's face, and the tender light that deepened in them as he looked.
They had ridden from the homestead together across the breezy plains, where the rich grass was rippled by the wind as the breeze ripples the bosom of a great lace. There had been scraps of conversation, as usual, and more than once Leo's silvery laugh had rang out in company with the clear notes of the musical bell-bird; but there was a shade on the fair face, a cloud on the straight brows, that Rupert saw and felt, yet hesitated to allude to.
"What are the dogs after now, Rupe?" Leo asked, as they drew rein on the summit of a low spur belonging to the Darwan Hills.
"A wallaby, I think, Leo. Don't you see it about a dozen yards in front of Loyal? By Jove, he's got it, and long before Master nears him! Leo, my dear, your dog always beats mine."
She smiled, but it was evident that her thoughts were not with the triumph of her favourite dog. She was looking away over the plain, and up toward the wooded hills that lay upon her left. She saw the gleaming of Cooinda Creek in its course through green pasture and leafy shade, and the acres of grand vines that shut in the homestead as a setting of emeralds. She heard the lowing of cattle, the bleating of sheep, the cry of the wattle bird, and coo of the plover, and there were tears in her eyes as she drew a long breath, and turned them upon her companion's face.
"There is not in the whole world a more beautiful spot than Cooinda!" she exclaimed. "They may talk of the homes of many lands, but there is no home like Cooinda!"
"And there is not in all the world a fairer or more gracious queen than the Queen of Cooinda."
"Nonsense, Rupert! I wish you would not talk nonsense to me, for you know how I dislike silly compliments," she said, pettishly.
"I dislike it as much as you do, Leo, and you know I never practice it with you, but I want to try and cheer you up, dear. Won't you tell me what is troubling you, Leo? It is long since there were any secrets between you and I."
"I want to tell you," she said, turning her street face fully to him and looking him as steadily in the eyes as the pawing of Brown Bess would permit. "I have been waiting to tell someone these two or three days, but there is no one except dear old Bessie."
"And where would you find a truer friend, my dear Leo?"
"Ah! I know how good she is—of course I know that; but what I want to speak about is papa, and I do not think it would be right to discuss him with even Bessie."
"You are right, dear; it would not. Tell me all about it, Leo, for you can confide in none more faithful or fond."
"I think you love me, Rupert," she said simply, as she met his dark eyes fixed lovingly on her face. If she had doubted that he did the red flash that mounted into his handsome cheeks, the ardour that sparkled in his eyes, the hurried breathing as he bent forward and raised the pretty gloved fingers to his lip, would have told her the mistake.
"You think I love you, Leo? You know I do more than home or friends, or country or life! That I have not told you so daily and hourly since I realized what love was is your own fault, you know it is, Leo!"
"Yes, I know we have been very happy, Rupert; and if you had been always raving of your devotion to me the years would not have been so happy. But we have always understood one another, and there has not been one cloud between us."
"I know, Leo; yes."
"And you know that my promise to my darling mother has been my reason, Rupert. As I have got older I have seen and acknowledged her good sense in making me solemnly promise not to give my hand or word to any man until I should be twenty-one, and capable of knowing and judging what was best for my future. But even then, Rupert, I think she guessed our affection for each other."
"I think she did, my darling Leo."
"I am sure of it from many hints, Rupert; and it is to you now that I come with my first trouble, dear Rupert."
"God grant that you may bring all your future troubles to me and that I may never know the misery of relieving you of one of them! I wish, Heaven knows how sincerely, that I had the right to listen to them at all times and for ever!"
Leo smiled a happy smile that lit up her fine face like a beam from heaven, as she said:
"When I am really Queen of Cooinda, Rupert, you will see to whom I will reach out my scepter and invite to a seat on my throne beside me. But let us ride homeward, and as we go I will tell you my trouble—but are you sure you do not guess it?"
"I am certain—I have heard or guessed of nothing that could pain you, Leo."
"It is about papa. Oh, Rupert, I am in great sorrow about him!"
"About your father! My love, he is well and in great spirits, for the Colonel had a letter from him only last night. But stop, now that I think of it, my father seemed in deep and anxious thought after he read the letter. What is it, Leo?"
"I have got it into my head that he is going to be married. Rupert; that he is going to put in my angel mother's place a girl totally unfit to fill an honest man's home. I cannot tell you how this has grieved me, Rupert; to think that at his time of life he should be so foolish, seems dreadful; but more and more now I can recognize my mother's object in settling Cooinda so entirely on me. She guessed and dreaded that papa would do something foolish when the years flew on and he had forgotten her."
"My dear Leo, I hope you are mistaken! Putting every other consideration aside but the one of prudence, I do not think it would be well for Mr. Vansiltart to remarry. You are so nearly of age, and though his interests may be quite safe in your hands now, I should think he would dread the effect his marriage might have upon your inclination to supplement Little Cooinda to his advantage."
"Yes, you would think that, Rupert; but I have always heard that elderly men in the hands of young and unscrupulous women are but as putty. But let me tell you all I know," and she related to him what had passed between her father and herself about Miss Merionvale.
"It looks suspicious, certainly, dear; but if that is all you have to ground your fears on, I would not encourage them, and besides, Leo, if this girl is so scheming and worldly, she will look for a richer spouse than your father."
"Papa is known as the owner of Cooinda," Leo said. "How can we tell that in his infatuation he might suppress the truth? And, oh, Rupert, she is so thoroughly worthless! For dress and display she will go any length."
"You can tell your papa the truth, Leo. It is not to be supposed for a moment that he would take such a serious step without informing you of his intention, and if you know anything that ought to prevent him from giving his name to this woman you must tell him all you know."
"Yes, I could do that. I wish I had done it when the affair first came between us, but he went away so hurriedly, now a fortnight ago, that I had not an opportunity of renewing the subject."
"Will you forgive me for asking you one question, my Leo? Are you quite sure that your antipathy to Miss Merionvale is a reasonable one? Young ladies at school are so apt to make undying friendships and dislikes, and it is years ago since you were at Madame Motar's. May you not have been prejudiced, my darling?"
"Rupert! You wound me! Why, the girl we are speaking of was expelled by Madame Motor, and the crime she was guilty of was the meanest in the whole calendar of vices. It is not a story I should like to tell you, but there can be no doubt whatever that Katherina Merionvale is a woman totally dishonest, and without conscientious scruples of any kind whatever. But we are at home, and see, the Colonel is waiting for us on the veranda. How much you resemble your dear, father, Rupert, in every way!"
