Complete Works of E W Hornung

by E. W. Hornung

  Jack Flint looked quaintly solemn; his face was in shadow, luckily.

  “Yes,” said Dick, gravely, “my mother is right; there was a good impulse left in that poor fellow, and if you find gold in an outlaw and a thief, you may look for it anywhere. But in my opinion there was more than a remnant of good in that man. Think of it. He saved me from being knifed, to begin with; well, it was to his own interest to do that. But after that he took pity, and left us our money. That needed more than a good impulse; it needed a force of character which few honest men have. Try and realise his position — a price upon him, his hand against the world and the world’s hand against him, a villain by profession, not credited with a single virtue except courage, not bound by a single law of God or man; a man you would have thought incapable of compassion; and yet — well, you know what he did.”

  There was a manly fervour in his voice which went straight to the hearts of his mother and sister. They could not speak. Even Flint forgot to look sceptical.

  “If it had not meant so much to me, that hundred pounds,” Dick continued, as though arguing with himself, “it is possible that I might think less of the fellow. I don’t know, but I doubt it, for we had no notion then what that hundred would turn to. As it is, I have thought of it very often. You remember, Jack, how much more that hundred seemed to me at that time than it really was, and how much less to you?”

  “It was a hundred and thirty,” said Flint; “I remember that you didn’t forget the odd thirty then.”

  “Dick,” Fanny presently exclaimed, out of a brown study, “what do you think you would do if — you ever met that bushranger again. I mean, if he was at your mercy, you know?”

  Flint sighed, and prepared his spirit for heroics.

  “No use thinking,” Dick answered. “By this time he’s a life — if they didn’t hang him.”

  Flint became suddenly animated.

  “What?” he cried, sharply.

  “Why, the last I heard of him — the day I sailed from Melbourne — was, that he was captured somewhere up in Queensland.”

  “If you had sailed a day later you would have heard more.”

  “What?” asked Dick, in his turn.

  “He escaped.”

  “Escaped?”

  “The same night. He got clean away from the police-barracks at Mount Clarence — that was the little Queensland township. They never caught him. They believe he managed to clear out of the country — to America, probably.”

  “By Jove, I’m not sorry!” exclaimed Dick.

  “Here are some newspaper cuttings about him,” continued Flint, taking the scraps from his pocketbook and handing them to Dick. “Read them afterwards; they will interest you. He was taken along with another fellow, but the other fellow was taken dead — shot through the heart. That must have been the one he called Ben; for the big brute who tried to knife you had disappeared some time before. When they were taken they were known to have a lot of gold somewhere — I mean, Sundown was — for they had just stuck up the Mount Clarence bank.”

  “Yes, I heard that when I heard of the capture.”

  “Well, it was believed that Sundown feared an attack from the police, and planted the swag, went back to it after his escape, and got clear away with the lot. But nothing is known; for neither Sundown nor the gold was ever seen again.”

  “Mamma, aren’t you glad he escaped,” cried Fanny, with glowing cheeks. “It may be wicked, but I know I am! Now, what would you do, Dick?”

  “What’s the good of talking about it?” said Dick.

  “Then I’ll tell you what I’d do; I’d hide this poor Sundown from justice; I’d give him a chance of trying honesty, for a change — that’s what I should do! And if I were you, I should long and long and long to do it!”

  Flint could not help smiling. Dick’s sentiment on the subject was sufficiently exaggerated; but this young lady! Did this absurd romanticism run in the family? If so, was it the father, or the grandfather, or the great-grandfather that died in a madhouse?

  But Dick gazed earnestly at his sister. Her eyes shone like living coals in the twilight of the shaded room. She was imaginative; and the story of Dick and the bushranger appealed at once to her sensibilities and her sympathy. She could see the night attack in the silent forest, and a face of wild, picturesque beauty — the ideal highwayman — was painted in vivid colour on the canvas of her brain.

  “Fanny, I half think I might be tempted to do something like that,” said Dick gently. “I have precious few maxims, but one is that he who does me a good turn gets paid with interest — though I have a parallel one for the man who works me a mischief.”

