The Moving Finger
Mary Gaunt






THE MOVING FINGER (1895)

BY

MARY GAUNT


"The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ, Moves on; nor all your
piety and wit Shall lore it back to cancel half a line, Nor all your
tears wash out a word of it."



CONTENTS

     A Trotting
     Christmas Eve at Warwingie
     Lost!
     The Loss of the "Vanity"
     Dick Stanesby's Hutkeeper
     The Yanyilla Steeplechase
     A Digger's Christmas




TROTTING COB

"Hi--hey--hold up there, mare, will you? What did you say, mister? A
light? Yes. That 's Trotting Cob, that is. The missus 'll give us a cup
of tea, but that's about all. Devil fly away with the mare. What is it?
Something white in the road? Water by ----. Thank the Lord, they Ve had
plenty of rain this year. But they do say there's a ghost hereabouts--a
Trotting Cob, with a man in white on him? Lord, no, that's an old
woman's tale. But the girl--she walks--she walks they say, and mighty
good reason--too--if all tales be true. Hosses always shy here if they
Ve at all skittish. Got that letter, Jack, and the tobacco? That's
right! Rum, isn't it, to get all your news of the world at dead of
night? Reg'ler as clockwork we pass--a little after one, and the coach
from Deniliquin she passes an hour or so earlier.

"Anybody else? Well, no, not as a rule. It's the stock route? you see,
between Hay and Deniliquin, so there's bound to be stock on the way; but
sheep, bless you! they travel six miles a day, and cattle they ain't
so much faster, so we brings 'em all the news. The Company has stables
here, and feed, and we change horses. The old man and old woman keep it,
with a boy or two. Mighty dull for the old woman, I should think, with
on'y the ghost to keep her company. She was her cousin or her aunt or
somethin', the ghost was, and, Lord, women is fools an' no mistake."
It was July, and the winter rains had just fallen, so that the plains,
contrary to custom, were a regular sea of mud.

The wheels sank axle deep in it. The horses floundered through it in the
darkness, and every now and then the lamps were reflected in a big pool
of shallow water. The wind blew keen and cold, but the coach was full
inside and out, and so, though it was pitch dark, I kept my seat by the
driver.

A light gleamed up out of the darkness.

"Trotting Cob!" said he, and discoursed upon it till he pulled up his
horses on their haunches exactly opposite a wide-open door, where the
lamplight displayed a rudely-laid table and a bright fire, which seemed
hospitably to beckon us in. The whole place was as wide awake as if it
were noon instead of midnight.

Ten minutes' stay, and we were off again into the darkness, and then I
prevailed upon the driver to tell me the tale of Trotting Cob. He told
it in his own way. He interlarded his speech with strange oaths. He
stopped often to swear at the road, to correct the horses, and he was
emphatic in his opinions on the foolishness of women, so I must e'en do
as he did, and tell the tale of Trotting Cob in my own way.

A flat world--possibly to English eyes an uninteresting, desolate,
dreary world; but to those who knew and loved them, they had a weird
charm, all their own, those dull, gray plains that stretched away mile
after mile till it seemed the horizon, unbroken by hill or tree, must
be the end of the world. Trotting Cob was Murwidgee then, Murwidgee
Waterhole, where all the stock stopped and watered; but from the slab
hut, which was the only dwelling for miles, no waterhole was visible;
the creek was simply a huge crack in the earth, and at the bottom,
twenty feet below the level of the plain, was the water-hole. One
waterhole in summer, and in winter a whole chain of them, but the creek
seldom if ever flowed, except in a very wet season. It was a permanent
waterhole--Murwidgee, fed by springs, and the white cockatoos and
screaming corellas came there and bathed in its waters, and the black
swans, and the wild duck, and teal rested there on their way south, when
summer had laid his iron hand on the northern plains.

The reeds and rushes made a pleasant green patch in the creek bed, and
once there had been several tall white gums; but old Durham had cut them
down years ago, when first he settled there, and so from the hut door,
though almost close upon the creek, it was not visible, and there was
presented to the eye an unbroken expanse of salt bush. It was unbroken
but for the mirage that quivered in the dry, hot air. The lake of
shining water, with the ferns and trees reflected in it, was but a
phantasy, and the girl who leaned idly against the door-post of the
hut knew it. Still she looked at it wistfully--it had been so hot, so
cruelly hot, this burning January day, and in all the wide plain that
stretched away for miles on every side there was not a particle of
shade; even the creek ran north and south, so that the hot sun sought
out every nook and corner, and the bark-roofed hut, with its few
tumble-down outbuildings, was uncompromisingly hot, desolate, and ugly.

Old Durham called himself a squatter, and gave out that his wife, with
the help of her granddaughter Nellie, kept an accommodation-house. Forty
years ago the times were wild, and what did it matter. Convict and thief
the squatters round called him, and his grandsons, in their opinion,
were the most accomplished cattle-duffers in all the country round, and
as for the accommodation-house--well, if the old woman did go in for sly
grog-selling, the police were a long way off, and it was no business of
anybody's. And Nellie Durham was a pretty girl, a little simple perhaps,
but still sweetly pretty, with those wistful blue eyes, fringed with
dark lashes, that looked out at you so earnestly, and the wealth of
fair hair. So dainty and so pretty--the coarse cotton gown was quite
forgotten, and in those times, when women of any sort were scarce,
many a man turned out of his way just to speak a word or two to Mother
Durham's granddaughter.

She sat down on the door-step now, and resting her elbows on her knees,
and her chin in her hands, looked out across the plain. The sun was just
setting--a fiery, glowing sun, that sent long, level beams right across
the plains, till they reached her hair, and turned it to living gold,
and went on and penetrated the gloom of the hut beyond.

It was very bare, the hut, just as bare as it could possibly be; but
three men bent eagerly over the rough-hewn table, while an old woman,
worn and wrinkled and haggard, and yet in whose face might still be
traced a ghastly resemblance to the pretty girl outside, laid out on the
table a much-thumbed, dirty pack of cards.

"Cut them, Bill. Drat you! what 'd you do that for, George? You know
you ain't never lucky--you oughter let Bill do it. No--no--no luck. Two,
three, nine o' spades, 'tis ill luck all through."

"Well, let Bill do it, Gran," said George with an oath, as he flung
down the cards, and they were picked up and shuffled, and cut again and
again; the old woman shook her head solemnly.

"'Tis bad luck the night," she said, "bad, bad luck. Don't you touch
Macartney's mob, or you 'll rue it. There's death some-wheres, but it
doesn't point to none o' you."

"Macartney probably," said another man, who was leaning against the slab
wall, and intently watching the girl in the doorway. "Come, Gran, don't
be croaking; if the cards ain't lucky, put 'em away till they are."

He looked cleaner and smarter than the other three--Nellie's brothers,
who were young fellows, little over twenty. They were good-looking,
strapping fellows, but the sweet simplicity in her face was in theirs
loutish stupidity, and their companion stood out beside them, though
probably he was nearly twice their age, as cast in a very different
mould. He was dressed as they were, in riding-breeches and shirt, but
the shirt was clean, his black hair and beard were neatly trimmed, the
sash round his waist was new and neatly folded, and the pistols therein
were bright and well kept. Gentleman Jim, the Durhams called him; as
Gentleman Jim he was known to the police throughout all the length and
breadth of New South Wales. What he had been once no man knew, though
evidently he was a man of some little culture and education; what he
was now was patent to every man--escaped convict, bushranger,
cattle-duffer--even a murder now and again, it was whispered, came not
amiss to Gentleman Jim. It was an evil face, with the handsome dark
eyes set too closely together, and when there is evil in a man's face at
forty, there is surely little hope for him; but bad as it was, to Nellie
Durham it was the one face in the world. Cattle-duffing--it hardly
seemed a sin to her. Ever since she could remember, her grandfather, and
her father, and when he died, her brothers, had driven off a few head
of cattle from the mobs that passed, and she in her simplicity hardly
realized the heinousness of the offence; and for the rest, she simply
believed nothing against her hero. He had been cruelly ill-treated,
cruelly ill-used, but she understood him--she loved him, she believed in
him, in the blind unreasoning way a woman, be she old or young, rich
or poor, wise or foolish, gentle or simple, does believe in the man she
loves. And the old grandmother saw, and shook her head. She did not mind
cattle-duffing--it was but levying a fair toll on the rich squatter as
he passed. Sly grog-selling was hardly a crime; so few people passed it
would have been waste of money to take out a licence, more especially
since there was no one to ask whether they had one or not. But Gentleman
Jim, whom the boys had taken to bringing home with them of late, was
another matter altogether, and she looked on anxiously when she saw the
impression he had made on her son's pretty daughter.

"I dunno," she said, anxiously to her husband, "whether the gal's all
there; sometimes I think she ain't, but anyhow, she's sweet and pretty
an' loving, an' he's an out-an'-out scamp, drat him!"

But the old man would not interfere. He was a little afraid of Gentleman
Jim; besides he was useful to him--he was getting old, and the grandsons
were not much help; they took after their mother, and privately old
Durham thought his son's wife had been more than half a fool, so he
encouraged Gentleman Jim; and now came information that Macartney would
be camping here to-morrow with a mob ready for the southern market, and
here was the man again. The cards too prophesied disaster, shuffle them
as she would.

Gentleman Jim swore at the cards and at the old woman in no measured
terms, and then he laughed, and gathered them up in his hands.

"Here, Nell, Nell!--the cards are clean against us, your Gran says--come
and cut, like a good girl."

Nellie rose willingly enough, but the old woman said scornfully, "Nell,
Nell, she ain't got no luck at all. Three times I tried her fortune, and
three times it came, 'tears, tears, tears'--never naught else for Nell
but tears."

"Never mind, mother, better luck this time, eh, Nell?" and the girl took
the cards, and smiled trustingly up into his face.

"Cut, Nell."

She cut the nine of spades, and the old woman groaned. "Disaster, sure
as fate; let Macartney's mob alone, I tell you."

"Cut again, Nell."

She shuffled them carefully, the other four watching her with eager,
anxious eyes, while the man at her side looked on with tolerant scorn.
And then she cut--the ace of spades. Her grandmother threw up her hands.
"Death, I tell you--death--death--death--an' no less."

Gentleman Jim struck the cards out of her hand roughly, and they went
flying to all corners of the hut.

"Come outside, Nell--come down to the waterhole, it's cool there, and
better fun than listening to an old woman's twaddle. The sun's down now.
Come on."

She looked at her grandmother first, partly from habit, but the old
woman was still wringing her hands over the danger foretold by the
cards, and was blind for the moment to that right under her eyes. So
Nellie followed him gladly, only too gladly, down the steep bank to the
waterhole. He pushed her down somewhat roughly under the shadow of the
western bank, and then flung himself down on the ground beside her,
and put his head in her lap. With her little work-hardened hand, she
smoothed back his black hair, and he looked up into her face.

"So you love me, Nellie?" he said, somewhat abruptly. "You be sure you
love me?"

It was hardly a question, he was too certain of it, and no man should be
certain of a woman's love.

She made no answer in words, but the pretty blue eyes smiled down at him
so confidingly, that for a moment the man was smitten with remorse. What
good would this love ever do her?

"You poor child!" he said. "You poor little girl. I believe you do.
Don't do it, Nellie--don't be such a fool."

"Why?" she asked simply.

"Why? Because I shall do you no good."

"But I love you," she whimpered, "an' you won't harm me."

"No, by ---- I won't." And for the moment perhaps he meant to keep his
oath, for he half rose, as if there and then he would have left her.
Perhaps it was too much to expect--all his companions feared him, the
outside world hunted him, only this woman believed in him and loved him;
and if it is a great thing to be loved, it is a still greater thing to
be believed in and trusted. And so when she put her arms around him and
drew him back he yielded.

"It is your own fault, Nell, your own fault--don't blame me."

"No," she said, satisfied because he had stayed. "I won't--never." Then
she ran her fingers through his hair again.

"I saw a gray hair in the sunshine," she said.

"A gray hair--a dozen--a hundred. My life is calculated to raise a few
gray hairs."

"But why--?"

"Why? Why--once on the downward path you can't stop, my dear. However
the path has led me to your arms, so common politeness should make me
commend the road by which I came."

"You are always good."

"Good! great Heavens! No--only a silly girl would think that. Was I ever
good? I'm sure I don't know. If I was a woman soon knocked it out of
me."

"A woman! Did you love her?"

"Love her--of course I loved her."

"More 'n you do me?"

"More than I do you!--You're only a little girl--and she--she was a
woman of thirty, and she just wound me round her fingers,--her!"

The tears gathered in the girl's eyes--only one thing her simple soul
hungered after--she wanted this man's love--she wanted to be allowed to
love him in return.

"She didn't love you like me," she said.

"She didn't love me at all, it was I loved her, the young fool. That's
the way of the world. Come, Nell, don't cry--that s the bitterness of
it. Where's the good of crying? Where's the good of loving me? I wasted
all the love I had to give on a woman, who made a plaything of me--oh,
about the time you were born I suppose. That's the way of the world, my
dear; oh, you 'll learn as you grow older."

"Ben Fisher," said Nellie slowly--"Ben Fisher, Gran says, loves me, an'
'ud marry me. An' he's Macartney's boss man."

The man sprang to his feet and caught her roughly in his arms. He
hurt her, but she did not mind; such fierce wooing was better than the
indifference which had seemed to mark his manner before. His hot breath
was on her face, and in his eyes was an angry gleam, but she read love
there too, and was content.

"You, Nellie--you--do you want Ben Fisher? If you go to him--if you have
any truck with him--I 'll kill you, Nell."