"And it is my neatest pride to know that I do personally, Leo; but if I could think of myself as possessing one half of his generosity and nobleness of character, I should be prouder still."
Yes, it was true; there was a strong likeness between the father and son—the broad, square shoulders, the full chest, the long, muscular, and yet graceful limbs were of the same mold, while the dark, searching grey eyes, and the sweet yet firm lips of Rupert might have been those of a younger brother of the handsomest officer in his regiment of cavalry when the Colonel was young. Leo fancied she could see an anxious look in Colonel Brocksbury's face as he assisted her from her horse; and the look was repeated in her own as she led the way to the sitting-room, followed by Loyal, her favourite hound.
"Rupert, my boy, see to the horses," the Colonel had said, "for I have some unpleasant news to give Leo." And Rupert guessed what the news was, and grieved for a sorrow he could not ward from his darling.
"You have something to tell me, dear Colonel," the fair mistress of Cooinda said, as she drew forward his favourite chair, and stood beside it, with one hand on Loyal's glossy head, "and you look afraid to tell it to me; but you need not be, for the shadow of it has been hanging over me all day."
"Have you heard anything, my dear Leola?" the Colonel asked, anxiously.
"No, I have heard nothing; but I guess—it is about papa?"
"Yes, my love, it is. I am grieved beyond words to have such tidings to impart; but there is no one else, and you must know. My Leo, do not look so pale and despairing—it cannot affect your future."
"It is disgrace enough to arouse my mother from her sleep of death," the girl said, bitterly.
"I see that you have some idea of the truth, my child; but it is not so bad as that—many men older than your father take young wives."
"But they take honest girls! They do not bring into the homes of their children thieves! They do not select base women, whose society has been rejected by the respectable class they themselves belong to, or desecrate the hearth which an angel has made sacred by seating within its influence such a creature as Katherina Merionvale! Is my father going to marry that woman, Colonel Brocksbury?"
The Colonel looked anxious as he saw the angry emotion in Leola Vansiltart's face—he could scarcely recognize her in the upright figure, with the flushed cheeks, and hands clenched upon her dress and whip. He had known her all her life, but never had he dreamed her character capable of such an opposite to her sunny self, and Leola smiled bitterly as she read her friend's thoughts.
"You do not know me," she said. "Well, it is no wonder, for I do not know myself. I am hurt and angry beyond measure; but tell me the worst, Colonel, is papa going to marry that creature?"
"Leola, my child, I am deeply sorry to see you take it so much to heart, but the truth is to be told, and by me, at your father's request. He was married last Wednesday to Miss Merionvale, and has written requesting me to break it to you as I best could."
There was a moment's silence, in which all the colour forsook Leo's face and gathered to her heart. Her lips set hardly together, her eyes flashed an awful defiance into the Colonel's, and then drooped to her clenched hands, as, with a visible effort at self-control, she spoke:
"It is done, then? Without a hint of his intentions, or a word as to my wishes, papa has made a worthless woman his wife—well, he can make his home—Little Cooinda—ready for his darling?"
"Leola, my dear!" the Colonel said, as he took her hand and pressed it between his own, "your father is coming home here— to Cooinda. You would not make a scene here for the country side's talk? Wait, my dear; wait patiently for a little, and things will settle themselves without you taking any step for which you will surely be sorry afterwards."
"You do not know me yet, Colonel Brocksbury—after all these years you do not know me yet. Injury and insult to myself I might have endured in silence, but insult to my dead mother I will be no partner to. How could you expect it—you who knew her and knew her as what she was? My father has taken a wife, but Cooinda is mine, and one footstep of hers shall never pollute a spot that my mother has trodden and loved."
"Words cannot tell how much I grieve at your decision, my dear, and warmly I urge you to reconsider it. In a very short time you will be your own mistress entirely. Until then, at least, I pray you to think of the talk such a step as you propose would occasion in the neighborhood."
"Has my father considered? Does he know the character of the creature he would bring under this roof? Has he asked my opinion or cooperation? No; he has not, and I shall consider as he has considered me. Please to tell me what my father has said to me, if he has said anything, and I will send him my reply through you."
The Colonel was pained by the girl's manner, but he took out and unfolded Mr. Vansiltart's letter.
"I had better read it all to you, Leo," he said, "and then I shall have given you no false impression of my friend's feelings."
"Your friend!" she repeated, scornfully.
"Yes, Leo, my friend, and your father. I pray you in your anger not to forget that, or that I was your dear mother's friend, too."
"I will not forget anything," she returned. "Read me the letter please."
"Dear Brocksbury—
"The marriage took place on Wednesday, at St. Paul's, and it is our intention to leave town for Cooinda on the 20th. Please break the matter to Leola, who will, I am afraid, take it unpleasantly, and tell her to give Mrs. Bains, the housekeeper, orders to have everything in readiness to receive us.
"Yours faithfully,
"J. Vansiltart."
"That is all, my dear."
"It is quite enough, Colonel—more than enough, and you can have my answer at once. I will tell Mrs. Bains to see about making the new wing of Cooinda ready for Mr. and Mrs. Vansiltart's occupation until they can see about occupying little Cooinda, but inside my mother's home Katherina Merionvale shall never set her foot. What else I have to say I shall say when my father is face to face with me."
"Leola, I pray of you to take this in a different spirit," pleaded Colonel Brocksbury. "Your father's future happiness and standing in the neighborhood is at stake."
"He has ruined both," was the girl's firm reply. "He has humiliated himself for ever, but he shall not drag me to that woman's level."
"I can say no more, my dear Leo, but of one thing I feel assured: you must know something very serious against your father's wife, or you could not be so hard."
"You are right; I know that which makes me cruel in seeming, but it is not such a thing as I can tell even you, dear Colonel. I will ask you to leave me now, for I am, as you see, greatly upset, but send my message to papa, for nothing can alter that."
The stately yet affectionate friend of Leola kissed the fair girl on the cheek, and with a promise to see her soon again and help her all she would permit him, he left the homestead to join his son, who was strolling about the grounds anxious on Leo's account.
"Let us go home, Rupert," he said; "our poor Leo takes it very hard, and we cannot help her just yet."
"Is Mr. Vansiltart married, then?" the young gentleman asked as they were riding toward Greensmead.
"Indeed, yes, and Leola declares she will not admit his new wife into Cooinda. Do you know anything of the cause of Leo's dislike to this old schoolmate of hers?"
"No particulars, father; but of one thing I am certain, it is well founded, or Leo would not for a moment entertain it."
"I think so, too, my son, and so I am sorry for all our sakes that Vansiltart has taken this serious step so suddenly."