  “So it is a good turn not to rob a man whom you’ve already assaulted!” observed Flint ironically.

  “It is a good turn to save a man’s life.”

  “True; but you seem to think more of your money than your life!”

  “I believe I did four years ago,” said Dick, smiling, but he checked his smile when Flint looked at his watch and hastily rose.

  Dick expostulated, almost to the extent of bluster, but quite in vain; Flint was already shaking hands with the ladies.

  “My dear fellow,” said he, “I leave these shores to-night; it’s my annual holiday. I’m going to forget my peasants for a few weeks in Paris and Italy. If I lose this train I lose to-night’s boat — I found out that before I came; so good-bye, my—”

  “No, I’m coming to the station,” said Dick; “at least I stickle for that last office.”

  Mrs. Edmonstone hoped that Mr. Flint — her boy’s best friend, as she was assured — would see his way to calling on his way home and staying a day or two. Mr. Flint promised; then he and Dick left the house.

  They were scarcely in the road before Flint stopped, turned, laid a hand on each of Dick’s shoulders, and quickly delivered his mind:

  “There’s something wrong. I saw it at once. Tell me.”

  Dick lowered his eyes before his friend’s searching gaze.

  “Oh, Jack,” he answered, sadly, “it is all wrong!”

  And before they reached the station Flint knew all that there was to know — an abridged but unvarnished version — of the withering and dying of Dick’s high hopes.

  They talked softly together until the train steamed into the station; and then it was Dick who at the last moment returned to a matter just touched in passing:

  “As to this dance to-night — you say I must go?”

  “Of course you must go. It would never do to stay away. For one thing, your friend, the Colonel might be hurt and bothered, and he is now your best friend, mind. Then you must put a plucky face on it; she mustn’t see you cave in after the first facer. I half think it isn’t all up yet; you can’t tell.”

  Dick shook his head.

  “I would rather not go; it will be wormwood to me; you know what it will be: the two together. And I know it’s all up. You don’t understand women, Jack.”

  “Do you?” asked the other, keenly.

  “She couldn’t deny that — that — I can’t say it, Jack.”

  “Ah, but you enraged her first! Anyway, you ought to go to-night for your people’s sake. Your sister’s looking forward to it tremendously; never been to a ball with you before; she told me so. By Jove! I wished I was going myself.”

  “I wish you were, instead of me.”

  “Nonsense! I say, stand clear. Good-bye!”

  Away went the train and Jack Flint. And Dick stood alone on the platform — all the more alone because his hand still tingled from the pressure of that honest grip; because cheering tones still rang in his ears, while his heart turned sick, and very lonely.

  XI

  DRESSING, DANCING, LOOKING ON

  The Bristos dined early that evening, and dressed afterwards; but only the Colonel and Miles sat down. Mrs. Parish was far too busy, adding everywhere finishing touches from her own deft hand; while as for Alice, she took tea only, in her room.

  When Mr. Miles went up-stai
rs to dress, the red sunlight still streamed in slanting rays through the open window. His room was large and pleasant, and faced the drive.

  Mr. Miles appeared to be in excellent spirits. He whistled softly to himself — one of Alice’s songs; a quiet smile lurked about the corners of his mouth; but since his yellow moustache was long and heavy, this smile was more apparent in the expression of the eyes. He moved about very softly for such a heavy man — almost noiselessly, in fact; but this practice was habitual with him.

  His dress-clothes were already laid out on the bed; they seemed never to have been worn. His portmanteau, which stood in one corner, also appeared to have seen little service: it would have been hard to find a scratch on the leather, and the glossy surface bore but one porter’s label. But, naturally enough, Miles’s belongings were new: a fresh outfit from head to heel is no slight temptation to the Australian in London.

  The first step towards dressing for a ball is to undress; the first step towards undressing is to empty one’s pockets. With Miles this evening this was rather an interesting operation. It necessitated several niceties of manipulation, and occupied some little time. Miles carefully drew down the blinds as a preliminary, and bolted the door.