She closed her eyes and drooped her head on to his shoulder.

"Jes' so," she said, "you can."

"Nell, Nell," called her grandmother's voice from above. "Nell, you come
up this minute. Drat the girl, where's she got to? You come along, miss,
and help to get supper. There's the bread to set, for Macartney's mob 'll
be here early to-morrow."

James Newton held the girl for a moment with a merciless hand.

"Nell, I 'll kill you."

She smiled at him through her tears, then stooped and kissed the hand
that held her, and as he loosened his grasp, flew up the embankment and
joined her grandmother.

Next day the Durham lads and Gentleman Jim had disappeared. It seemed
a wonder in that flat open plain where they could disappear to, but the
creek had many windings, and its bed was so wide and so far beneath the
surface of the plain, there was ample room for men and horses to hide
there.

About three in the afternoon, a lowing of cattle and cracking of
stockwhips announced the arrival of Macartney's mob, and the beasts,
wild with thirst, for the way had been long and hot, and the waters were
dried up for miles back, rushed tumultously down into the waterhole,
trampling one another in their eagerness to get to the water. The men
could no nothing but look on helplessly, and finally Fisher, a tall
young fellow with that sad look on his bearded face, which sometimes
comes of much living alone, left the mob to his men, and flinging his
reins on his horse's neck went towards the hut.

Nellie stood in the doorway, but when she saw who it was, mindful of her
lover's fierce warning of the night before, she drew back into the
hut, and the sadness on the man's face deepened, for Nellie Durham,
the cattle-duffer's granddaughter, was the desire of his heart, and the
light of his eyes, and Murwidgee Waterhole, when he had charge of the
cattle, was on the main road to everywhere.

He dismounted and entered, and Mrs. Durham bustled up to him--eager to
make amends for Nellie's want of cordiality.

"It's pleased I am to see ye, pleased, pleased," she said, "for 'tis
lonesome hereabouts, now the boys is away down Port Philip way."

"Are the boys away?" he asked, watching Nellie, as in obedience to an
imperious command from her grandmother, she began to set out a rough
meal.

"Oh, ay--there 's on'y Nell an' grandfather, an' me, an' we're gettin'
old. Oh, 't is lonesome for the girl whiles."

If it were, she did not seem to feel it, and she steadfastly refused all
Fisher's timid advances. Farther away than ever he felt her to-day, and
yet she had never looked so fair in his eyes.

He ate his meal slowly, answering the old woman in monosyllables, when
she questioned him as to his camp for the night and his movements on
the following day. Possibly he may have thought it unwise to take old
Durham's wife into his confidence, but if so the men under him were not
so reticent, and when they came in a few moments later, chatted freely
on their preparations for the night, and half in jest roughly warned the
old woman that the cattle must be let alone.

"None o' your larks now, old girl," said Fisher's principal aid. "We
mounts guard turn an' turn about, an' the first livin' critter as comes
anigh them beasts--the watch he shoots on sight."

"What's comin' anigh 'em?" asked the old woman scornfully. "There's
me an' th' old man an' the girl here, an' nary a livin' thing else
for miles. They do say," she added, dropping her voice, "the place is
haunted. Jackson of Noogabbin was along here a month back, and he told
me how the cattle broke camp all along o' the ghost. He seed 'un wi' his
own eyes, a great white thing on a trottin' cob it was. Clean through
the camp it rode moanin', moanin', an' the cattle just broke like mad."

"Oh, yes--I dessay," said the man, "and when them cattle were mustered,
there was a matter o' fifty head missin', I 'll bet. Now if that ghost
comes along my way I shall just put a bullet in him sure as my name's
Ned Kirton. So there, old lady, put that in your pipe and smoke it. Come
along, Nell, my girl--don't be so stingy with that liquor, the old woman
'll make us pay for it, you bet. Why, Nell, I ain't seen such a pretty
pair o' eyes this many a long day. Give us just one--"

He had caught her roughly by the shoulder, and bent down to kiss her,
but the girl drew back with a low cry that brought Fisher to her aid.

"Let her alone, Ned," he said with a muttered oath.

"Right you are, boss," laughed the other. "There 's a darned sight too
much milk and water there for my taste; I like 'em with a spice o' the
devil in 'em, I do. But if that 's your taste--well, fair's fair an'
hands off, says I."

"It ain't much good, boss," said another man. "She's Gentleman Jim's
gal, she is, and I shouldn't sleep easy if I so much as looked at her."

"Gentleman Jim," he repeated, and the bitterness in his heart none of
his comrades guessed. "Gentleman Jim I heard of yesterday, somewhere
about the head waters of the Murray--no danger from him."

Bill, being a cattle man, cleared his throat and his brain by a
good string of oaths--resonant oaths worthy of a man from the back
blocks--and then gave it as his opinion that Gentleman Jim's being
seen among the ranges yesterday, was no guarantee that he would not be
lifting cattle far on the plains to-day.

"Not our cattle," said Fisher grimly. "We set a watch, and the first
thing--man or beast, or ghost--that comes down among the cattle, we
shoot on sight. D'ye hear that, mother?" and he turned to the old woman,
who merely shook her head and groaned.

"It's old I am--old--old--old. It isn't the likes o' us as 'll touch yer
beasts."

And Nellie slipped outside the door, and looked wistfully and anxiously
across the plain, at the cattle now peacefully grazing on the salt-bush,
and at the mocking mirage in the far distance. Never before, it seemed
to her, had so much fuss been made about the cattle. The ghost trick had
stood them in good stead for some time, and now apparently these men saw
through it.

Two ideas she had firmly grasped. Ben Fisher was a man of his word, and
Ben Fisher was a good shot.

Her brothers and her lover were down in the creek bed. One of the four
would ride through the sleeping cattle to-night and that man would pay
for his temerity with his life. The casual mention of her own name with
that of the outlaw had sealed his fate. She was as sure of that as she
was sure that the sun would set to-night in the west and would rise
again to-morrow in the east. It did not occur to her simple soul to
inquire the reason why; only she felt that it was so, and her heart
was full of one passionate prayer, that the man who rode forth on that
perilous errand should not be her lover. Her brothers were dear to her
naturally, but her nearest and her dearest were as nothing when weighed
in the scale with the love she bore this stranger. He must be saved at
any cost--he must, he must. She walked slowly along with down-bent head,
till she stood on the top of the bank overlooking the waterhole, and
then, hearing footsteps behind her, looked up quickly to see Ben Fisher
standing beside her.

"Nellie," he said awkwardly, "Nellie, I--I--mean did that brute hurt
you?"

"What? Oh, Ned Kirton. Oh, it's no matter."

"It's dull here for you, Nell, out on the plains, isn't it?" he asked
still more awkwardly.

If her heart was full of another man, his was full of a strong man's
longing for her.

He saw her position, he knew her helplessness, he felt how much she
stood in need of care and guardianship. If she would only give him the
right to care for her. His very eagerness made him stupid and awkward,
and she, looking up at him in the hot afternoon sunlight, read none of
his thoughts, and only saw in him the man who held her lover's life in
his hands and would mercilessly take it.

She answered his question sullenly with a shrug of her shoulders.

"No, no."

"But Nellie--oh, Nellie, Nellie--poor little girl, don't you see
that--that--"

"What?" she asked, for even she, indifferent as she was, could not fail
to see that the man was shaken by strong emotion. "I 'm all right."

"All right, with a devil like that after you, a brute who--Nellie,
Nellie, for God's sake give me the right to take care of you."

She looked at him stupidly and then a light dawned on her.

"Do you mean Jim?" she said. "Why, Jim--" and for a moment a tender
smile broke about her lips, and a light was in her eyes such as would
never be there for the man beside her.

"Oh, Nellie," he groaned, "am I too late after all? I only want to take
care of you, Nellie--only to take care of you."

He stepped forward and caught her hands, holding them fiercely as Jim
Newton himself might have done.

"Nellie, if you won't let me do anything else, let me help you; for your
own sake let me help you."

Clearly outlined they stood against the summer sky; if there should be
anybody in the creek-bed, lurking among the rushes and scrub round the
waterhole, they would be plainly visible to him. Their attitudes were
significant, and their speech was inaudible. If Jim should be there,
thought Nellie, and then dismissed the thought. Rash as he was, he would
never be so foolhardy as that. And yet she might have noticed a slight
movement among the reeds--might have remembered that Gentleman Jim found
no companionship in her brothers, and would be pretty sure to find his
way to the water-hole at any risk, if it were only to vary the monotony
and to see how the land lay. And so after one vain effort to free
her hands, she stood still and listened, while Fisher poured into her
unwilling, uncomprehending ears the story of his love for her, and then,
since that made no impression, he warned her again and again against
Gentleman Jim. Foolishly warned her--for was ever woman yet warned
against the man she loved. An angry gleam flashed into Nellie's eyes,
and she stamped her feet and strove to draw away her hands again.

"I hate you--I hate you. He is good, I tell you--good--good--good! He
loves me an'"--oh, the unanswerable argument all the world over--"I
love him."

Fisher dropped her hands.

"Oh Nell! Nell! My God! it is too hard."

She looked at him wonderingly, and a dawning pity softened her face. It
had never occurred to her that this man could feel any pain. She read it
in his haggard face now, and because she was pitiful of all things she
put her hand on his arm and said gently, "Poor Ben, I 'm sorry."

It was too much--Fisher had stood her coldness, had heeded not her
anger--but the pretty, wistful face looking up so pitifully into his was
too much for him. He could resist temptation no longer, he caught her
in his arms and smothered her with kisses. Clearly it was marked against
the sky, clearly the man crouching among the reeds saw it, and put
his own interpretation upon it, and that one passionate embrace sealed
Nellie Durham's fate. Well might the cards prophesy disaster and death,
for as he slunk away back to his ambush a mile further down, with raging
hate at his heart, he swore revenge against the girl who was trifling
with him, swore it and meant to keep his oath.

Nellie with an inarticulate cry freed herself and ran towards the hut,
and Fisher flung himself face downwards on the crisp dry salt-bush. He
had lost everything now he realised, she would not even accord him pity.

And Nellie up at the hut was trying to make her grandmother understand
that all chance of the ghost trick being played again with success was
out of the question. Not only would it be a failure, but the man who
rode through the cattle rode at the risk of his life. But the old woman
could not or would not see it.

"Let 'un alone, Nell, let 'un alone--a parcel of women ain't wanted
meddlin' wi' the men-folks' business."

"But, Gran--" the girl was wild with anxiety, and trembling with
excitement, and the old woman shut her up sharply. She did not choose
to hear any more about it, and turned a deaf ear on purpose. Like Nellie
she too was of opinion that Gentleman Jim would play the ghost, and
if--through no fault of hers--he came to grief, she felt she would not
grieve unduly. Nellie's infatuation for him was undeniable, and with a
good decent man like Ben Fisher ready to take her it was unpardonable.
Nellie had always been soft and yielding to her, once this man were out
of the way she would be so again, and the old woman had seen enough of
the seamy side of life to desire better things for the helpless girl. So
she turned a deaf ear to her anxious warnings; not by word or sign would
she interfere. Let be, let be, it should be fate--it should be no doing
of hers. Nellie gave up the struggle at last and taking up her favourite
position on the doorstep, with her chin in her hands and her elbows on
her knees, stared out moodily across the plains, seeking in her brain
some way to help. It was not possible to go near them by daylight, the
risk of detection was too great, she must wait till it was dark. Fisher
crossed her path once, and for a moment a wild thought crossed her
brain--to confide her trouble to him--to ask him to have mercy, but she
dismissed it as soon as it was born. Betray her lover and then ask his
rival to spare him! It was out of the question; she must find some other
way. She thought and thought, till for very weariness she closed her
eyes, and slept with her head against the door-post. The long level
beams of the setting sun made a golden glory of her hair and seemed to
be striving to smooth out the look of care and pain, which was already
marked on the fair young face. Ben Fisher passed and paused.

"Pretty, ain't she?" said the old woman; "a dainty mossel for any man."

"Ay," said Fisher quietly, "ay," and passed on, wondering to himself, as
many another man has done before him--why this girl was so priceless in
his eyes--and why, seeing that she was so, he might not have her rather
than this reckless outlaw, who would make her the toy of his idle hours,
and when she became a burden to him throw her aside, like a worn-out
horse or a dog he had no further use for.

He bit his lip and clenched his hands, and the men when he gave the
orders for the night, muttered to one another that the boss meant
business an' no mistake. "Ghost or no ghost. 'T wouldn't be much good
anybody meddlin' wi' the cattle now. He was mighty struck on the gal, he
was--but it didn't seem to be interfering wi' business nohow."

He was mighty struck on the girl, and his thoughts were so full of her
that sleep seemed out of the question, so he took the first watch with
Ned Kirton for his mate.

Out on the plains here, had they been quite certain of the honesty of
the Durhams, one man would have been quite sufficient to mount guard,
his duties being simply to ride round the cattle, and should any seem
restless or inclined to roam to head them back again. Even as it was,
two seemed an almost unnecessary waste of energy, more especially as
the other men were camped close by, ready to spring to their feet at a
moment's call.

It was a still, hot night; the moon, though not near full, still shed
a sufficient light to distinguish everything quite plainly; the men's
camp, the sleeping cattle, the hut and outbuildings a little to the
left, so calm and peaceful.

Fisher, as he sat on his motionless horse, began to think one guard
was more than enough, and to speculate as to whether he should not tell
Kirton to go to sleep and leave the cattle to him. Sleep was not likely
to come to him, he thought, with that haunting girl's face ever before
his eyes. He turned his horse so that he should not see the hut, and
then found himself riding round the camp, in order to bring it into view
again.