The father and son, between whom there was a touching affection and confidence, talked all the way of the course events were likely to take at Cooinda under the doubtful circumstances, and both looked forward anxiously to the day which terminated Leo's minority as one which would make her future a bright and happy one in spite of her father's sad mésalliance.
LITTLE COOINDA has been mentioned several times in this story already, and I may add now that it was a small station property that lay against the north boundary of Cooinda proper, and was the only portion of the great estate Leo's mother had brought Mr. Vansiltart that was not inalienably settled upon herself and her children. The business of the two Cooindas had always been kept entirely separate, and Little Cooinda had its own small homestead and offices, its own servants and work and its own "super."
The superintendent at Little Cooinda was a good-natured and active, gentlemanly man of forty, named Latham, and he had a pleasant, easy billet of it and good pay under Mr. Vansiltart. On the day following the one in which Leola had heard of her father's marriage, he was busily helping with his own hands to pull down a fence that wanted renewing near the house, and a good looking picture of strength he was in his shirt sleeves and broad hat, when Leola herself rode up to him on the soft grass of the paddock. Latham was by her side in a moment, with his hat in his hand, and a smile of affectionate greeting on his handsome, healthy face.
"Miss Leola!" he said, "And alone! Are you going up to the house? Mrs. Ivers is very punctual, and lunch will soon be ready."
"Thank you, Mr. Latham, but I shall not go in to-day. I rode over alone especially to see you and give you a hint that you may share with Mrs. Ivers, or not, as you think well."
"I hope there is nothing wrong, Miss Leo? You must excuse me saying that you are not looking quite yourself."
"I am not myself, Mr. Latham, and you are so far right. There are to be changes at Cooinda that may affect you, and I think you ought to know."
"Changes? Of what nature. Miss Leola?"
"Papa has married again, Mr. Latham, and I am sorry for it, as he has chosen a wife with whom I cannot reside. I know it is a delicate matter to speak of, but it is necessary, for as Little Cooinda is alone papa's property it will be necessary for him to reside here."
"How soon will this change be made, Miss Leo?"
"I have placed the new wing at the disposal of papa and—and Mrs. Vansiltart until arrangements can be made here; but in any case you know that in next January I shall be of age, and in full possession of my mother's property."
Leola's lovely face flushed warmly as she gave this broad hint of her determination, and her large eyes fell under the keen scrutiny of Latham, who paused an instant, thoughtfully, ere he replied:
"I understand, Miss Leo; yes, I think I quite understand what you mean."
"That is well, Mr. Latham, and now I have only one thing to add: if there should be any change, any unpleasant change I mean, for you here in consequence of my disinclination to a new mistress at Cooinda, you will not leave or do anything without consulting me first?"
"Certainly not, Miss Leo, and I thank you truly for letting me know as you have done."
"That is well, then, and I may go. But who is this? A young man evidently wishing to speak to you, Mr. Latham." Latham turned and saw standing behind him a young man about twenty seven or eight, with a handsome, dark face, and a pair of sharp, heavy-browed eyes. His bearing was that of a superior person, and his clothes were of good quality and make, but worn and travel-soiled. He appeared to have come by the main track below the homestead, and through the same slip-panel that had admitted Leola, whose attention had been called to him by her favourite hound's low, warning growl at his approach.
"Down, Loyalty," the young lady said, as the stranger doffed his hat to her and the super.
"Do you want me, my man?" asked Latham.
"If you are Mr. Latham, yes, sir. I want work, sir, and I was advised to come to you by Mr. Braydon, the storekeeper Palla."
"What sort of work do you want?"
"Anything I can do, I am willing—nay, anxious, to earn an honest living anyhow, for things have gone hard with me of late."
As the young man made the acknowledgment his eyes dropped to Loyalty, who was engaged in sniffing at his hand as it hung beside him with his hat in it.
"Does Mr. Braydon know you? Can he recommend you?"
"No, sir. I am unknown to anyone here, and am simply on tramp, looking for employment. Nay, sir, I may add that, if I confess the truth, I hare not lived so as to earn any honest man's recommendation, though I will faithfully try to merit yours if you will only try me."
His hand was laid caressingly on the dog's head as he spoke, and once more he fixed his eyes full upon the super's face.
"Ah!" Latham said, doubtingly, "you have no man's good word to offer anyone? That is a sad acknowledgment to make at your time of life."
"It is, sir, and I am ashamed to make it."
During this short conversation Leo had gathered up her bridle, and was turning Brown Bess to go, but she felt strangely interested in the young man who at once and so plainly owned his poverty and worthlessness. Leo's was an impulsive nature and a warm heart, and she spoke quickly, blushing slightly as she did so.
"Mr. Latham, oblige me by giving this young man work; he cannot be very wicked, or Loyalty would not be friendly with him. Besides, it would be unchristian to refuse anyone employment who needs it so badly."
"Thank you, madam, thank you for your good word," the stranger said; "and if Mr. Latham will trust me I will faithfully try to do your recommendation no discredit."
Leo bowed slightly, and, bidding the super good-bye, turned her horse and cantered across the paddock with the black hound Loyalty darting along in front of Brown Bess like an arrow from a bow.
Mr. Latham did not speak for a moment, and when he did it was with his eyes fixed on the graceful horsewoman who was fast disappearing down the slope.
"You are in luck, my friend, to have won that young lady's good word."
"God bless her, whoever she is!" the stranger exclaimed "May I ask her name?"
"It is Miss Leola Vansiltart, the Queen of Cooinda, as she is called."
"Cooinda? This is Cooinda, sir, is it not?"
"Yes, this is Little Cooinda, the property of the young lady's father, but Cooinda proper—you can see the homestead on the slope of that hill—belongs entirely to Miss Vansiltart. Now, what can you do? You know that I cannot prudently give you any employment of trust until I know more about you personally."
"I ask nothing, Sir, but work—I don't care how humble it is if I can earn my bread in decency."
"Can you ride?"
"Oh, yes, sir."
"Then I can manage you at once. Do you see that smoke up among the trees at the end of that gully?"
"Yes, sir."
"Do you think you can make your way to it?"
"Easily, sir."
"Well, go there and give that line to John Lopes; he has been boundary riding, and will tell you what you have to do. I think he will be at the hut just now, as the smoke is heavy from the chimney. By the way, what shall I call you?
The stranger hesitated, but only for a moment.
"Put me down as Henry Smith, sir, if you please; it is not my own name, but it does not matter."
"No, it does not matter; you can go now and I shall see you during tomorrow. If you want clothes, tobacco, etc., you can have them at the store."
