Chapter 2

“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.