"It's all right, boss," said Kirton, as he passed. "Things is as quiet
as quiet. Ghosts ain't expected to walk before twelve though, are they?"

Fisher laughed. "No," he said, "but somehow I don't believe the ghost
intends to trouble us after all. They 're scared at our preparations. I
think one man 'll do after midnight."

He rode on a little way, when suddenly something induced him to turn his
head, and he saw distinctly, in the moonlight, a white figure come out
of the hut and make its way quickly in the direction of the creek. It
was a woman's figure, with a kerchief across the head, but whether it
was Nell or her grandmother he could not at that distance or in that
light say.

He rode up to his mate quickly.

"There's some mischief brewing, Ned," he said, looking towards the
figure, which had apparently changed its mind, and was now walking in
a direction which would bring it to the banks of the creek, a little
beyond the cattle camp. "You waken the boys quietly, and tell 'em to
be on the look out, and I 'll follow the old woman and see if I can't
circumvent her little tricks."

"It ain't the old woman," said Kirton, "it's the gal."

"You be hanged," said Fisher, who preferred Mrs. Durham should get the
credit for any midnight escapades. "It's the old harridan herself, and I
'll keep my eye on her."

He slipped to the ground, tied his reins to the stirrup, and the old
stock horse, understanding the situation, stood quietly, while his
master quickly and quietly followed in the footsteps of the girl, for it
was Nellie; he was sure of that when she came abreast of the camp. She
was evidently terribly hurried, and hardly seemed to notice the men and
cattle as she passed. In truth Nellie did not, for her grandmother had
kept so careful an eye on her, she had been unable to leave the hut
until she was asleep, and now it was so late, she dared not take the
longer and safer way round by the windings of the creek, lest her lover
should have already started on his perilous ride. Whether she thought
the men would not notice her or whether she hardly cared if they did,
Fisher never knew. She held a cloth closely over her head and never
turned to the right or left, though he thought his footsteps must be
clearly audible as he tramped in his long riding boots over the crisp
dry salt-bush.

Truth to tell, Nellie heard nothing save the beating of her own heart.
It was such a desperate venture, she was afraid of her grandmother, she
was afraid of Ben Fisher, she was afraid even of the man she was trying
to save, but most of all she was afraid of being too late, and so the
poor child went on, her heart full of one passionate, unspoken prayer,
that she might be in time to save him. It was little wonder then that
she never turned her head, never heard the footsteps so close behind
her. She reached the brink of the creek at length and peered into
its depths, then turned and skirted along the top of the bank, Fisher
following closely in her track.

They had gone but a little way when he saw, greatly to his astonishment,
that the bank, instead of being a steep drop of about twenty feet,
gently sloped like it did near the hut, and a track, half hidden by
thick scrub, ran down the slope. Down this track the girl went swiftly,
her skirts raising a little whirl of dust behind her. The man paused a
moment, and by the light of the moon examined his pistols to see they
were loaded, for he judged he was doing an unwise thing. Should there
be men there, as he more than half suspected, there was no knowing what
might happen; but still he never thought of turning back, that Nellie
was there was more than sufficient reason he should follow. When he
looked again he was startled to find she had vanished, and the measured
sound of a horse's hoof-beats broke on his ear. At the same moment he
saw the path took a turn in the scrub, and drawing out a pistol, ran
down it. As he turned the corner, he came full on Nellie standing
motionless in the moon-light; the covering had fallen from her head, and
she was stretching out her arms to a mounted figure which was draped,
horse and all, in a long white cloth which fell almost to the ground.

It flashed across the overseer that this was the "Trotting Cob," this
was the ghost he had been warned against, and a very substantial,
life-like ghost it was too. He wondered as he stood there that any man
could be deceived.

The girl stood right in its path, right between the two men, and to
move, the horseman must either ride over her or turn into the scrub.

He seemed inclined to do neither, but with an angry oath flung back the
covering from his face.

"You, girl!" he said.

Then she burst out, half-sobbing, "Oh, Jim, Jim! I was afraid I 'd be
too late. Oh, Jim, Gran wouldn't let--"

"Too late!" said the man; he spoke apparently with an effort, but in
such grave, cultured tones that Fisher, who was a man of but little
education, himself stood silent with wonder. "Too early, I think. I told
you how it would be, Nell. I believed in you, Nell, so help me God,
I did, but I saw you this afternoon with that man, and now you have
betrayed me. You will have it then," and before Fisher could stop him
or shield her, he had drawn a pistol from his belt and shot her in the
breast. So close she was there was not a chance of missing, and she fell
backwards and lay there in the dusty track, the pale moonlight lighting
up her fair hair, and the dark stain widening, widening, on the bosom of
her dress.

Fisher's first thought was for vengeance, but his hand shook and his
shot flew wide, and the other man, apparently giving no heed to him,
flung himself from his saddle on to the ground beside the girl.

"Oh, Nell, Nell, little girl, and I trusted you."

She put her little bloodstained hand on his arm, and smiled up into his
face with such a world of love in the dying eyes, that Fisher looking on
dared not for very pity mar her last moments by word or sigh.

Time enough when she was gone, for the two men to settle accounts.

"Jes' so," she gasped, her one idea strong in death; "I was--near,
too late--don'--go--nigh the camp. Ben Fisher--will--shoot the
ghost--on--sight."

"But--but--"

Pity for the girl, dying misjudged by the hand she loved, impelled
Fisher to speak.

How great had been his share in the tragedy he hardly as yet realized;
that would come later.

"It wasn't her fault this afternoon," he said roughly; "it was mine, and
this evening she never knew I followed her."

"Oh, my God--my little girl, my poor little girl."

He lifted her up in his arms and made a half effort to staunch the
wound, but she was evidently dying fast--past all human aid.

"Jim--you--won't--go--anigh--the--camp?"

"Nellie, Nellie, don't die, my darling--don't leave me; don't let me
have this on my conscience. I love you, Nellie--you are all there is to
live for. I love you."

"Better 'n _her_?" she gasped.

He looked down at her in wonder, then covered the white face with
kisses.

"Better a thousand times--better than any woman that ever lived. Forgive
me, Nell, forgive me."

She was going fast, but she understood him, and the man looking on saw
peace and happiness on her face.

"I love you, Jim."

  "There never was a daughter of Eve, but once ere the tale of her years be done,
  Shall  know the scent of  the   Eden rose--but  once beneath the sun!
  Though the  years may bring her joy or pain, fame, sorrow, or sacrifice,
  The hour that brought her the scent of the Rose--she lived it in Paradise!"

The horse's hoof-beats kept time to the rhythm of the song. "The hour
that brought her the scent of the Rose--she lived it in Paradise!"

"An' I guess," said the driver's voice--breaking in on my
reverie--"that's about all there is to tell. Them's the lights of
Wongonilla over there. The rest of the story--Lord bless you, it all 'us
ended where the gal died. The men I guess did'nt feel much inclined for
fighting after that. Anyhow I b'lieve Ben Fisher came back dazed like to
camp an' told 'em what 'd happened. But though they scoured the country,
Gentleman Jim got clean away. Fisher? Oh, he weren't no account after
it, I b'lieve--gave him a sort a' shock, same as if he 'd killed her
hisself. He was speared by the blacks on the Lachlan three years later,
they say. He never took up with another gal. The other? Lord, yes--he
did--Woa, mare, will you? She's a bit tired, you see--we 've come the
pace. Yes, it was all along o' a woman Jim Newton was taken--wanted for
a bushranging job, over on the Queensland border--that was fifteen years
after. I 've heard my father tell the story. He was one of the troopers
that took him, and it was a gal that sold him. Mighty set on her he was.
She? Oh, she was gone on another man. A woman's only gone like that once
in a way, ye see, an' then, Lord! she is a fool--same as Nellie Durham,
an' she was a mighty fool all through, for Fisher was a decent sort of
a chap--while the other fellow was an' out-an'-out blaggard. But ye see,
if there's a ghost at all, it 's the gal that walks, though they call
the place Trotting Cob, and Trotting Cob it'll be till the end of the
chapter."




CHRISTMAS EVE AT WARWINGIE

It was a comfortable place, the wide verandah at Warwingie, a place
much used by the Warners on all occasions, save during the heat of the
day--but the long hot day was drawing to a close now. Slowly the sun was
sinking over the forest-clad hills. The heat haze which had hung all day
over the eastern outlet to the gully cleared, the faraway blue ranges
grew more distinct, and the creeper-covered verandah was once more a
pleasant place to lounge in. From the untidy, half-reclaimed garden,
came the sound of children's voices, subdued by the distance, and the
gentle lowing of the milkers in the stockyard behind the house. But no
one came on to the verandah to disturb Tom Hollis and Bessie Warner, the
eldest daughter of the house--perhaps they knew better--and yet
these two did not seem to have much to say to each other. He leaned
discontentedly against one of the posts, moodily staring out into the
blue distance, and every now and again flicking his riding boot with his
whip; but she looked happy enough as she swung herself slowly backwards
and forwards in a rocking-chair, her hands clasped behind her head. Such
a pretty girl, oh, such a pretty girl, she was--so dainty and pink and
white. Her rosy lips were just parted in a smile; the long, level beams
of the setting sun, falling on her through the passion vine, lingered
lovingly in her golden hair, and made a delicate tracery as of fine lace
work, on her pink gingham gown. Such a pretty picture she made, rocking
slowly backwards and forwards, thought her companion, but he dared not
say so. And then too it was so hot and so still it was hardly wonderful
they were silent.

Silence seemed more in keeping with the quiet evening. They could not
agree, and yet they could not quarrel openly. He brought his eyes back
from the hills at length to the girl's fair face.

"Oh, Bessie," he said almost in a whisper, "oh, Bessie--"

"Now, Tom," she interrupted, "now, Tom, do be quiet; whatever is the
good of going all over it again?"

"If you could only like me a little," he sighed miserably.

"Like you a little! I have liked you a good deal more than a little all
my life--but there's where it is. I know you a great deal too well. I
like you, oh yes, I believe I may say I love you quite as well even as
my own brothers, but--marry you, no thank you. I have lived all my life
up here at Warwingie, up among the hills, and I 'm just tired of the
monotony of it. Nothing ever happens, nothing ever will happen, I
suppose; it's most horribly unexciting; but anyhow I don't see I 'd
better matters by going and living alone with you at Tuppoo, even if you
'd take me on such terms, which, of course, you wouldn't."

"You know I would," he said drearily.

"Don't be so foolish, Tom Hollis," said Bessie sharply, rocking away
faster than ever. "You know you wouldn't do any such thing. You 'd
despise yourself if you did. Why don't you despise me?--I'm sure I 'm
showing myself in an extremely disagreeable light for your benefit."

"But I know you, you see. I know you so thoroughly," he said; "and I'd
give--I'd give--"

"There, for goodness' sake, stop, and let's hear no more of it. I can't
and won't marry you--it 'd be too slow. I don't want to live on the
other side of the ranges all the rest of my life. If I 've got to live
here at all, this is the nicest side, and I 've Lydia and the children
for company, to say nothing of papa and the boys--besides, you 'll come
over sometimes."

"I shan't," he said, sullenly, "I shan't. If you don't take me, I 'll
not come here to be made a fool of. I shan't come again."

"Don't talk nonsense," she said calmly; "you will; you 'll forget all
this rubbish, and be my own dear old Tom again. I should miss you so
dreadfully if I didn't see you three or four times a week."

A gleam of hope Hashed into his sad brown eyes, and passionate words
of love and tenderness trembled on his lips, but, for once in his
love-making, he was wise, and turning, gazed silently down the gully
again. She would miss him--very well then, she should; he would go away,
and not come back for a month at least. The only fear was lest in the
meantime some one else might not woo and win her. Those brothers of hers
were always bringing some fellow to the house. However--

A bell inside rang furiously, and five boys and girls, ranging between
the ages of twelve and three, came racing in from all corners of the
garden. Bessie rose from her chair, and shook out her skirts.

"That's tea," she said; "you won't mind a nursery tea with the children,
will you? Lydia and I always have it when papa's away. The Campbell
girls are here too. Harry, you know, is very much in love with Dora,
and, like a good sister, I 'm helping on the match. Aren't you coming?"

He had intended to decline, but she put her hand on his arm in the old
familiar way, and he weakly gave in.

"Aren't you dull, all you women alone?" he asked.

"No, sir, of course not; besides, they 'll all be home to-morrow for
Christmas."

"They 've at Kara, aren't they?"

"Yes, that bothering old Wilson always has a muster at the most
inconvenient times. They want to be home, of course, so they Ve taken
every man on the place to help. Dick, at the mature age of ten, is our
sole male protector."

"They can be back to-morrow, though?"

"Oh, yes; they Ve bound to be here pretty early too. It's Christmas Day,
you know--at least--. Why, what was that?"

She paused on the doorstep and listened.

"Some one coming into the yard," said Hollis. "They must have got away
earlier than they expected."

"No--they--."

A sharp cry--an exclamation of fear and terror, and men's voices raised,
loud and peremptory.