"Thank you, sir. I will try to prove my gratitude by attention to my duties."
"I hope so. Good afternoon, Smith."
"Good afternoon, sir."
And Smith went away in the direction indicated with a leaf from the super's note-book in his hand.
As Mr. Latham looked after his new assistant he could not help wondering to see a young man of his evident superiority in such a position.
"Educated, I should say, and accustomed to better things. I do think that a fine young man who has lost himself through his own folly and sin is one of the saddest sights in the world."
Meanwhile Henry Smith, as he had called himself, was walking quickly toward the gully, where the smoke was rising above a dense skirting of timber at the foot of the hill. He had naturally glanced curiously at the bit of unfolded paper in his hand, and read the words following, written in pencil:—
The bearer, Henry Smith, will take the work of John Lopez for the present, and John Lopez can come into the homestead as soon as he has put Smith in the way of his work.
S. Latham.
It was considerably past midday when the young man put his foot on the track
that led toward the hut from which the smoke had emerged, and he had not gone
a hundred yards when he came in sight of the hut itself, standing on a bare
rise and commanding a fine view of the broad plains beyond the spur, though
well sheltered by the timber that swept the gully behind it. The door of the
humble dwelling was open, and Smith was saluted by a chorus of barks as soon
as he was observed by two or three dogs that had been lying about in the
sun.
The noise of the dogs brought to the door a short, thick-set man of about fifty, with a dark, ill-looking face, and a great tangle of iron-grey beard. The greasy hat upon his head hid most of his dirty-looking hair, and, summer though it was, a thick, dingy, woolen muffler was twisted round his neck. His shirt and moleskins were greasy to a degree, and his shirt sleeves, being rolled above his elbows, exhibited hairy, sun-burned arms, with muscles that told of the man's great strength.
"Hullo!" said this man, "here's a stranger, Lopez. What's your business, mate?"
"I have brought a message from Mr. Latham to John Lopez—is he here?"
"From Latham, eh? I say, Lopez, here's a chap from the homestead wants to see you."
"Ay? Well, boss, and what may you want with me?"
"If you are John Lopez, this note is for you."
As Lopez read the few penciled words, Smith had time to scan his appearance, which was that of a dandy bushman.
"By Jove, you've brought me good news!" he cried, "and I wish you luck of a billet I'm sick of! Come inside, man, and take a share of what's going. I say, Dancer, this cove is going to be your chum now, so give him a dinner to begin with."
"You don't like boundary riding, then?" young Smith asked, as he followed the men inside.
"Like it! Are you a new hand, then?"
"Yes, quite new."
"Ah! Well, I don't know how you will take to crawling round the boundaries on an old moke day after day, and coming home night after night to hear Dancer over there snoring like a pig, but I know it's nearly cranked me."
"I was glad to get anything," Smith returned, as he commenced an attack on the food.
"Ah, I see; hard up, eh? Well, it may do for a while to put you on your feet; and now, as Dancer can tell you all about the run as well or better than I can, I'll just hook it up to Latham. I hope he'll put at Cooinda, for there's going to be great doings there, I hear."
"What doings?" growled the man called Dancer, who was sitting by the wall, smoking a black pipe, with the brim of his hat tipped far over his eyes.
"Oh, I forgot to tell you! I met Jack at the three mile today, and it seems that Mr. Vansiltart is married again, and is bringing the new mis sis home to Cooinda."
"By George, that is a change! Who has he married, Lopez!"
"Some young piece with a grand name—Merritvale or Merrinvale, or something like that."
"There'll be changes! I wonder how Miss Leo will like that?"
"Not at all; Jack said there was to be the devil to pay, and why not? Cooinda is Miss Leo's own. But, so long, now, both of you. I'll bring you the news when I pop over some of these evenings."
Young Smith finished his meal, and then pushed his seat back from the table, so that he could see the smoker, who had been so silent since his entrance.
"Have you been long here?" he asked him; "it seems a lonely spot."
"Not so lonely as doing solitary at Pentridge!" was the reply, as the speaker took off his hat and grinned queerly at the newcomer.
The young man's face grew so blank with unpleasant astonishment that Dancer laughed a short mocking laugh.
"You did not know me?" he said. "I knew you the minute I set eyes on you! Well, ain't you glad to spot an old pal, Lieutenant?"
"Good heavens! Who in the world would have expected to meet you here, Davies?"
"My name is Dancer on this lay, Lieutenant."
"And mine Smith, mate."
"Ay, ay; we needn't split on one another, there's no call for that. And so you're to be boundary-rider here? Now isn't it a wonderful fate that drove us together again? How did you get the billet?"
"Through an angel," was the reply, for the speaker was thinking of the fair girl who had trusted and spoken a good word for the poor tramp.
"An angel? Ha, ha! Well, that was a change anyhow, for by all accounts it was a devil that put you where I met you last. Have you ever heard anything of that beauty since?"
"No, and I don't want to."
"I daresay not. Now isn't it the strangest thing to think of," the hut-keeper went on in a half soliloquy. "By the way, did you hear what Lopez said about the boss getting married? Did you notice the lady's name?"
"No, I didn't notice," replied Smith, who was unconscious that Dancer's deep-set treacherous eyes were bent observingly on him, and now in his turn set his steady grey eyes full on the hut-keeper's face.
"Three words from me to you, Dancer," he said firmly, "and in your case I hope it will be a word to the wise. I've got a billet now, humble as it is, and I mean to keep it if honest work will do it; so I may as well tell you that I got it under no false pretenses, for I told Mr. Latham before Miss Vansiltart that I had not been leading a good life—do you understand that?"
"Ay, I think so, mate. You mean to say that you're on an honest lay now, and that you means to steal no more gold watches."
"I mean to say that if you dare to say I ever stole anything, I will cram the words down your throat!" exclaimed Smith, as he started up and stood threateningly over the late speaker.
"Come now, mate, come now, and give a chap time to speak. I didn't say you stole any gold watches, how could I when I knew that it was only laid to you that you stole it, and I know too who it was as stole it, as you does to your cost, eh Smith?"
"That's enough about it. I only wanted to let you know that you had no power to injure me with my employer; and now give me an idea of my work. Lopez said the mare is in the shed, didn't he?"
An hour after Dancer stood at the door of the hut looking after young Smith as he rode away on his first round as boundary-rider. As he looked he muttered, with an evil-looking scowl in his dark face: "You're a proud young cock, my lad, but you're a fool for all that; but if you think you're going to stand in my way, you're mistaken, and I'll show you that when the bride comes home!"