  He then crossed to the mantel-piece, lit the gas, and felt in his breast-pocket.

  The first thing to be removed from this pocket was an envelope — an envelope considerably thickened by its contents, which crackled between the fingers. Miles dropped the envelope into the fender after withdrawing the contents. These he smoothed out upon the mantel-piece; he fairly beamed upon them; they were ten Bank of England ten-pound notes. Then he counted them, folded them into small compass, and transferred them to the trousers-pocket of his evening dress. In doing this his smile became so broad that his whistling ended rather abruptly. It was a pleasant smile.

  The next incumbrance of which he relieved himself came from that same breast-pocket; but it was less easily placed elsewhere — so much less that the whistling was dropped altogether, and, instead of smiling, Mr. Miles frowned. Nay, a discovery that his dress-coat had no breast-pocket was followed by quite a volley of oaths. Swearing, however, is a common failing of the most estimable bushmen; so that, coming from a man like Miles, the words meant simply nothing. Miles then tried the trousers-pocket which did not contain the bank-notes; but though the article was — of its kind — remarkably small, it was obviously too large for such a pocket, and for the tail-pockets it was too heavy. Mr. Miles looked seriously put out. His face wore just that expression which might be produced by the rupture of a habit or rule of life that has become second nature. In despair and disgust he dropped the thing into his travelling bag, which he was careful to lock at once, and placed the key in the pocket with the notes: the thing was a small revolver.

  There followed, from the waistcoat, penknife, pencilcase, watch and chain, and, lastly, something that created a strange and instant change in the expression of Mr. Miles; and this, though it was the veriest trifle, lying in a twisted scrap of printed paper. He spread and smoothed out the paper just as he had done with the notes, and something was displayed on its surface: something — to judge by the greedy gaze that devoured it — of greater value than the bank-notes, and to be parted with less willingly than the revolver. It was a lock of light-coloured hair.

  Mr. Miles again unlocked his travelling bag, and took from it a packet of oiled-silk, a pair of scissors, tape, a needle and thread. It is a habit of many travellers to have such things always about them. Miles, for one, was very handy in the use of them, so that in about ten minutes he produced a very neat little bag, shaped like an arc, and hung upon a piece of tape with ends sewn to the ends of the chord. Holding this bag in his left hand, he now took very carefully, between the thumb and finger of his right hand, the lock of light-coloured hair. He let it roll in his palm, he placed his finger tips in the mouth of the little bag, then paused, as if unwilling to let the hair escape his hand, and, as he paused, his face bent down until his beard touched his wrist. Had not the notion been wildly absurd, one who witnessed the action might have expected Mr. Miles to press his lips to the soft tress that nestled in his palm; but, indeed, he did nothing of the kind. He jerked up his head suddenly, slipped the tress into its little case, and began at once to stitch up the opening. As he did this, however, he might have been closing the tomb upon all he loved — his face was so sad. When the thread was secured and broken, he loosed his collar and shirt-band and hung the oiled-silk bag around his neck.

  At that moment a clock on the landing, chiming the three-quarters after eight, bade him make haste. There was good reason, it seemed, why he should be downstairs before the guests began to arrive.

  In the drawing-room he found Colonel Bristo and Mrs. Parish. In face benevolent rather than strong, there was little in Colonel Bristo to suggest at any time the Crimean hero; he might have been mistaken for a prosperous stockbroker, but for a certain shyness of manner incompatible with the part. To-night, indeed, the military aspect belonged rather to the lady housekeeper; for rustling impatiently in her handsome black silk gown, springing up repeatedly at the sound of imaginary wheels, Mrs. Parish resembled nothing so much as an old war horse scenting battle. She welcomed the entrance of Miles with effusion, but Miles paid her little attention, and as little to his host. He glanced quickly round the room, and bit his lip with vexation; Miss Bristo was as yet invisible. He crossed the hall by a kind of instinct, and looked into the ballroom, and there he found her. She had flitted down that moment.