"That's not--" began Bessie, but Hollis pushed past her into the
house. It was a bush house built in the usual primitive style of
bush architecture, with all the rooms opening one into the other and
dispensing with passages altogether. The dining-room, a big sparsely
furnished room, had doors both front and back, and looked on the yard
behind as well as on the garden. The table was laid for a substantial
tea. Mrs. Warner, Bessie's stepmother, a good-looking woman of thirty,
was at the head of the table with the tea-pot in her hand, but the
children had left their places and clustered round her; two other girls
of sixteen and eighteen were clinging to one another in a corner, and
two women servants, raw Irish emigrants, were peering curiously out into
the yard, where half a dozen horses and men were now standing. The cook,
an old assigned servant, had taken in the situation at once, had made
for the dining-room followed by the other two, and was now sitting in
the arm-chair, her apron over her head, beating the ground with her
feet.

Hollis saw it all at a glance--the big dining-room, the frightened
women, the silent children, the sunlit yard beyond, the horses hitched
to the post and rail fence, the half dozen bearded blackguardly men,
with pistols and knives in their belts--noted it all, even to the blue
and white draped cradle in the corner of the room, and the motes dancing
in the sunbeams that poured in through the end windows--noted it all,
and looked down on the girl at his side.

"Oh, my God!" he muttered, "it's the Mopoke's gang, and--."

He was unarmed, but he looked round vaguely for a second. Two of the men
stepped into the doorway and covered him with their pistols.

"Bail up, you -----," said the shorter of the two, a man in a dirty red
shirt and torn straw hat, who was evidently the leader of the party,
"bail up; throw up your hands, or--," and he added such a string of vile
oaths that Bessie, shuddering, covered her face with her hands. Hollis
did not at once obey, and in a second a shot rang out and his right hand
fell helpless at his side--shot through the wrist.

"If the gent prefers to keep 'em down, I 'm sure we 're alius ready to
oblige," said the little man, with grim pleasantry, interlarding his
speech with a variety of choice epithets. "Now then, mate, back you
steps agin that wall--and Bill," to the other man, "you just let
daylight in if he so much as stirs a finger."

Hollis leaned up against the wall, stunned for a moment, for the bullet
had smashed one of the bones of his wrist, and torn a gaping wound from
which the blood was trickling down his fingers on to the carpet,
but with the armed bushranger in front of him he realized the utter
hopelessness of his position. Help himself he could not, but he never
thought of himself, he never thought even of the other helpless women
and children; his heart had only room for one thought--Bessie, pretty
dainty Bessie, the belle of the country side. How would she fare at the
hands of ruffians like these? He would die for her gladly, gladly, but
his death could be of no avail. The men had come in now, and he scanned
them one by one, brutal, cruel, convict faces, sullen and lowering; the
only one that showed signs of good humour was that of the leader of the
band, and his good humour was the more terrible as it seemed to prove
how certain he was of them and how utterly they were in his power.

"You will kindly all stand round the room, with your backs to the
wall, so I can take a good look at you, an' you can impress my 'aughty
features on your minds--kids an' all, back you go. I 'm sorry to
inconvenience you, Mrs. Warner, but you must just let the babby cry
a bit. I can't have you a-movin about a-obstructin' my men in the
execution of their dooty."

The baby in the cradle had wakened up at the shot, had cried uneasily,
and now not having been noticed was wailing pitifully, but its mother
dared not move. She stood by the window, the two youngest children
hanging on to her skirts, a strong-minded, capable woman, who had all
her wits about her, but she too saw clearly they were caught in a trap.
She looked across at Hollis, but he could only shake his head. There was
nothing to be done, nothing.

A man stood on guard at each door, while the other four went through the
house; they could hear them yelling and shouting to one another, pulling
the furniture about, and every now and then firing off a shot in simple
devilment, as if to show their prisoners that they had made sure of
their prey and feared no interruption. The baby cried on, and the
sunshine stole gradually up the wall; up and up it crept to the ceiling,
and the clock ticked noisily on the mantelshelf--but there was no
change, no hope for them. A crash of broken wood and glass told them
that the bushrangers had found the store-room, and had made short work
of bolts and bars. There were spirits stored there, brandy in plenty,
as Bessie and her stepmother knew full well, and Hollis scanning their
faces read clearly their thoughts--what chance would they have once
these men began to drink! Ghastly stories of the bushranging days of
Van Diemen's Land rose before him, of innocent children murdered, of
helpless women, and a groan burst from his lips as he thought that the
woman he loved was in the power of men like these.

Bessie started forward, though the man at the door pointed his pistol
straight at her.

"Oh, Tom," she cried, "oh, Tom!"

"You go back," ordered the guard angrily.

"Don't be so hard," said Bessie, suddenly. "You've got us safe enough.
What can a lot of women and a wounded man do against you? You look
kind," she added, "do let me give baby to his mother, it's wearying to
everybody to hear him crying like that, and let me bind up Mr. Hollis's
hand, oh, please do."

Her voice trembled at first, but she gained courage as she went on. She
looked the man straight in the face, and she was very pretty.

He told her so with a coarse oath that sent the shamed blood to her
face, and then crossed the room and spoke to the other man.

They whispered for a moment, and then curtly told the woman they
intended to hold Hollis surety for them. If any one attempted to escape,
they would, they said, "take it out of his skin." Then one rejoined his
comrades, while the other lolled against the doorpost, his pistol in his
hand.

Lydia Warner crossed the room and gathered her baby in her arms, and
Bessie stepped to Hollis's side.

"Oh, Tom," she whispered, "oh, Tom--" "Hush, dear, hush--here they
come." They came trooping in with coarse jokes and rough horseplay,
bearing with them spoils from Lydia Warner's well-filled storeroom,
among them an unopened case of battle-axe brandy. This was the centre of
attraction. For a moment even the man on guard craned his neck to watch,
as the leader of the gang, the man they called the Mopoke, produced a
chisel and a hammer and proceeded to open it.

Their prisoners took the opportunity to whisper together, Mrs. Warner
joining her stepdaughter and Hollis.

"What can we do, Tom, oh, what can we do? They are beginning to drink
now, and--"

"Slip away if you can, you and Bessie." "No, no, they will shoot
you--besides, we can't."

Bessie was binding up his wrist, and Mrs. Warner, bending over it,
seemed to be giving her advice. The bushrangers had opened the case and
were knocking off the heads of the bottles and drinking the brandy out
of tea-cups, but the Mopoke looked over his shoulder almost as if he had
heard them, and briefly reminded them that he held Hollis responsible,
and that if any of them "sneaked off" he 'd shoot Hollis "an' make no
bones about it, for we ain't a-come here to be lagged."

"Nevertheless," muttered Hollis, "one of you must go--Bessie, I think.
They'll be mad with drink soon, and once drink's in them there's no
knowing what they 'll do to any of us--go, dear, go--"

"I can't, I can't." The girl's hands were trembling, as she bound her
handkerchief round his wrist, and the tears were in her eyes. Creep away
to safety and leave him to die--how could she!

He said again, "Go, Bessie, go, they'll never miss you; it's really our
only chance--you don't know what they'll do by and by."

"Lydia, you go." Bessie slipped her hand into Hollis's uninjured one and
held it tight. Even in his anxiety and misery he felt in her clasp, he
read in her eyes, a something that had not been there half an hour ago.
Oh, to be safe once more, to be free to woo and win her.

"I can't leave the children," said Mrs. Warner; "the Campbell girls are
no good, and besides, Tom wants you to go, don't you, Tom?"

He nodded. It was true enough; he was wild with anxiety to get her away.
He would risk his life gladly--thankfully lay it down, if only he could
be assured that Bessie was across the ranges safe in the Commissioner's
camp at Tin-pot Gully, and for the other women, their danger would be
the same whether she went or stayed.

Bessie clasped his hand tighter and leaned her face against his arm for
one brief second, while her stepmother went on.

"As soon as it's dark slip out, and I must try and keep them amused.
Dora can sing a little and I can play. Go straight across the ranges,
and if--and if--I mean, tell your father. Oh, Bessie dear, make haste."

She left them and joined the others, pausing a moment like a brave woman
to speak to the leader of the band, and so give Bessie a chance of a
last word with Hollis.

The sun had gone down now and darkness had fallen. The room was wrapped
in gloom, and Bessie mechanically watched her stepmother draw down the
blinds and light a couple of candles on the table, which, while they
illuminated the circle of bushrangers, only threw into deeper darkness
the corners of the room.

"You will go, dear," muttered Hollis, "if only for the sake of that
plucky woman."

"I will do what you tell me," she whispered. "I can't bear to leave you,
Tom; if they should find out they will kill you. Oh, Tom, Tom!"

"They won't find out," he said soothingly. "They haven't counted you, nor
noticed you much yet. And Mrs. Warner is wonderfully plucky. You ought
to try and save her and those girls. Bessie, you don't know what fiends
those men can be."

"Yes I do," she said, and he felt her hand tremble; "that is why I don't
want to anger them. They have made you responsible, and I 'm afraid--I
'm afraid to leave. Don't you think they 'll go in an hour or two--just
take what they want and go?"

"No, I don't," he said. "They are in for a drinking bout now, and God
knows what they'll do before it's ended. Darling, for your own sake--for
the sake of the others, for my sake, even--you must risk it and get away
if you can. We ought to have help before midnight."

"Bessie," said Mrs. Warner, "come and help me to put the two little ones
to bed. Mr.--I beg his pardon--Captain Mopoke says he doesn't mind."

"None of your larks now, missis," said the Mopoke; "you jest mind what
yer about, or I 'll let daylight into yer gallant defender there."

"That's the way," whispered Hollis tenderly; "go now--go, dear."

She lifted his hand to her breast in the obscurity, and stooping, laid
her face against it.

"My darling," he said passionately, "God bless you, my darling; it will
be all right, I know. And remember, dear--you won't be angry--remember,
I have loved you so. I think I have always loved you, Bessie."

The men round the table were in high good humour, joking with each
other and the two Irish servants, who were beginning to think that being
"stuck up" was not so terrible after all, while the cook took her apron
from her face and joined in the chaff. Hollis was thankful for it. It
enabled him to say what he had to say unobserved, for even his guard,
feeling sure of him, gave more heed to his comrades' sayings and doings.
His broken wrist made him feel sick and faint, and it was only by a
strong effort of will he kept his senses at all. If only he could see
Bessie safe out of it!

"Go, dear," he whispered again, "go to Mrs. Warner."

"Tom," she whispered, her face still against his hand, "I love you, Tom.
I did not know it this afternoon, but I do now. I love you, I love you."

"Bessie!" Mrs. Warner's voice sounded imperative. "Are you never
coming?"

"God bless you, my darling!"

He pushed her gently from him, but at the bedroom door, where her
stepmother stood waiting for her, she looked back into the dimly-lighted
room. The light from the two candles shone on the bushrangers' faces,
gleamed on the pistol barrels in their belts, on the dainty china, the
glass, and the silver, but all the rest of the room was in gloom. She
knew the other women were there, knew the children were there--they were
dimly discernible in the corners. She could even see Hollis, but when
she looked again the candles stretched out in long beams which reached
her eyes and blinded her, and she turned to wipe away her tears.

"Now then, Bessie," said her stepmother, "go, dear--quick, quick. You'll
never be missed in the dark, and I 'll light plenty of candles now, and
dazzle the Mopoke. Go, Bessie, go."

There was no time for words. They were very fond of one another, those
two--fonder than women in their position often are--and Lydia Warner
drew her husband's daughter towards her and kissed her tenderly.

"Everything depends on you, Bessie," she said, with a break in her
voice, and then she opened the long French window of her bedroom, and
Bessie stepped outside, and the door was softly shut behind her.

It was very dark now, very dark indeed, and very still. Quite plainly
she could hear the voices and laughter within, and she stood still on
the verandah for a moment to collect her thoughts, and let her eyes
get accustomed to the gloom. It was a perfect summer's night, hot and
still--not a breath of wind stirred the leaves on the trees. Far away
from the reed beds at the bottom of the gully came the mournful wail
of the curlews, and the whimper of the dingoes rose over the ranges.
Overhead in the velvety sky the stars hung low like points of gold. It
was so peaceful, so calm this glorious summer's night, this eve of the
great festival which should bring to all men good tidings of peace and
joy. Could it possibly be that murder and rapine were abroad on such a
night as this? Could it possibly be that those nearest and dearest to
her were in deadly danger?

It was seven miles, at the very least, to Tin-pot Gully, or, as it was
beginning to be called, Toroke--seven miles round by the road, though
it was only three across the ranges. But then she did not know the way
across the ranges, the bush was dense and close, there was no track, and
she might easily be lost for a week there. The only alternative was the
road, and it would take her two hours at least to walk, and what might
not happen in two hours? She could dimly see the buildings in the yard
now, the stable, the cowshed, her father's office, the men's hut, the
post-and-rail fence of the stockyards beyond, with the bushrangers'
horses hitched to it all in a row. It struck her forcibly how secure,
how safe, they must have felt thus to have left their horses, their only
means of escape, alone and unguarded. Should she let them go? Should she
drive them away? And then another thought flashed into her mind. Why not
make use of one of these horses? Whatever she did must be done quickly,
and if only she could ride she might bring help in very little over the
hour. In an hour not much harm could happen, surely. Surely they might
spend their Christmas yet at Warwingie in peace and happiness. Her
father would not return to find his home desolate, and Tom--Tom--but no,
she dared not think of Tom. Only this afternoon she had laughed his love
to scorn, and now there came back to her his face drawn with pain, but
full of love and tenderness and thought for her--the sun-bronzed face
with soft brown eyes, giving not one thought to himself, not one thought
to the life he was risking for her sake. The danger was lest she should
be heard. And then, if they shot him, as she most firmly believed they
would, what would her life be worth. Not worth living, thought Bessie
Warner, as she stole softly up to the horse nearest the slip panels that
led out into the home paddock. She had not been born and bred in the
bush for nothing, and if she could once get the horse out of the yard
half her troubles would be over.