ON the day appointed for Mr. and Mrs. Vansiltart's arrival at Cooinda—a bright sunny day in November, when the gardens around the homestead were one mass of colour, and the blue, far away hills seemed to float on a sea of verdure that stretched from their feet away over the wide plains, and down by the silvery creeks—the carriage had been sent to meet them, and Colonel Brocksbury met and welcomed his old friend, and was introduced to the young and triumphant wife ere they left the station. A few words passed between the two gentlemen in private, and so gloomy was the face of James Vansiltart as he seated himself beside Katherina that she could not fail to notice it.
"Have you heard unpleasant news, James?" she asked, in a cooing tone that she had always affected with her elderly wooer.
Her husband looked into the doll-like face of Katherina, and at the petite figure arrayed in a bewildering splendor of bridal finery. What was he thinking of, as he noted the crisp waves of golden hair that shone like satin low over the sparkling blue eyes? There was a glitter of jewels and a glimmer of silk—there was a foaming of soft laces, and the perfume of otto of roses emitted from cobweb cambric. There was a pleasant prettiness of pink and white in the face he looked upon as it questioned him. Would it not be strange if he was regretting the step he had taken already, as he recalled the face so different to this, the calm, handsome, proud face of his daughter Leola?
"How strange you look at me, Mr. Vansiltart! What is the matter?"
"I beg your pardon, my love, but I was thinking how unpleasant this return would be to you. I had not at all calculated upon it, or I would have prepared you for it. I had not the least idea that Leola would not listen to reason."
"What are you talking about? I do not at all understand you."
There was something so unpleasant in the blank look of astonishment his young wife was facing him with, that the cold perspiration began to break out on Mr. Vansiltart's face, and he hid it in relief for a moment as he passed his handkerchief over it.
"I am so sorry, my dearest, and I had forgotten for a moment how new this subject is to you. I hoped it would have been unnecessary—that Leola would have yielded to reason—but—"
"For mercy sake, go on!" she said, so sharply that he stopped and stared at her in wonder, "and if it is anything disagreeable about Leola, you need not hesitate, for I know her temper well enough not to be astonished at anything."
Now the elderly bridegroom was very much in love, but his daughter was the oldest affection, and though he might find fault with her himself, he was not accustomed to hear anyone speak lightly of her, so it was in a very grave tone that he said: "You misunderstand, Katherina; Leola has, of course, every right to do what she likes with her own."
"Will you explain, Mr. Vansiltart? What has your daughter done that can affect me at Cooinda?"
"Refused to receive you in it!" he answered, shortly and in an angry tone; "I intended to soften this to you, Katherina, but you are so persistent and abrupt that you have got at the fact in short terms. Leola, my daughter, has refused to receive you under the roof of her mother's home."
"Ha! ha! As if I cared for that little exhibition of spite, Mr. Vansiltart! I am sure it will not take one iota from my comfort if I am not received by your daughter. If she does not like to reside under the same roof with me, she can find another home!"
"Another home!" the astonished man cried. "There is some strange misunderstanding on your part, my dear. Leola is at home in the broadest sense of the word when she is at Cooinda, for Cooinda is her own property."
"What!"
There was something more than astonishment in the bride's face as she made the exclamation; there was a white horror that crept down from the flower-decked forehead to the cheeks and the lips and the throat as the warm blood receded to her terrified heart to support its throbs. "Cooinda your daughter's property, Mr. Vansiltart? I must be dreaming, for you never gave me even a hint of such a thing!"
"A hint of it? Why, there is not a man, woman, or child in the country side but what know that patent fact! Why, Leo is known everywhere as the Queen of Cooinda, and, in truth, it is princely property."
As he said so Mr. Vansiltart was gazing out of the carriage window at the miles of green land on his right, at the swelling slopes of the early coin, at the rolling acres of meadow land.
"There!" he said, as a bend in the road brought them in view of the homestead, "where in the country would you see a home to be prouder of than that?" and he pointed to the gleam of the mansion amid its setting of flowers and vines.
"And it is your daughter's?"
"Entirely, my dear; and now I must explain to you what I hoped would have been unnecessary to allude to immediately on our arrival. Cooinda was my first wife's dower, and it was settled on her only child unrestrictedly. I did not tell Leola that I intended to change my condition, for I dreaded a scene, but the result has occasioned me the deepest regret that I did not do so. Leola has distinctly refused to admit us under the roof of her mother's home, but has simply left at my disposal a wing that has been added since the late Mrs. Vansiltart's death, even that is only to remain at our convenience until I can get Little Cooinda ready."
The woman had not spoken a word, nor did she appear to have heard one save that Cooinda was not her husband's. She seemed frozen by the bitterness of her disappointment, and so earnest was her heart in its wild and repeated cries that her pale lips refused for some seconds to utter a syllable.
"Have I married a poor man after all? After all have I married a poor man!" was what her heart had beat iterating from the moment she recognized her disappointment.
Mr. Vansiltart could not but see the blank dismay upon his bride's face, and in that instance Leola was fully avenged.
"Katherina! what is the matter with you?" he asked.
"You have deceived me bitterly!" was the reply, "I accepted your hand as the master of Cooinda—you were known everywhere as Mr. Vansiltart of Cooinda."
"And I am Mr. Vansiltart of Cooinda, but it is Little Cooinda," he replied, with a warm flush of anger rising to his face. "What am I to understand by this, Katherina? Was it for my supposed wealth you married me! You led me to believe that you had a deep affection for me. Am I to believe that you have deceived me?"
"You can understand and believe what you like."
James Vansiltart's temper was not One of the most amiable, and it was perhaps as well that an interruption occurred at this moment. The carriage was passing a diverging road that led to Little Cooinda, and a man was standing on a bank waving over his head a letter.
"Stop!" cried Mr. Vansiltart to the driver, and as the vehicle was pulled up the man, who was no other than our acquaintance Dancer, advanced to the window and touched his hat to the squatter. "A note from Mr. Latham, sir; he sent me to the station, but I missed ye."
Mr. Vansiltart tore off the cover, and while he was perusing the few lines it contained the bride's eyes met those of Dancer; as they did her face grew red up to the very eyes, and a knowing grin spread over the hut-keeper's face as he took off his hat and bowed, with apparent humility, down to the ground as it were.
"You are just in time," Mr. Vansiltart said shortly, as he tore the note into shreds and threw them out of the window. "Turn the horses' heads toward Little Cooinda."
"What does this change mean?" asked the bride, as the carriage turned and shut out the face of the jubilant Dancer from her view.