  Her dress was partly like a crystal fall, and partly like its silver spray; it was all creamy satin and tulle. Or so, at least, it seemed to her partners whose knowledge, of course, was not technical. One of them, who did not catch her name on introduction — being a stranger, brought under the wing of a lady with many daughters — described her on his card simply as “elbow sleeves;” and this must have been a young gentleman of observation, since the sleeves — an artful compromise between long and short — were rather a striking feature to those who knew. Others remembered her by her fan; but the callow ones saw nothing but her face, and that haunted them — until the next ball.

  Mr. Miles, however, was the favoured man who was granted the first glimpse of this lovely apparition. He also looked only at her face. Was she so very indignant with him? Would she speak to him? Would she refuse him the dances he had set his heart on? If these questions were decided against him he was prepared to humble himself at her feet; but he soon found there was no necessity for that.

  For, though Alice was deeply angry with Mr. Miles, she was ten times angrier with herself, and ten times ten with Dick. Her manner was certainly cold, but she seemed to have forgotten the gross liberty Miles had taken in the afternoon; at any rate, she made no allusion to it. She gave him dances — then and there — since he brought her a programme, but in doing so her thoughts were not of Miles. She gave him literal carte blanche, but not to gratify herself or him. There were too few ways open to her to punish the insults she had received that day; but here was one way — unless the object of her thoughts stayed away.

  She hurried from the ballroom at the sound of wheels. In a few minutes she was standing at her father’s side shaking hands with the people. She seemed jubilant. She had a sunny smile and a word or two for all. She was like a tinkling brook at summer noon. Everyone spoke of her prettiness, and her dress (the ladies whispered of this), and above all, her splendid spirits. She found out, when it was over, that she had shaken hands with the Edmonstones among the rest. She had done so unconsciously, and Dick, like everybody else, had probably received a charming welcome from her lips.

  If that was the case he must have taken the greeting for what it was worth, for he seized the first opportunity to escape from Fanny and Maurice, who were bent upon enjoying themselves thoroughly in unsentimental fashion. He saw one or two men whom he had known before he went to Australia, staring hard at him, but he avoided them; he shrank into a corner and called himself a fool for c
oming.

  He wanted to be alone, yet was painfully conscious of the wretched figure cut by a companionless man in a room full of people. If he talked to nobody people would point at him. Thus perhaps: “The man who made a fool of himself about Miss Bristo, don’t you know; went to Australia, made his fortune, and all the rest of it, and now she won’t look at him, poor dog!” He was growing morbid. He made a pretence of studying the water-colours on the wall, and wished in his soul that he could make himself invisible.

  A slight rustle behind him caused him to turn round. His heart rose in his throat; it was Alice.

  “You must dance with me,” she said coldly; and her voice was the voice of command.

  Dick was electrified; he gazed at her without speaking. Then a scornful light waxed in his eyes, and his lips formed themselves into a sneer.

  “You can hardly refuse,” she continued cuttingly. “I do not wish to be questioned about you; there has been a little too much of that. Therefore, please to give me your arm. They have already begun.”

  That was so; the room in which they stood was almost empty. Without a word Dick gave her his arm.

  The crowd about the doorway of the ballroom made way for them to pass, and a grim conceit which suggested itself to Dick nearly made him laugh aloud.

  As they began to waltz Alice looked up at him with flashing eyes.

  “If you hate this,” she whispered between her teeth, “imagine my feelings!”

  He knew that his touch must be like heated irons to her; he wanted her to stop, but she would not let him. As the couples thinned after the first few rounds she seemed the more eager to dance on. One moment, indeed, they had the floor entirely to themselves. Thus everyone in the room had an opportunity of noticing that Alice Bristo had given her first dance to Dick Edmonstone.

  The Colonel saw it, and was glad; but he said to himself, “The boy doesn’t look happy enough; and as for Alice — that’s a strange expression of hers; I’ll tell her I don’t admire it. Well, well, if they only get their quarrels over first, it’s all right, I suppose.”