"Woa, horse," she said softly, putting out her hand and patting his
neck, "woa, good horse;" but he started back to the utmost limit of his
halter, and showed his fear so plainly that she shrunk back in terror
lest the noise of his movements should bring out one of the gang.
Trembling she took shelter inside the open stable door, her heart
beating so hard it seemed to deafen her. The big chestnut settled down
quietly again before she ventured out, and this time she picked out a
little dark horse. There was a big, quiet-looking white beside him, but
though he stretched out his nose to be patted she rejected him because
of his colour. Even in the dim light he was clearly visible across the
yard, and his absence would be noted at once, while possibly the darker
horse would not be so soon missed. He was fairly quiet as she unfastened
the reins, which were buckled round one of the rails in the fence. Then
she paused with them in her hand, and the desperateness of the venture
nearly overwhelmed her. The night seemed quite light to her now. The
outlines of the house were plainly marked against the sky, and all
the windows were brilliantly lighted up--evidently Lydia had promptly
carried out her intentions. Then a child's cry, loud and shrill, broke
on the air, and Bessie started. Woa, good horse, go softly now, for life
and death hang on the next few moments. The beating of her own heart
nearly choked her--her own light footsteps sounded in her ears like the
march of a hundred men, and every moment she expected one of those
long windows to open and the bushrangers to come rushing out, for not a
regiment of cavalry, it seemed to her, could have made more noise than
that solitary horse moving quietly behind her. She kept on the grass
as much as possible, but it seemed an age before she had reached the
slip-panels. They were down as the bushrangers had left them, and she
looked back. No, it was impossible to distinguish anything in the
yard. The horses even were one blurred mass; unless they inspected
them closely her theft could not be detected. It was so still and so
dark--never in her life had she been out at night alone before. The
noises frightened her, and the silence was still more terrifying. The
cry of the curlews was like a child in pain, and the deep, loud croak of
a bullfrog from a water-hole close at hand seemed ominous of disaster.
She shrank up close beside the dumb animal for companionship and gave
another frightened glance back. Then she pulled herself together--this
would never do. For Tom's sake, for Lydia's sake, for the children's
sake, but most of all for Tom's sake, she must be brave and cool. If she
would save them she must not give way to such vague imaginings. Surely
she might venture to mount now. She led the horse up to one of the
numerous logs that lay strewn about the paddock, and flinging the
off-stirrup to the near side to form a rest for her right foot, she
climbed on the log and prepared to mount. Often and often she had ridden
so--a man's saddle presented no difficulties; but now to her dismay
the horse started back in affright at the first touch of her woman's
draperies. If he refused to carry her what should she do? Should she let
the horse go? No, that would never do. She made another effort, and at
last scrambled into the saddle, how she could not have told herself,
but once there she kept her seat, for the black, though he plunged and
snorted for a moment, soon settled down into a rough canter towards the
main road.

It was not easy going on the run, and even when she reached the road it
was not much better, for it was only a bush road, unreclaimed, full of
stones and stumps and holes, while the heavy bush on either side made it
so dark there was very little chance of seeing the danger. Lucky for
the girl she was a good horsewoman. She kept urging her horse on, and he
responded gallantly, but more than once he stumbled, and had she not
had an excellent seat she must have fallen. But he picked himself up
sturdily and pushed on. Good horse, brave horse, it can't be more than
four miles now. On either side stood the tall trees dimly outlined
against the dark sky, and the Southern Cross--the great constellation of
Australasian skies--hung right in front of her. She caught sight of it
the moment she turned into the road. It was there every night of the
year of course, but looking straight at the golden stars it seemed
to Bessie it had been sent to her this Christmas Eve to comfort and
encourage her--a sign and a token that all would be well with her and
hers.

Then she heard sounds of voices ahead and the gleam of a fire, and she
drew rein smartly. No one would she trust, no one dared she trust, save
the Commissioner at Toroke, and who would these people be camped by the
roadside? The district had a bad name, the times were troubled, and a
helpless woman might well be excused for pausing; but she had no time to
waste, she must take all risks, and she brought her reins down smartly
across her horse's neck, and he started forward at a gallop. There was
a shout and a curse, and she saw three figures start up round the fire,
and then she found bullocks rising up all round her, and knew that she
had come on a bullock driver's camp. A regular volley of curses burst on
her as she scattered the bullocks in all directions, but she dared not
stop--how could she trust herself to men like these?--and faster and
faster she urged her horse forward. He stumbled more than once in the
rough roadway, but at last the sound of voices died away, and looking
back the fire was but a bright speck in the darkness. On again, up a
steep hill where for very pity's sake she must needs draw rein and let
her horse pick his way carefully, up and up, till after what seemed
interminable now she found herself on top of the ridge overlooking
Tin-pot Gully. The gully was but a narrow cleft among the surrounding
ranges, where in winter flowed a creek the banks of which had proved
wonderfully rich in gold, and the rush had been proportionately great
It had been a pretty creek a year ago, trickling down amidst ferns and
creeper-covered rocks, and so lonely that only an occasional boundary
rider in search of stray cattle had visited it; but now it was swarming
with life, and was reduced to the dull dead level of an ordinary
diggers' camp. The tall forest trees had been cut down, and only their
blackened stumps were left; the dainty ferns and grasses and creepers
had all disappeared before the pick and shovel, and rough windlasses,
whips, and heaps of yellow earth marked the claims, while along the
banks of the creek, now a mere muddy trickle, stood the implements of
the diggers' craft, cradle and tub, and even here and there a puddling
machine. The diggers' dwellings, tents and slab-huts, and mere mia-mias
of bark and branches, were dotted up the hill-sides wherever they could
get a foothold, and of course as close to their claims as possible.
There was no method, no order; each man built how he pleased and where
he pleased; even the main road wound in and out between the shafts, and
its claims to be considered permanent were only just beginning to be
recognized.

The Government camp was on a little flattened eminence, overlooking
the embryo township. They were all alike, those police camps of early
gold-fields days. The flagstaff from which floated the union jack, the
emblem of law and order, was planted in such a position as to be plainly
visible in the mining camp. Opposite it stood the Commissioner's
tents, his office, his sitting-room, his bed tent, his clerk's tent,
comfortable and even luxurious for that time and place, for they were as
a rule floored with hard wood and lined with baize; just behind was the
gold tent, over which the sentries stood guard day and night, and behind
it again were the men's quarters and the horses' stables. Down the
creek, men of every rank were gathered together from all quarters of the
globe; the diggers' camp was untidy, frowsy, and unkempt, but here on
the hill the Commissioner reigned, and law and order ruled supreme.

There was a blaze of light from the Miners' Arms--the tumbledown shanty,
half of bark and half of canvas, where the diggers assembled every
night--and a crowd of men were at the door lustily shouting the chorus
of a sea-song. Here was help in plenty, but she dared not trust them,
and galloped on across the creek, dry now in the middle of summer, and
up the hill again towards the tents of the police camp, which gleamed
white against the dark hillside. A sentry started up and challenged her
as she passed the gold tent, but she paid no heed, and the next moment
she had slipped off her horse and was standing panting and breathless in
the open door of the Commissioner's tent. The light from the colza-oil
lamps fell full on her white face, on her golden hair streaming over her
shoulders, and on her dainty pink gown, somewhat torn and soiled now.
Three young men were seated at the dinner-table, two of them in the
uniform of Gold Commissioners--the braided undress coat of a cavalry
officer--and all three sprang to their feet.

"Oh, Captain Cartwright," she panted, "they have--'stuck up' Warwingie,
and they're going to shoot Tom Hollis."

"What?"

But before she had time to explain, one man--she recognized him as the
Commissioner from the Indigo Valley on the other side of the ranges--had
forced on her a glass of wine, and while Captain Cartwright was shouting
orders to his troopers, he drew from her the whole story.

"We 'll have to be careful, Cartwright," he said, when five minutes
later they were riding over the ranges at the head of ten stalwart
troopers. "It appears Hollis is surety for the lot, but he insisted on
Bessie Warner making her escape at all risks. He is a plucky fellow,
Hollis, but it was the only thing to do. If they 'd been let alone all
night--well, when they're sober I wouldn't trust 'em, and when they 've
drunk they 're fiends incarnate. Close up, men, close up a little to the
right, sergeant, and we 'll dismount before we come to the stockyards."

They rode across the ranges, and it was not long before the house came
into view, ablaze with light, and the troopers crept round it. Then,
when they were all assembled, Captain Cartwright with his revolver in
his hand stepped on to the verandah and pushed open the door, while
Bright, the Commissioner from the Indigo, entered at the other side.

"Bail up, throw up your hands now, or I'll shoot every man jack of you."

It was nearly an hour and a half since Bessie had left, but the
bushrangers were still round the table. The dainty china was all smashed
and broken, and the men were throwing cups and glasses at one another
in very wantonness. There was no one on guard now, and the women were
huddled together terrified in one corner, while still against the wall
leaned Hollis, exactly where Bessie had left him.

"Hurrah!" he shouted as his glance met the Commissioner's, and hardly
had the word left his lips when the Mopoke turned, raised his pistol,
and shot him right in the chest. He slipped to the floor with a great
singing in his ears, and when he came back to consciousness again young
Bright was standing over him holding a glass of brandy to his lips, and
Mrs. Warner had her arm beneath his head.

"Better, old chap, eh?" said Bright, cheerily. "The Mopoke made a
mistake this time, for Cartwright shot him like a dog, and the others
will renew their acquaintance with her Majesty's jails."

"Bessie, Bessie, where is Bessie? If I can only live till she comes!"

"Of course you will. What nonsense Cartwright's going to bring her back
with him."

"It's all up with me, old man," he gasped, "I know. But we 've come out
much better than I expected, and--and--if I don't see--Bessie--you
must tell her--it was worth it. Poor little Bessie, she said--she loved
me--it was only a passing fancy--I hope--I think--"

His eyes closed wearily, and Bright touched Mrs. Warner's shoulder.

"Put a pillow under his head," he said, "and--oh, here's Miss Bessie."

No one asked how she had come so soon--only her stepmother silently
resigned her place to her. Hollis seemed just conscious of her presence,
but he was almost past speech, and they watched him silently. The doctor
came, and shook his head.

"A very short time now," he said. Ten o'clock, eleven o'clock; the moon
had risen over the hills, the midsummer moon, and all the garden was
bathed in the white light. They had opened the windows and drawn up
the blinds to give him more air, but it was very near now--very near
indeed--only a matter of minutes. The clock on the mantelshelf struck
midnight, and he opened his eyes. He could see through the open door
right away down the gully, just as he had seen that afternoon.

"How lovely it is," he said.' "Bessie, kiss me, Bessie. I--was that
twelve o'clock? It is Christmas Day then. I wish you many happy
Christmases, Bessie. Darling--don't you grieve--it was worth it.
Good-bye."




LOST

"Helm, old man, we 've lost the track!"

"Don't be a howling idiot, man. Lost! how could we be lost? Why, there's
the track right ahead, and pretty fresh too."

But Anderson flung himself off his horse on to the dry crisp grass, and
covered his face with his hands.

"I'll tell you," reiterated his mate, leaning forward in his saddle and
shading his eyes, "I see hoof-marks quite plain. Why, they might have
been made yesterday!"

"They were made yesterday," groaned the other, hopelessly. "Don't you
see, my dear fellow, we made them ourselves."

"What!"

Helm raised his head and swore a passionate oath, then sprang from
his horse, stooped over the faint track, ran wildly along it for a few
yards, turned back, and again cried out that the other was playing some
ghastly joke off on him.

"It's too bad, Anderson, too bad. Get up, man, and don't be a fool. Come
on, there 's very likely water on the other side of that ridge. You'll
feel better after you've had a good drink."

"That's the ridge we passed last night, I tell you. Water--oh, yes,
there's water there, but it's as salt as the sea."

"The salt-pan! No, by heaven, no, I won't believe that. That's miles
behind us!"

"Nevertheless," said the other man, drearily, "it's the same old
salt-pan. You 'll see it the moment we cross the ridge."

"Come on, then, come on. Don't sit groaning there: let's know the worst.
I can't believe it, I won't believe it till I see for myself."

"The horses ought to have a spell if we're ever to get out of this,"
muttered Anderson; but he followed his companion's lead, mounted his
tired horse, and rode slowly on after him towards the still distant
ridge.

Out back beyond the Mulligan is No Man's Land. They had gone out to seek
new country, crossed the Queensland border into South Australia, and
now, old bushman as he was, Anderson had only the vaguest idea of their
whereabouts. Ever since they started it had been the same trouble; the
season had been exceptionally dry, and everywhere the waters were dried
up. First one horse had died, then another, until at last they were
reduced to only three; still they had pushed on, for the blacks told
a tale of a magnificent waterhole where the water was permanent, and
Anderson had a certain amount of faith in the unerring wisdom of the
children of the soil where water was concerned. So he pushed on, hoping
against hope, till the younger man, more fearful, perhaps more prudent,
persuaded him to turn back. But it was too late. The weakest horse, the
one they had used as a packhorse, gave in, and had to be left behind the
first day of their return journey; and now, on the fourth, they had just
made the terrible discovery they were going round on their own tracks.
They had been so thankful--so hopeful--when they struck that track in
the morning.