"It means, Katherina, that since you feel the loss of Cooinda so much, it is as well you should at once take possession of your own home. It may be more humble than your ambition had calculated upon, but any home would be a prison to a woman who had no love for her husband."
Again the hitherto joyous and volatile woman was silent, but it was a silence that boded no good for her soul. And Dancer went to the hut, which was but through a belt of timber by the road side, chuckling and hugging himself with delight.
"She knew me," he cried, "she knew me the very moment she set eyes on me! And she smelled danger as keen as a dog scents vermin. Ha! ha! Dancer, your fortune's made if the devil helps his own."
LEOLA VANSILTART sat in a bow window of the drawing-room at Cooinda on the day of her father's arrival at the station, where she knew the Colonel was to meet him. It was long past the time he might reasonably have been expected at the homestead, yet she still sat there thinking and watching the road by which the carriage would be obliged to approach.
The Queen of Cooinda was much changed during the weeks that had elapsed since she had suspected her father's folly; her fine face had lost its flush of rose, her firm lips their smiling outline. Hers was always a countenance full of power and sweetness, but now the expression of strength was intensified, the sweetness was subdued. There was not a soul of her loving subjects but knew how her father's marriage had changed her, yet she had not as yet confided to even the Colonel the root of her aversion to the change Mr. Vansiltart had made.
"I must tell papa first," she had said; "he has the right to know, and he must know, the first."
Who can follow her swift thoughts as she sat there with her faithful hound as her sole companion? Perhaps she was nerving herself for an unpleasant interview with her father, for she had determined not to be induced to even see Katherina; or perhaps she was recalling bitterly that not very far back period when her mother's face had brightened Cooinda, and when there was no thought of disgrace approaching its hearth.
Loyal, the dog, sat on his haunches sharing her watch, yet looking into his young mistress's face with intelligent, melancholy eyes that seemed conscious of her trouble. His glossy black head was ever and anon laid on her lap, or lifted to touch with his cold nose the hand that lay supinely on her knee, but he won no caress from the absorbed girl until a well-known form rode rapidly up to the door and hurriedly dismounted.
Leo saw it was her father, and rose with a rush of colour to her cheeks, as she laid her hand on Loyal's head, as though to say to herself and him, "Courage!"
There were quick steps outside, a quick hand on the door, and Mr. Vansiltart entered. He paused for a moment, looking at the familiar room, and then walked down it to his daughter, who stood there so proudly erect, with her hand on the head of the noble-looking hound—a picture worthy of being painted for the gallery of a king.
"Is my offense so great that my own daughter cannot bid me welcome?" he asked; but Leola saw his lips tremble as she kissed his cheek.
"You must always be welcome to me, papa, and your offence is not against me."
"Against whom, then, Leo? Against what? My darling child, it seems hard to me that you should grudge me some happiness for my age, you will not be long with me."
"Ah, if it was only jealousy, papa, how glad I would be! Where is—is—have you time to sit down and talk to me?"
"We went to Little Cooinda at once, dear. I thought it best. Latham misunderstood some instructions I sent him, and had a messenger to meet me saying that they were prepared for us there, and I thought it best to go. Now, my child, will you give me any reason for your strong feeling against your old schoolfellow as my wife?"
"I'm prepared to do so, papa. It is what I wish to do, but first answer me one question. Are you aware that Katherina Merionvale has been a wife before she became yours?"
"What!"
The word was a shout, almost a shriek, and Leola was answered. "If she has not told you that, you may judge how she has deceived you."
"It cannot be true! I cannot believe it, Leo! It is no crime to be a widow—why should she hide it, if it was so?"
"Why, indeed, if she was a widow, papa? But I do not believe that she is. Oh! Dear papa, do not look so awful. It was not my fault. If you had given me the opportunity I would have warned you, but I did not know until it was too late."
Mr. Vansiltart rose to his feet, pale and stern, and with his right hand clenched as of a man in bodily pain.
"Leola, if this is untrue, it is but fair that you tell your story in Katherine's presence. If it is true, it is only just to yourself and to me that you accuse her to her face. I will not hear another word until we are before her, and I require you to accompany me to Little Cooinda."
"I am quite willing, dear papa, but I pray you be strong, for there is no doubt of the truth of what I have told you, and I have proof that there is not."
LET us return to Little Cooinda, where the bride remained alone during her husband's visit to his daughter. She knew where he had gone, for he had told her; but not knowing the extent of Leola's knowledge of her antecedents, Katherina was not in the least occupied with the result of her husband's interview with his daughter. No, another and, as she thought, a far more dangerous matter occupied her whole fears.
She was thinking of the man we know as Dancer—of the horror of finding herself on the very threshold of her new life, face to face with one who was acquainted with her secret, and whose word might ruin her. What was she to do? How was she to dispose of the man whose triumphant face seemed to mock her even in the safety of her new home? What plans could she form—what evil deed could she do? Ay, it had come to that with her—what evil deed could she do to rid herself of this wretch and save herself in even the shadow of the position she had expected to fill!
She was thinking—thinking, as the sun set and the short twilight deepened; as the pale stars looked out from their unsullied heaven, and the sweet breath of night shivered among the flowers. She opened the low window and stood there, a vision of pale satin and rich laces—a doll, as Leola had called her—with jewels gleaming among her laces, and flowers shedding perfume among the glitter over her false bosom.
As she stood there with her evil thoughts, she heard the sound of horses' feet, and knew that her husband had returned; still she felt no great interest in that fact, for she never dreamed that a knowledge of her secret could reach him from any other direction than that of the man who had dared her with a sight of his face at the cross roads; but at the sound of a woman's voice she turned suddenly toward the door, and saw Mr. Vansiltart holding it open for his daughter to pass in.
Surely there was never between two women a greater contrast than there was between Leola Vansiltart and Katherina Merionvale as they stood looking at one another in that room. In the calm face with the broad low brow, in the deep light of the thoughtful grey eyes of Leola, there was a restful dignity mingled with pain, that was but slightly tempered by the proud contempt indicated in the curved lips whose smile could be, and was naturally, as sweet as any smile that ever wreathed a good woman's lips. The face that simpered under Leola's quiet gaze was the face that can be hidden under a mask at will—the face of a woman of the world, prepared to meet an enemy as "society" meets it, vis., with a hollow falseness, in the bitterness of which lies death.
"Is it possible that I have the Berman of receiving under my humble roof the daughter of Mr. Vansiltart?" she said, as she bent so low in mock courtesy that her silks and laces rustled as they swept the carpet.
"I have come at my father's request," Leola said, quietly, "and not for my own pleasure."