Anderson knew there was another party out better appointed than they
were; these might be their tracks, and possibly they had water with
them. They might even have come across water--and water--water--if only
they had a little water. And so they had pushed on, eagerly, hopefully,
till the terrible truth began to dawn on the older and more experienced
bushman. The weather for the last two days had been dull and cloudy,
they had not caught a glimpse of the sun, and hourly they had expected a
thunderstorm, which would not only clear the air, but would supply them
with the water they needed; but to-day the clouds had all cleared away,
and the only effect of their presence had been that they had lost their
bearings completely. Where and when they had lost them Anderson could
not say even now, and he was loth at first to share his misgivings with
his mate; but the sight of the ridge decided him. If they found, as he
fully expected to, the salt-pan they had passed the night before on the
other side, then most surely were they lost men--lost in a cruel thirsty
land where no water was.

He pondered it over in his mind as he rode slowly after his companion.
"There was no hope. There could possibly be no hope." Over and over
again he said it to himself as a man who hardly realizes his own
words--and then they topped the low ridge, and right at his feet lay the
salt-pan glittering in the sun.

"Cruel--cruel--cruel!" Helm had flung himself face downwards on the hard
ground now, and given way to a paroxysm of despair all the more bitter
for his former hopefulness. Anderson looked down on him pityingly for
a moment, as one who had no part in his trouble, then he looked away
again. Save for the sunshine, it was exactly the same scene, the very
same they had looked upon last night--there lay the glittering salt-pan,
white as driven snow, above it the hard blue cloudless sky, and all
around the dreary plain, broken only by the ridge on which they stood.
And yet in different circumstances he might have admired the landscape,
for it had a weird beauty all its own; miles and miles he could see
in the clear bright atmosphere, far away to the other side of the wide
lake, where a dark clump of trees or scrub was apparently raised in
the sky high above the horizon. He knew it was only the effect of
the mirage, another token, had he needed a token, that there was no
moisture, no water, not the faintest chance of a drop of rain. And yet
there had been some rain not so very long ago, for the mesembryanthemum
growing in dark green patches close to the edge of the salt was all in
flower, pink, and red, and brightest yellow, such gorgeous colouring;
and by that strange association of ideas, for which who shall account,
his thoughts flew back to the last Cup Day, and he saw again the
Flemington racecourse, and heard in fancy the shouts of the people as
the favourite passed the winning-post, On the ground in front of him
were long lines of crows, perched in the stunted boxwood trees above his
head, filling the air with their monotonous cawing. He laughed at the
mockery of the thing. The other man raised his head.

"Old man, what is it? Is it possible that--"

What wild imaginings for the moment had passed through his brain he
could not himself have told; but whatever his hopes might have been,
they were gone the moment he looked in his mate's face.

"Man," he said, sharply, "are you mad?"

Anderson was sobered in a second.

"No," he said, bitterly, "but as far as I can see, it must come to that
before we 've done."

"No, no, we won't give up hope yet. Is there no hope?"

Anderson sat down beside him, and pointed silently to the horses. If
ever poor beasts were done, were at their last gasp, they were, as they
stood there, their noses touching the ground. The bushman's slender
equipment had been reduced to its scantiest proportions, and yet it
seemed cruelty to force them to carry even those slender packs; even
the canvas water-bags, dry as tinder now, hanging at their necks, were
a heavy burden. Wiser than their masters they had crawled beneath the
shade, scanty as it was, of the boxwood trees, and stood there patiently
waiting--For what? For death and the pitiless crows patiently waiting
overhead.

"Exactly," Helm answered his companion's unspoken thought, "but we can't
sit and wait like that. Man, we must try to get out of this at any rate.
We cant sit here and wait for the crows."

Anderson sighed heavily.

"What can we do?" he asked. "We must spell a bit. The horses are done.
As it is I 'm afraid yours will have to be left and well have to go on
foot. There must be water about somewhere, for look at the crows; but we
can't find it, and we couldn't have searched more carefully."

"Why not shoot the old horse if he's no good? His blood might--"

"Nonsense, man. Aren't you bushman enough yet to know that drinking
blood 's only the beginning of the end? Once we do _that_--"

"Well, after?" asked Helm.

But the other did not answer, for he, too, in his heart, was asking,
"After?" And their lips were dry and parched, and their tongues swollen,
and before them lay the salt-pan, with right in the centre a little
gleam of dark blue water which mocked their misery. There was nothing
for it but to lie down beneath the scanty shade and rest. They were too
weary to push on, all their energy had departed, and Helm, lying on
his back looking up at the patches of blue sky that peeped through the
branches, said with a sigh,

"If we 're done for, I wish to heaven the end would come now. I can't
stand the thought of--of--What's it like, old man? Is it very bad, do
you think?"

"As bad as bad can be."

"And is there no hope?"

What could he say, this man who had lived in the bush all his life? What
hope could he give, when practically his experience told him there was
no hope--that if they would save themselves from needless pain they
would turn their pistols against themselves and die there and at once.
But the love of life is strong in us all, and the hope of life is as
strong. How could they die, these strong men with life in every vein?
No, no, surely it was impossible. An iguana scuttled across in front of
them and Helm started up eagerly.

"There," he said, "there--and I never thought. Look at that beast. There
must be water somewhere or how could he live."

Anderson sighed.

"Yes, there's the bitterness of it. I know there's water about if only
we could find it; but as we didn't find any when we had everything in
our favour there's not much good in our wasting time looking now. After
all I believe those beasts must live without, though they say they
don't. No, old chap, our only hope lies in pushing on to the nearest
water we know of."

"Then don't let us lie here wasting precious minutes. Every minute is of
consequence; let's make a start. We must push on."

Push on! They had been pushing on ever since they left Yerlo station ten
days ago, and this is what it had brought them to.

"It's no good wearing ourselves out in the heat of the day," said
Anderson, "wait till evening and we'll do twice as much."

"Which way?"

"South-east, I think. If we can only hold out we ought to fetch Gerring
Gerring Water. As far as I know this must be Tamba salt lake, and if
so--"

"Karinda's just to the north there."

"A hundred and twenty miles at the very least and not a drop of water
the whole way. No, that's out of the question, old man; our only hope
lies in reaching Gerring Gerring."

"And you don't see much probability of our doing that?"

"Well, we can try."

He felt a great pity, this older man, for the lad--he called him a lad
for all his four-and-twenty years--doomed to die, nay, dying at this
very moment, in the prime of his manhood. They could but try, he said
over and over again, they could but try.

And then as they rested they fell to talking of other things--talked of
their past lives and of their homes as neither, perhaps, had ever talked
before.

"My old mother 'll miss me," said Charlie Helm with a sigh, "though Lord
knows when she'll ever hear the truth of the matter."

"Umph, I don't know, but I guess if we do peg out, it'll be some
considerable time before they can read the store account over us. Have
you got any paper about you?"

"Not a scrap. We can leave a message on the salt though."

"It'll be blown away before to-morrow. Who do you want to write to? Your
mother? That girl?"

Helm turned his face away. The man had no right to pry into his private
concerns.

"Write to your mother, lad, write to your mother by all means. Mothers
are made of different clay to other women; but don't you bother about
the other. Women are all alike, take my word for it. It's out of sight
out of mind with all of them. But write to your mother."

"Some one may pass this way," pondered the younger man, hardly heeding
his words. "It's just worth trying," and he lay silent while Anderson
talked on or rather thought aloud.

"It's of the boy I'm thinking," he said. "The poor helpless little one.
He never throve since his mother died. She didn't go much on me, but the
boy was everything to her though he was a cripple. Well--well--if I were
only certain he was dead now it wouldn't be half so hard. He'd be better
dead, I know, but I couldn't think it before; he was all I had, and
the last time I saw him he put up his little hand--such a mite of a
hand--and clutched his daddy's beard. He was all I had, how could I wish
him dead? But now--now--my God!--if I were certain he was dead and it
hadn't hurt much."

Helm sprang to his feet, and swore an oath.

"We're not going to die," he cried, "not as easily as all that. Come on,
we have wasted enough precious time.

"Not till it's a little cooler. It's no good, I tell you, wearing
ourselves out in the heat."

And Helm, seeing the advice was good, lay down again. Lay down and tried
not to listen to the cawing of the crows, the only sound that broke
the stillness--tried not to think of cool waters; not to think of a
household down south; not to think of the girl who, notwithstanding his
mate's cynical warning, filled all his thoughts. He dozed a little and
dreamed, and wakened with a start and a strong feeling upon him that it
had been something more than a dream, that some one had really called
him, was calling him still. Was it his mother's voice, or that girl's,
or was it Anderson's? Anderson was sleeping heavily, and strong man as
he was, sobbing in his sleep. Helm stretched out a hand to awaken him
and then paused. Why should he? What had he better to offer than these
broken dreams?

He broke a branch from a tree, thereby scattering the crows and stepped
down to the edge of the glittering white salt. It crunched beneath his
feet like sand, and he went on till the hard crust began to give way
beneath him and the thick mud oozed up. Then when he thought it was
moist enough to resist the fierce hot wind, which was blowing from the
north like a breath from an oven, he prepared to write his last message.
And then came the difficulty.

What was he to say? What could he say? Not that he had so little, but so
much. And it might never be read after all, or at best it would only
be read by some station hand who, once they were dead, would give but
a passing thought to their message, only a passing thought to their
sufferings. They had found a skeleton, he remembered, the first year he
had been on Yerlo, a skeleton that must have been lying there years, a
poor wind-tossed, sunbaked thing from which all semblance of humanity
had long since departed, and he, in his carelessness, had thought so
little of it, had never realized the awful suffering that must have been
before the strong man came to _that_.

And now--and now--he took his stick and wrote in large printed letters
on the crisp salt--

STOP.

LOST.

"James Anderson and Charles Helm were lost on the 20th October. They
have gone S.E. from the salt-pan. Will you kindly send word to Mrs.
Helm, The Esplanade, St. Kilda, and to Miss Drysdale, Gipps Street, East
Melbourne."

Then he wrote his name, "Charles Helm."

It seemed so feeble, so inadequate, not a hundreth part of what he felt
did it express, and yet what could he say? Not even in his extremity
could he write tender messages to his loved ones there. They would know,
surely they would know, they would understand, that his thoughts had
been full of them when he wrote that cold message. What more could he
say? But would they ever know the love and longing that had filled his
heart? Would his mother ever know that her boy had thought of her at the
last? Would Mabel Drysdale understand how he had cared for her?--all he
had meant to convey by the mere mention of her name? He stepped slowly
back and wakened his companion.

"Mate," he said, "don't you think we'd better be travelling? It's a
little cooler now, and it 's getting late."

Anderson struggled to his feet wearily and then went down to the
salt-pan.

"So you 've been leaving a last message," he said; "I 'm afraid it's not
much good. Who 's likely to pass this way?"

"It's only a chance, of course," said Helm, "but--well--I 'd like them,
if possible, to know I 'd thought of them."

"And a woman, too," laughed Anderson cynically, "if we get out of this
you 'll learn, I expect, just about how little value she sets on your
care for her."

"You 've been unlucky," said the younger man gently; "there are women
who--but there, I don't suppose we'll come through. Anyhow, it's time we
started.

"Well--well, keep your faith and I'll keep mine. Perhaps here and
there, there may be a woman worth caring about, but they 're few and far
between."

"Don't you want to say anything?" asked Helm.

"Who? I? No. Who is there to care a straw whether I leave my carcase
to the crows or not? There's only the boy, and he's too young to
understand. But, I say, you might have mentioned the name of the
station," and taking the stick from Helm's hand, he walked out on the
salt and wrote;

LOST

"Please let them know at Yerlo," and signed his name, "James Anderson."

"There's my last will and testament," he said. "Come on now."

Helm went up to the horses.

"It's no go," he said. "My poor old beggar's done."

"I expected it, old chap. We'll have to foot it; mine's only a shade
better than yours. Clearly we'll have to leave yours behind. Mine can
carry the pack a little farther, but I really don't think he can carry
me."

It was still very hot, but the shadows of the boxwood trees had grown
longer, and there was just a promise of the coming night in the air.
They must walk, for they had only the one horse now, and it did not
seem likely he could hold out long. The other had lain down to die, and
whether this one could crawl on under the slender pack was a question
Anderson asked himself more than once. That he could carry either of
them was out of the question. They put a blanket or two on his back,
their pistols, and the empty waterbags, and then it seemed cruelty
to force the poor beast to move, but necessity knows no law, and they
started slowly on their hopeless journey round the salt-pan, Anderson
leading the way, Helm following with the horse. So slowly they went,
and their only hope lay in speed. Helm looked back a little sadly at
the dying horse, which had made an effort to rise, as if in mute protest
against being left.

"Poor old beggar," he said, "wouldn't it be kinder to put him out of his
misery?"

"Oh, give him a chance for his life," said Anderson. "I 've known horses
to recover in the most wonderful way. After he 's had a spell he may
find water for himself; anyhow, we 'll give him the chance."

It was a blessed relief when the sun sank beneath the horizon; the night
was still and hot, but the wind dropped at sundown, and the men found
it easier to walk in the dark. The crows had followed them as long as
it was day, but they, too, left as soon as the darkness fell. They were
unaccustomed to walking, and it would have been hard work under the most
favourable circumstances; as it was, it was cruel. They did not talk
much, for what had they to say? An hour or two, and the moon rose,
a full moon, red and fiery, and as she rose slowly to the zenith,
silvering as she rose, the plain grew light as day. Every little stick
and stone, every little grass blade, was clearly outlined, the low ridge
which they were leaving behind, the ridge where they had found their
worst fears realized, loomed large behind them, while the salt-pan to
their left stretched away one great lake of glittering white, which it
seemed to Helm they could never round.

"How long, Anderson," he asked, "before we can hope to reach the other
side?"

"Not before morning, man. I don't see we can do it before morning."

Then they plodded on a little further, neither liking to be the first
to give in, though their mouths were parched, and burning thirst was
consuming them. But still they walked steadily on till more than half
the night was gone; at last Helm flung himself down on the ground.

"I must rest," he said, "if I die for it;" and Anderson sat down quietly
beside him.

Then sleep, merciful sleep, came to them in their weariness, and they
slept till the first faint streaks of dawn began to appear in the
eastern sky. It was a dreary, hopeless waking, the salt lake was behind
them now, and all around was the plain, bare hard earth in some places,
patches of grass in others, not a living thing visible, even the crows
had gone, and, though the foul birds had filled Helm with a shrinking
horror, their absence was still more terrible, for did it not show that
they were plunging farther and farther into the desert, farther and
farther from the water without which they could not live out another
day. The sun rose higher and higher, till the full force of his rays
seemed more than they could bear, and yet the nearest shade was miles
away, a line of trees or scrub dim on the horizon.

Neither mentioned the significance of the absence of the crows, though
both were thinking of it, but at last Helm said,

"The trees, let's go for the trees. This is past bearing."

But Anderson shook his head.

"They 're clean out of the way, man," he said sadly. "Try to hold out a
little longer. The old horse is keeping up wonderfully. I never thought
he 'd hold out so long."

"He's very nearly at his last gasp," said Helm, and they relapsed into
silence again.

On, and on, and on, the thirst was so bad now they could hardly speak to
one another, still they pushed on under the burning rays of the almost
vertical sun, every step it seemed must be their last. Was it really
only last night they discovered they were lost, only last night? Another
mile, and another, and the heat grew unbearable, and Helm, without a
word, turned to the left, and made for the trees. Anderson paused
a moment, and then followed him, though to him it was giving up the
struggle. If they turned out of the path which led to the only water
they knew of, turned into this pathless wilderness, what possible chance
was there for them, and yet how could they stand this terrible heat any
longer?

"I tell you I shall go mad," moaned Helm. "I didn't think I was a
coward, but I can't stand this. Old chap, don't let me go mad; shoot me
if you see I 'm going mad."

"Mad," said the other bravely, "nonsense, man, you're all right. You'll
feel better presently when you've had a spell."

The lines of trees resolved itself on closer inspection into
close-growing gidya scrub, and long before they reached it the crows had
again made their appearance. A little flock kept them company, waiting
on in front, rushing up behind as if perchance they might be late,
wheeling round on either side.

"There must be water there," said Helm eagerly, "look at the crows
again."

"Don't build on it, old chap," said the other. "The scrub is too thick
for us to find it."

But Helm was not to be dissuaded, and he wasted his energies in a
frantic search for water. His mate looked more soberly, because more
hopelessly, but the result was the same, and finally they lay down in the
shade and slept again, slept soundly too, in spite of the crows, which
were more confident, more impudent, than ever. Night fell, and with the
darkness grew in Helm an intense desire to be on the way again.

"We 're wasting time," he kept saying hoarsely, for his tongue was so
swollen he could hardly speak at all, "wasting time. Don't you see they
'll be expecting us in to supper at Gerring Gerring, and I shouldn't
like the crows to get there first. They might frighten her, you know,
she's only a girl and she hasn't seen so much of them as you and me.
Those knowing old crows! they 're not here now. Don't you see that's why
they want to get there first?"

"Be quiet, man. You 're dreaming."

"Dreaming, was I? Anderson, Anderson, mate, I 'm not going mad. For
God's sake, don't let me go mad."

"No, no, old man, it's all right. We 're on the right track now. Here, I
'll take the horse and you give me your arm. There, now then, if we 've
luck we may hit Gerring Gerring before morning."

They walked on in silence, but Helm kept stumbling, and but for his
companion's supporting arm would have fallen more than once. The moon
rose up, and as it grew light as day again he stopped short and looked
solemnly in his companion's face. It was worn and haggard and weary, but
not so wild, he felt instinctively, as his own.

"Anderson," he said, "I know I 'm done for. My head's all wrong. It 's
cooler now, but what'll it be to-morrow? If--if--if I do anything mad
before I die, don't tell her, I 'd like her to think well of me. Just
say I died, don't say how it hurt."

"All right, mate," said the other, for he had no comfort to give.

And then they walked on again in silence till the moon declined before
the coming day, the cruel day, which brought the heat and the following
crows again. Dawn brought them to a patch of "dead finish," as the
settlers call a dense and thorny scrub with pretty green leaves, through
which it is well nigh impossible to force a way even under the most
favourable circumstances; and which presented an utterly impassable
barrier to men in their condition. They turned aside once more, and
Anderson thought to himself that they must indeed have given up hope,
to be stopped by an impassable barrier and yet to make no moan. It was
surely the very depths of hopelessness when all ways were alike to them.
He looked back on their tracks and dismay filled his heart; they were
not firm and straight, but wavering and wandering like those of men in
the last extremity. He had followed tracks like these before now, and
they always led to the same thing. He wondered dully would any one ever
follow those tracks. A little further on Helm let go his arm and ran on
ahead.

"We'll never do any good at this rate," he gasped, "never--never;" and
he pulled at the collar of his shirt till he tore it away. "We must
have something to drink. We 'll die else, and I mean to have a fight for
life. There's the old horse, he can't stagger a step further; what's the
good of keeping him? Let's shoot him--and--and--There's enough blood in
him to--to--"

"No, no, man, no. I tell you that's the beginning of the end--more than
the beginning--the end in fact."

"I don't care. I can't stand this;" and before Anderson could stop him,
Helm had drawn his pistol and shot the horse in the head.

The poor beast was at his last gasp, and for the last hour Anderson had
been meditating the advisibility of leaving him behind, so it was no
material loss; his only care now was to prevent his mate from drinking
the blood, which, according to the faith of the bushmen, is worse than
drinking salt water.

"Poor old beggar," he said, taking his pistols and cartridges from the
saddle, where they had been wrapped among the blankets, "I suppose it
was about the kindest thing we could do for him. Come on, mate, we must
leave him to the crows now," and he caught Helm's arm and would have led
him on.

But the other resisted and breaking free ran back, and before he could
stop him, had drawn his knife across the horse's throat and taken a long
draught of blood.

Does it sound ghastly? But such things are, and his lips were dry and
parched, and his throat so swollen that he could only speak in hoarse
whispers, and so great was the temptation that Anderson, looking away at
the bare pitiless plain, with the mocking mirage in the distance, felt
that he too might as well drink and die; only the thought of the cripple
boy who would be alone in the world but for him, made him make one more
desperate effort for self-control.

He took the younger man's arm and dragged him on, skirting slowly round
the "dead finish" till at length, late in the afternoon, it gave place
to boree. His own senses were clear enough, but Helm was muttering
wildly, and he listened with unheeding ears to his babble of home and
mother and sweetheart. They could not go far, and soon they forced their
way in among the scrub, and though the burning thirst was worse than
ever, the shade was grateful. The crows stopped too, and settled on
the low trees, turning their evil blue-black heads on one side to get a
better view of their prey.

"I can't keep my head," moaned Helm, "I can't. I have been mad all day.
I know I have. It has stretched out into ages this long day and it's not
over yet. When were we lost? Yesterday? The day before? It feels like
years."

"Never mind," said Anderson, not unkindly, "it can't be much longer now.
Try to sleep, old man."

"Sleep! with a thousand devils tearing at me!"

But they did sleep after all, a wearied, troubled sleep, a broken sleep
full of frightful dreams, or still more cruel ones of cooling streams
and rippling waters. Night came, and Anderson awoke from what seemed to
him a doze of a moment to find his companion gone from his side. For a
second the thought came to him that it was not worth while to look for
him. He was mad--mad, and where was the use of troubling about him any
further; and then his better feelings, and perhaps that longing for
human companionship which we all must feel, made him rise up and look
for him. Up and down, he was staggering up and down, a hundred feet one
way and then back again on his own tracks.

"We must get on, old chap," he muttered when he saw Anderson, "we must
get on. You rest if you like though; there isn't anybody waiting for
you; but Mabel, she 's waiting for me and I must try and get back. She
would be disappointed else. Grieve! of course she'll grieve if I'm lost.
All the world isn't a cynic like you."

Anderson took his arm again.

"We'll go together," he said. "If you do care a straw about seeing her
again, come on quietly with me."

He yielded for the moment, but it required one continuous effort on
Anderson's part to keep him up to it. Plainly his reason was gone, and
the other man, growing weaker and weaker, found by the time the sun was
high in the heavens that the effort was more than he could make. It was
the end, or so close that he could only hope and pray the end would come
quickly. The young fellow had struggled on so bravely, so hopefully,
and now it had come to this. They had left the scrub behind them and
Anderson made his way to a tree, the only specimen of its kind in all
the wide plain, and lay down beneath its branches--to rest? No, he felt
in his heart it was to die. Helm he could not persuade to lie down. He
kept staggering on hopelessly round and round the tree, struggling to
keep in the shade, fancying, as many a lost man has done before him,
that he was "pushing on."

It was the same old story. Anderson had heard it told hundreds of times
over the camp fire, one man will lie down to die quietly, and the
other will go raving mad. So Helm had gone mad, poor chap; and then he
remembered his passionate prayer to him, not to let him go mad, to shoot
him if he saw he was going mad, and he lay and looked up at the hard
blue sky through the leaves, and at the watching crows, and knew that he
was only waiting for death, knew that he was too utterly weary to aid in
any way his mate. He listened to him muttering to himself for a little,
watched him as he went monotonously round and round. It was not so hard
after all--not near so hard for him as for Helm. If only the boy were
dead, he thought wearily, if only the boy were dead he would be glad
that this should end it, his life was never worth much, he had failed
all through, he would be glad to be at rest--if only the boy were there
before him; but the boy--the poor little helpless thing, he must make
another effort for the boy's sake, and he struggled to his feet again.
But the burning landscape was a blood-red blur before his eyes, and
then, quite suddenly it seemed to him, sight and hearing left him. He
was dying--was this death? How merciful death was--if only the boy--

*****

Very wearily he opened his eyes. Could it be that some one was pouring
water down his throat? Some one was bathing his face.

"He's coming to," said a voice in his ear. "By Jove, it was a narrow
shave. The other poor chap's done for, isn't he, Ned?"

"Quite dead. He went mad evidently, clean off his head. Why, the poor
chap had begun on his own grave."

When Anderson came to himself he found he had been picked up by the
other exploring party.

"We picked up your tracks away by the 'dead finish' there," said the
leader, "and I thought it must be pretty near up with you. You 've had
the devil's own luck, mate. Why, you were within five miles of Gerring
Gerring Water, and over by the 'dead finish' you passed within three
miles of a very decent waterhole, quite good enough to have kept life
within you. You shot the horse?"

"My mate did. He was mad, poor fellow."

"Poor beggar, he seems to have had a bad time, but it's all over now."

It was indeed all over now. They had wrapped him in a blanket and were
digging a shallow grave. He had begun it himself, they said, and had
been digging with his long knife, though whether it was for water, or
whether it was really intended for a grave, no one could now say. His
sufferings were ended.

They left him there in the desert, the young fellow who had fought so
hard for his life and set so much store by it, and as soon as Anderson
was a little recovered, set out for Yerlo again.

It was over a week before he reached the station, so far had he wandered
out of the track, and as he rode up to the house a stable boy lounged up
to him.

"What a while you 've been away, Boss," he said. "We 'd most given you
up for lost. The mail's in and there's a pile of letters for Mr. Helm.
None for you though."

"Is everything all right?" asked Anderson, feeling like a man who had
come back from the grave.

"N-o-o, there's mighty bad news. I don't like to tell though."

"Out with it, man, don't keep me waiting."

The lad looked away and turned his pipe from side of his mouth to the
other.

"It 's your youngster," he said. "He had convulsions last Sunday. Mrs.
Brook--she said as nothing couldn't have saved him. 'It was a blessed
release,' she said."

Anderson flung the reins to the lad and walked quietly into the house.
It was a mistake, he clearly saw, coming back from the grave. He wished
he had died within five miles of Gerring Gerring Water.




THE LOSS OF THE "VANITY

"You don't care. Oh! Susy, you don't care!

"But I do," she sobbed. "You know, you know I care."

They were standing on a jutting headland, looking away out over the
Southern Ocean, and the sea, blue and calm as the sky above, stretched
out before them. Behind them were the low forest-clad ranges that
bounded the coast line, shutting out the lonely selection from the rest
of the colony of Victoria, and the only sign of human habitation was
the weatherboard farmhouse the girl called home. Even that was hardly
visible from where they stood, hidden as it was by the swell of the
hill, and alone here with this man, alone with the sea and sky around
her, with the soft South wind blowing among her curls, with the
plaintive cry of the seagulls in her ears, the salt savour of the sea
in her nostrils, she was sorely tempted to throw off the trammels of her
education, to do the thing her heart prompted her to do, to tell this
man he was dearer, as she felt in her heart he was dearer, than anything
on earth. But so much stood in the way. For twenty years she had lived
secluded in this lonely corner of the earth, all her thoughts, her
hopes, her fears, bounded by the horizon of her own home, and the narrow
limits of the township, just five miles away on the other side of the
ranges. And now this sailor man, brought home by her young apprentice
brother, had come into her life, bringing new thoughts, new ideas,
new--she whispered it to herself, with a hot blush--hopes.