Mr. Vansiltart stepped forward until he stood between the women, and Katherina saw that in his countenance that she had never seen there before.
"Katherina, I have brought my daughter here that you might have an opportunity of explaining, if explanation is possible, some facts which Leola has made me acquainted with, and which have been very unpleasant for me to hear coming from my child's lips instead of yours."
"Oh, I daresay! I quite expected that your amiable daughter would have something to say to you with a view to afford me unpleasantness, for I have had ample experience of her talents in that line already."
"The tone you take is quite unnecessary, and you had better drop it, Katherina," said Mr. Vansiltart. "I want to hear the truth from your lips—is it true that you had already been a wife before I married you?"
"It is quite true," she replied, boldly; but the flush faded rapidly from her face.
"And you never told me?"
"Why should I tell you what might have made you unnecessarily unhappy? But if I had been aware that your darling child knew a fact that so little concerned her, you may be sure I should have forestalled her with the news."
"I know more than you think," said Leola, calmly, "and now, papa, let me say what I have come to say, for you may guess how truly disagreeable it is for me to be here."
"Yes, say what you have to say, Leola, but first let me say a word to Katherina. It was that you might hear all as I heard it, that I insisted on Miss Vansiltart coming here tonight."
"Pray be good enough to oblige us with your story, Miss Vansiltart;" and the silks and laces were deposited in a chair by the fair person of the speaker.
Leola drew herself proudly up, and turned slightly, so as to address her father.
"I want to tell you how I became acquainted with the private affairs of this woman," she said, "and how it was that she is so ignorant of my knowledge. You are already aware that, as Katherina Merionvale, she was a term at Madame Motar's, and that she was privately expelled from the academy. Madame Motar's reasons were these: Madame had lost from her dressing-room a valuable gold watch, and it was presumably taken from the open window which looked into the grounds. The watch was discovered on a young man who was offering it privately for sale, and the young man was convicted of the theft, and sentenced to a short term of imprisonment, as there were some flaws in the evidence. Shortly before Miss Merionvale was expelled it was discovered that she had, on more than one occasion, met in the grounds a young man when she was supposed to have retired with the rest of the pupils. To save her own reputation, Miss Merionvale confessed to Madame that the young man was her lawful husband, and proved the facts by showing her a regular and formal marriage certificate. The result of all this was, as I have told you, Miss Merionvale left the academy."
"Right for once," sneered the bride. "I left, but I was not expelled."
"No, you were compelled to leave, but for the sake of the school your position was made known to but one pupil, because one pupil only had by chance witnessed a meeting between the stranger and Miss Merionvale—I was that pupil."
"Oh! The mystery is solved, you were that pupil! Now, then, is your wonderful tide exhausted, Leola Vansiltart?"
"Not quite. Madame Motor insisted on an interview with the husband of Miss Merionvale, and he, who it seems was chafing under the injustice of a sentence he had just served, insisted on a confession from his wife that it was she who had taken the watch Madame had lost, and had given it to her husband as an article of her own. You may guess now how good a wife she has been, papa, and how true a wife she will be. Now there is one question for you to reply to?" and Leola turned fully to the bride, "Where is your husband, Lieutenant Mountjoy?"
"Where is he? How dare you permit your daughter to insult me so, James Vansiltart? Where is he? He is in his grave, of course, and long ago!"
"I question it," returned Leola. "I have been in communication with Madame, who in that letter, papa, gives a resumé of the facts I have stated to you, with the assurance that she saw young Mountjoy in town a few weeks ago. I leave the letter with you, papa; and now open the door and let me go?"
"It is false!" cried Katherina; "a foul lie to try and throw odium on me, Leola Vansiltart!"
"Open the door, papa."
Mr. Vansiltart seemed stunned as he stared toward his bride, who had started to her feet and stood like a fury, with her face white with passion and fear, and the jewels on her arms shimmering with the trembling shiver that shook her from head to foot like a leaf, but as Leola spoke the second time he made a strong effort to control himself, and turned toward her.
"It is late, Leola, I must see you safe home. When I return, Katherina, I shall speak about these strange matters."
"I have had quite enough of them at present," she said, "and your pleasant topic of conversation will keep until tomorrow—I shall go to my own rooms."
But she did not go to her own rooms. She went back to the window, and watched at it to see in the darkening twilight the figures of her husband and his daughter riding swiftly toward Cooinda, and then, with an awful face of fear and perplexity, she opened the long window and stepped out on the green lawn that bordered the glowing flowers that lay near the terrace where the clustering shrubberies kept guard to the right, and the feet of the horses could yet be heard echoing on their way to Cooinda.
"What shall I do!" she cried, when there was nothing between her and the pale, starlit sky. "Oh, my God! What shall I do?" And the answer came suddenly from the shrubbery—an answer that made her heart stand still for an instant, and then bound on again like a terrified steed lashed by the rider's whip.
"Trust to me, mis sis, I'm the man as will pull you through!"
"You here?" she cried, "How did you find me out? What do you know? How can you help me?"
"Every how!" he replied, with a triumphant grin. "I was listening at the window just now, and I can lay my hand on Mountjoy in a few hours."
"You can?"
"Yes; and if you will make it worth my while, mis sis, I will make him so scarce that no man or woman will ever see his living face again."
"You mean—you mean that you will murder him?"
"Never mind what I mean, ma'am; he will never trouble you again if you and I agree as to terms. But listen here: I must not be seen here, and there is a good deal to say and do between us before this business is settled. You must try and meet me tonight when everything is quiet. Bring me what cash you have, or jewels, and by tomorrow morning I shall be out of your sight for ever. Fail me, and I will bring Mountjoy to Mr. Vansiltart and let him tell his story."
"How do I know that you are telling me the truth? I thought the man you speak of had left the country years ago."
"He did not. He got another sentence through being convicted innocently before through the watch you stole. Now, ma'am, I must go—I hear the super's horse. At twelve o'clock you will find me at the wire fence at the end of this shrubbery. Bring me what my services are worth, and you may live in peace and like a queen at Cooinda."
He disappeared in the shrubbery, and the wretched woman stood there for a few moments trying to realize the awful position in which she stood. She saw it but too plainly now: she had run a great risk for wealth and position; she had put herself into the power of the law to become the wife of a rich man; she had risked all to be Queen of Cooinda; and here she was now face to face with the fact that her new husband was a comparatively poor man, and her liberty in the hands of a man that must be bribed with gold.
What was she to do? That was the question she was asking herself standing there where Dancer had left her, with her fair, fluffy hair being ruffled by the evening breeze, and her laces floating dreamily around her. She stood in the open with her face toward the east, and her eyes were fixed far away across the plains of Cooinda where, on the horizon, a red flush foretold the rising moon. Suddenly, then, the edge of the disc appeared, broadened and widened into a full orb, and mounted like a ball of fire into the pallid ether of the hour, and for an instant the woman stood there with the full light on her white face, and her jeweled hands clasped rigidly across her waist.
A man saw her as she stood there—a man who had just come to the homestead to see the super. He had got through the wire fence, and was crossing the shrubbery to go round to the offices, when he saw that rigid figure with the moonlight upon the white face, and he stopped with a suppressed cry of horror, for he knew but too well, and he remembered the evil she had done in becoming even the nominal mistress of Cooinda. That man was Henry Smith.
How awfully interesting it would be to know certainly how the last hours of any human being were occupied, so far as their thoughts were concerned. How did Katherina Merionvale spend that first of her nights at Cooinda? What did she think of? Did she sleep and dream of her poor disgraced mother, and of her early innocent days before her weak mind was wholly warped from good and fully set upon the empty toys that wealth can purchase? When was it that she left her new home? At what hour of the night? These were questions that none could answer. From the hour on which Henry Smith saw her gazing at the round moon, until she was found lying cold and stiff by the wire fence next morning, no living eye, save the murderer's, had rested upon her. She had changed her gay bridal attire and wore a warm handsome dressing-gown, but it was discovered that all the handsome jewelry her last husband had heaped upon her had disappeared, and from that day to this no one ever saw Dancer, the hut-keeper, who was accredited with the deed.
There had been a sad scene as the dead body of the new mistress was carried into the homestead to await the inquest, and Mr. Vansiltart's friends, the Colonel and his son, had hastened to help and sympathize with him. Leola was there, too, leaning on Rupert's arm, as they stood in the room with the body and with awe-struck faces listened to the strange story Colonel Brocksbury was telling them about the new boundary-rider engaged so shortly ago by Latham at the request of Leola.
"It was the strangest thing," he added, as he finished, "but I am so glad now that I insisted on his stopping at Greensmead all night. I mistrusted his motive, and would not lose sight of him until he had told his story to you, and I have saved him unconsciously from the suspicion of murder. Shall we have him in?"
It was young Smith the Colonel ushered into the room, and they made a place for him so that he might look upon the awful face of the dead, so solemn in its eternal silence, so changed from that creature of heartless selfishness it had been but a few short hours before. Smith stood and looked down on that quiet, face, and a great spasm of pain passed over his countenance as he turned away.
"You have no doubt of the identity?" the Colonel asked.
"Oh, no; there is no room for doubt. It is the body of my late wife, née Merionvale."
"Vansiltart," said the Colonel again, "in Lieutenant Mountjoy I find the son of an old friend and companion at arms, in whose future welfare I shall take the greatest interest. You know his story, and the miseries into which his own folly and the influence of his wife have driven him, let us remember them no more, and help him to do better."
"I was rightly punished for my marriage with that poor creature," Mountjoy said. "I had sold my commission to get out of the clutches of my numerous creditors at home, and came out here to marry an heiress. She was then at Madame Motar's and sailing under false colours, as I was myself. We were married secretly on double pretenses, she that she was not of age, and so subject to guardians and executors; I that I was heir to wealth of which I should be deprived if my marriage was suspected. Poor Katherina thought she was to wear the coronet of a countess, and I that I was to open the moneybags of her miserly father. And this is the end, I became a gaol-bird, and she is murdered for her jewels. God forgive us both."
"How were you connected with this Dancer?" the Colonel asked.
"He had been a soldier in my regiment, and was drummed out for theft. I fell in with him in Melbourne, and he carried messages and notes between me and Miss Merionvale while she was at Madame Motar's. We recognized each other the moment we met at the hut. He was a bad man, and quite capable of any evil deed for gold."
And he was gone. Long before the cold body of his victim was discovered Dancer was miles away from Cooinda, with every valuable that had been on the bride's person, and every pound she had left from her elderly bridegroom's handsome cheques. He was never seen or heard of again, at least to be identified, but he carried to his grave the memory of an awful face, the face of a horror-stricken woman in the agony of a despairing death.
THE sunlight of many happy years has swept the shadow of those sad days away from fair Cooinda, and no verdure is greener, no roses sweeter than those that flourish around the home where Leola reigns queen. Loyal lies on the terraces now, or marches proudly along the grass with a pretty toddling boy's arm around his glossy neck, and Brown Bess knows less of the broad plains and the pleasant bush tracks than she used to do. But there is little change in the grand, calm beauty of Leola Brocksbury; the fair Saxon face of her husband is her sun, and she turns to it as naturally as the flowers to light. If there is a Queen of Cooinda there is also a King Consort, who has more than a voice in the council and his name is Rupert, erst of Greensmead.
There is only one change at Greensmead. Young Mountjoy has so far taken Rupert's place that he is the Colonel's companion and right-hand man of business. I have heard some talk of "Lieutenant Mountjoy" having been seen on more than one occasion, escorting a very beautiful visitor to Greensmead in her rides around the station, with some hints of an existing engagement between them, but you know how easily the gossip of country folk is excited, and there is a sad spot near Little Cooinda that always brings a grave look on the young man's face when he is compelled to pass it.
In the bush cemetery at S— there is a simple yet elegant white marble headstone, bearing upon its glossy surface a simple inscription, at which many wonder as they read:
to the memory of
KATHERINA
who died at Little Cooinda
on the —th day of November, 18—
Aged 28
"So strange! He might have put the poor thing's surname, at least," was a
frequent comment on Mr. Vansiltart's stone to the memory of his young wife.
But there was a trembling old lady knelt there one day, and while praying for
her lost daughter's soul, blessed the man who had so carefully kept the
secret of her unhappy child's sin.
"Choose your home where you like, my dear Mrs. Merionvale," he had said to her while the memory of Katherine's death was green, "but you need have no fear of your future; it shall be my care. You knew nothing of the sin committed against me, and you must not suffer for it."
Once, and for the first and last time, Mrs. Merionvale had met Lieutenant Mountjoy face to face. It was the last time she visited her daughter's grave before the short illness that terminated in her death, and Mountjoy, who had left his horse at the fence, was standing near the green mound that covered his unhappy wife, when he turned and saw the black-robed figure of a pale, thin woman standing by his side.
"Who are you?" she asked. "Did you know my poor child?"
"I was her husband," he said; and their hands met for the last time ere he turned away to leave the mother alone with her dead.