Five-and-twenty years ago now, Angus Mackie and his wife had emigrated
from the cold and stormy western isles of Scotland to this sunny South
land, and they had brought with them to their new home the stern faith
of the old Puritan, the rigid adherence to the old rules, the hard,
straitlaced life, and so had they brought up the children that grew up
around their hearth. And Susy was the eldest, Susy with the blue eyes
and rose-leaf complexion, and waving chestnut hair. So pretty she was,
this daughter of the South, it hardly seemed possible she could be the
child of the stern Puritan parents, and yet she had grown up in their
ways, grave and obedient, walking in the narrow path set so straight
before her without a question, and without a doubt. Never for one moment
had she looked over the hedges with which she was set about--hardly had
she realized there were hedges--and now this man had come like a fresh
breeze from the sea, and he had taught her--what had he not taught her?
At his glance all the passion born of the blue skies and the bright
sunlight, and the warm breezes of her native land, awoke to life, and
filled her heart with thoughts and longings that she, untutored, and
ignorant of the world's ways, hardly understood. Only she leaned against
the rock that cropped up out of the hillside, and pressed up against it
till the hard stone marked her hands. Perhaps the physical pain brought
her some rest from the mental disquietude which was so new to her.

The man who stood beside her was a sailor every inch of him. Not
handsome perhaps, but certainly good-looking, with honest blue eyes, and
a steadfast strong face. A man who had read and thought, and even though
now at five-and-twenty he was but second mate of the _Vanity_, had lived
his life to some purpose, for the fates had been against him; it had
been an uphill struggle always, and in uphill struggles we have little
time for the niceties of life. And now this girl, this dainty, fair,
feminine thing had come across his path like a gleam of the sunshine of
her own land, and when he felt he had fairly won her, his very honesty
set a barrier in his way.

"You know I care," she sobbed. She would have used a stronger word, but
shyness prevented her, and she put her face down on her clasped hands,
and sobbed aloud.

"If you love me," he said deliberately; he was not shy now, though he
turned away from her bowed head, and looked away over the sea sparkling
in the November sunshine, "if you love me, what is there in God's name
to stand between us?"

"That," she said, in a whisper, "just that."

"What?"

She lifted up her head now, and looked away at the sea too, but she did
not see it, for her eyes were misty with tears. And he did not see that,
for he too looked seaward. Far too deeply moved were they to look each
other in the face.

"You know," she said; and in her voice the trace of the Scotch accent
which still lingered there, inherited from her father, was softened by
the Australian drawl, which, whatever other folks might think, sounded
infinitely sweet in Harper's ears, "you know," she repeated again, "you
know," and there was an appeal in the soft voice, a prayer that he would
not force her too far.

But he had gone too far for pity. In plain words she had told him she
loved him, and in plain words now would he have named the bar that she
had set up between them.

"What is it?" he asked, and his voice sounded cold and hard, "in
heaven's name, what is it!"

"You know," she hesitated, "it is written--that--that we shall have
no--no dealings--with--with the unrighteous."

"Am I unrighteous?" he asked bitterly. "How am I unrighteous?"

"You are an unbeliever. You--you told me so yourself. You don't believe
in heaven or--or--hell--or--or--"

"In heaven or hell, don't I? You know, Susy--good Lord!--Susy, you know
you can make this world one or the other for me.

"Don't--don't," she implored. "I mean you don't think enough about your
eternal salvation."

"Child, how can I? This world is hard enough to get on in, God knows,
how can I worry about the next? Who knows? There mayn't be a next."

"There is, there is!" she cried, eagerly. "Oh! if you would only repent
while there is yet time--if you would only repent and be saved!"

"Oh, child, child, is there anything in the world I would not do for
your sweet face?"

"Not for me--oh, not for me! Because--because--"

He put up his hand to stop her. The religious phrases that she had been
accustomed to from her youth up, and that came naturally to her tongue,
hurt him somehow as the foul-mouthed conversation of the fo'c'sle had
never hurt him. From her lips he would not, if he could help himself,
hear the phrases he had been accustomed to laugh at as canting and
hypocritical.

"Don't dear, don't. I know what you are going to say. It is no good. We
are so different altogether. I can't believe--as you believe--I cannot.
I 'll do my best to be a good man--I 'll never lie to you or--"

"It is no use," she moaned, "no use at all. We cannot prevail by our own
strength."

He laughed bitterly.

"Belief is not a matter of will," he said, "or I would believe just
to please you--just because I want you more than anything in the wide
world. All I can do is to be honest, and tell you I can't believe. It
need never make any difference to you, dear, never, never."

The girl laid her face down on the hard rock again.

"And if--and if--next time your ship goes past here you were to fall
from the mast, and be drowned, you think--you think you would just go
out like a fire--that--that would be all."

He kicked a stone till it fell over the edge of the cliff, and they
could hear it going by leaps and bounds into the sea a hundred feet
below.

"And you think," he said, "I shall be eternally damned, tormented in
fire and brimstone for ever and ever. Upon my word, Susy, mine is the
kinder fate."

"I can't bear to think of it, I can't bear to think of it!" she cried.
"Oh! Ben, Ben! I can't bear it!"

He made a step forward then and caught her in his arms. How could he
resist the upturned face and the sweet blue eyes brimming with tears.
Puritan she might be, the old Covenanter blood might be strong as ever,
but she loved him--there was little doubt of that, and he clasped her
close in his arms and covered her face with kisses.

"What does it matter, dear, what does it matter? Let the future take
care of itself."

She tried to wrench herself from his embrace then.

"No, no, it is for eternity. I can't, I can't."

"Susy," he caught both her hands in his, "do you love me?"

"You know I do."

"Better than any one in the world?"

"Yes." She whispered it under her breath, as if afraid of her own
temerity.

"Then listen. You shall do as you like with me. I 'll give up the sea,
darling. I 'll take up a selection here, you shall teach me your creed
and I 'll do my best to believe. There, my little girl, will that
satisfy you? Who knows, in time I may become as respectable a
psalm-singer as that holy swab, Clement Scott, your father's so fond of
quoting. The beggar's got a tenderness for you, hasn't he, Susy? Why the
first week I was here I was wild with jealousy of the canting brute!"

Gently but firmly she drew herself out of his encircling arms and leaned
up drearily against the rock again.

"Clement Scott," she said, and there was a hopeless ring in her voice
that went to his heart like a knife, "Clement Scott is a true Christian
man, he is father's friend, and--and--oh!--" with a sudden burst of
passion, "I know--I know he is the better man."

Ben Harper said nothing, only moved a step or two further seaward. What
could he say? The girl loved him, he saw that she loved him well and
truly, but she did not love him well enough. She wanted to put him
aside, as her training taught her she ought to put aside all the
pleasures of this life, all the sunshine and laughter of life, as things
hurtful to her soul's salvation. And because she was young, because she
had been born under sunny, laughter-loving skies, his love came to her
with a cruel temptation, and because of its very strength, because of
the pain it cost her, she would put it aside as a thing wrongful and
wicked.

He looked at the silent little figure in its pink gingham frock, leaning
up against the rock with head bowed down on its clasped hands. Dimly he
understood the struggle that was going on in her breast, and clearly
too he foresaw the inevitable end. Her very love for him was an argument
against him. Never, never, never!--the booming sea on the rocks below
seemed to take up the refrain--would this woman be wife of his? Never,
never, never; the play was played out. Down through the vista of years
he looked, and saw her the wife of the man he hated--the man who was to
him the very incarnation of hypocrisy and cant He saw the hard, loveless
life; he saw the lines growing in the fair, young face that was so dear
to him; he saw stern Duty take the place of Love; he saw her life grow
hard and narrow; he read in her face the bitterness of unfulfilled
hopes, and the longing, the unutterable longing for something that might
not be put into words, and a great pity for her filled his heart. Not
for worlds would he add to her pain. She had come into his life, a
dainty, fair, tender thing, and he had only hurt her; by his own pain he
gauged hers.

A step forward and he was looking down at the snow-white breakers
thundering at the foot of the cliff. The sea was his home, the cruel,
fickle sea; he would go back to it and leave the woman he loved in
peace. What right had he to come into her life to spoil it? He would
go back whence he came, and all should be as it had been before. Go
back?--ah! we none of us can go back; surely the Greeks of old were
right when they said that not even Omnipotence itself can alter the
past. For him he felt, as he watched the white gulls wheel about the
face of the inaccessible cliff, there could be no comfort. He had gotten
a hurt that would last him a lifetime, but for her--surely he had not
hurt her irredeemably.

Very slowly he walked back to her side again, and laid a hand on her
shoulder.

"Susy," he said, and he strove with all his strength to banish from his
voice all else but kindness, "are you--do you--are you going to marry
Clement Scott?"

But she would not raise her face.

"My father--he--I mean--" and so low was her voice, he had to stoop his
head to hear, "father said I should--he is a Godfearing man--my father
said I--I should beware that I chose--the--the better man. It--it--would
be for my soul's salvation."

"Susy--Susy, child, I would not harm you, not for all this world or the
next could give me. See now, my darling, I must go and leave you, must
I?"

She raised her face now, and the bright sunlight showed it to him white
and strained. She was paying for her love, if ever woman was. It went to
his heart to see her quivering lips, to read in her eyes that voiceless
appeal to him, not to tempt her beyond her strength.

"My poor little girl!"

He put out his arms and drew her close to his breast again, and at
the sound of his voice, at the tender touch of his hands, she broke
down--broke down and cried passionately with her face hidden on his
shoulder. He pushed back her hat, and some strands of her hair fell
loose across his hand. He held it lightly and tenderly, noting how it
shone in the sunlight, noting that it looked like spun gold.

"Don't cry like that, my darling, it breaks my heart to hear you."

But he knew there was no hope for him in those tears. There was
resignation, heartbroken resignation to the inevitable, but not a touch
of yielding, not a spark of hope for him.

"My poor little girl!" he said again. "My poor little girl!"

"It is my poor boy, I think," she sobbed, "if you care, my poor, poor
Ben!"

She was so close and yet so far, so very far away from him.

"Susy, child, I can't bear this," his voice was hoarse with the passion
that now he could not keep under control, "you must let me go--now."

She raised her face and looked with her tear-dimmed eyes straight into
his.

"Ben, Ben, I love you, I _will_ tell you this once, whether it's right
or wrong. I love you, I love you, I love you!" And she flung her arms
round his neck, and drawing down his face to her own covered it with
kisses, hot, passionate kisses in which the future, which for her
stretched away into eternity, was forgotten.

"I must go. Susy, Susy, if you will not have me, in pity's name let me
go!"

"Go then, go, my darling."

She drew herself out of his arms firmly, sadly, and they stood for a
moment looking into each other's eyes, only for a moment though, then
with a long-drawn sigh she turned away and covered her face with her
hands.

He stood a little apart and took a long farewell to all his hopes.
Would the picture ever fade from his mind, he wondered. There it all
lay before him, blue sea and sky and dark bushland, and the only living
thing visible the trembling girl in her simple pink frock, her face
hidden in her hands, and the sunlight bringing out lines of gold in her
fair hair. So it ended--his month-old romance. To-day he must go back to
the old dull routine that makes up the sum of a sailor's life, and this
brief madness must be but a tender memory of the past.

"Susy," he whispered, "Susy," but the little figure never raised its
head.

"Susy, won't you wish me good-bye. Say something to me before I go. Must
I go?"

He had no hope she would change her mind. He had learned her
steadfastness only too well in the last four weeks, only he asked
because it gave him the faintest shadow of an excuse for stopping at her
side.

"Yes, go, go!" And the command was almost prayerful in its intensity.

"But--but--one word--one word--you--"

"God bless you! God keep you! Go, go!"

He turned away then, away from the bright water sparkling in the
sunlight, away from the woman he loved with all his strength; but a
chimera, it seemed to him, a vague fancy, stood between them, yet it
was stronger than iron bars, and with a heavy sigh he turned his face
towards the dark ranges and went down to the township, five miles
beyond.

The good ship _Vanity_ had lain three long months at Port Melbourne
Pier, but they were weighing anchor at last. Standing there on the poop,
the second mate listened sadly enough to the chanting of the men as they
walked slowly round the capstan. There was almost a wail in the tune,
though the words were the essence of common-placeness, and related how
the singers had courted Sally Brown for seven years, and when she had
proved obdurate, with great complacency had taken her daughter instead.

     "Seven long years I courted Sally,
     Ay, ay, roll and go!
     Seven long years and she wouldn't marry,
     Spend my money on Sally Brown."

"Ay! ay!" it rose loud and clear above the noise of the busy pier, above
the voices of the men at work there, above the creaking and groaning of
the crane that was loading the great iron tank that lay next them, "ay!
ay! roll and go!"

Yes, he was going now, leaving all the sunshine of his life behind him,
the best part of his life and--

"Now then, mister, bear a hand there, ain't there longshore lubbers
enough wi'out you?"

"Ay! ay! roll and go!" It was only another way of saying "Blessed be
drudgery," only a reminder that work is a universal panacea for all ills
and heartaches. And after all the second mate of the sailing-ship is not
likely to have much time for idle dreams--regretful or otherwise--for
the life of such men is monotonous enough; and two days later when they
had come through the Rip, and were out in the Southern Ocean sailing
along eastward, there was little enough to remind Ben Harper of the
events of a week before. True it was on this stern, forbidding coast lay
the Mackie selection; it was over this expanse of sea they two had stood
and looked when they said farewell--he had even heard tell that the
lights from their cottage window, the bright glow from the kitchen fire,
were plainly visible to ships at sea, so close was she. And he wondered
to himself should he see those lights to-night. Hardly. He lay there in
his bunk