“I wonder where he can be.”
Not till she had called his name twice did the babe find the suspense insupportable, when, with a shriek of delight, he dashed out of his hiding-place and flew to his mother’s out-flung arms.
“What have you been doing?” she demanded, holding him from her and noting the grains of sugar adhering to his Cupid mouth, and the flour and tea covering the rest of him.
“Ooo. I hide from mummy!” Bubbles gurgled, and then, pointing at the wreckage, struggled for freedom and cried: “Sweetie! Sweetie! I want sweetie!”
“You can’t want any more, surely. What you really do want is a bath.”
“Better let him down,” suggested Monty, smiling at her and the fighting Freddie. “He’s a broth of a boy.”
Mabel Hogan saw in the bushman’s smile what she had not seen for many a day––honesty, fearlessness, and cleanness. The woman was an idealist, and in a fraction of time she realized that here was her ideal man, a man whose feet were not of clay like that other whom she had loved. She smiled at him in return; and, if Monty thought her face lovely then, the child must have considered her an utter stranger, because, ceasing his struggles, he regarded his mother solemnly. Monty sensed that she had not smiled like that for years.
“Did he make all that mess?” she asked, putting Bubbles down. Monty’s grey-blue eyes danced. “’Fraid he did,” he admitted. “He enjoyed doing it, and besides it took his mind off these cutters that he wanted badly to keep. How old is he?”
“Three years and seven months.”
“So! Well, he’s a bonzer kid. I’d like to have a boy like that. We’d get along good.”
“I’ve no doubt whatever about that, after what you’ve allowed him to do,” she said with a sigh. “You may have him, if you like.”
“Eh!” Monty spoke sharply, for he saw that she was strangely earnest. While she regarded him her eyes became moist. Then, very softly:
“He is all I have,” she said. “Yet I must not keep him here with me. You look a good, fine man. I believe you are. Your brother, too, is wonderfully gentle and patient, despite his blindness. Oh! if only you would take him with you when you go: take him to your home, and let him grow to a splendid man in an atmosphere clean and wholesome. Would you?”
For a moment he studied her face. “But you wouldn’t care to be parted from such a treasure, would you?” he asked doubtfully.
“I! I’m not to be considered whatever, not a little tiny bit, where his future is concerned. I’ve forfeited all right to the slightest consideration. You know what I am, something terrible, something you should shudder to look at. What chance in life will he ever get here amongst us? In a few years it will be too late, and his innocence destroyed. As the son of such a mother, what will become of him? If you take him with you he will forget me, he will grow up perhaps loving some other woman as his mother, and admiring and respecting such a man as you, if not as his father, then as his guardian. Will you at least think about it?”
She stood before him, her hands clasped, her voice low and pleading, with a hint of sobs in it.
“I have neither a wife nor a home,” he said. “Nor is my mother alive, who would have set Bubbles on a pedestal and worshipped him. Mr. Anchor tells me that my brother and I will not be permitted to leave here, but regarding that I have other views. We leave when we wish to leave. However, I know a woman who has been denied the love of children, and who is hungry for a child’s love. She and her husband are hard-working people. They would give the boy affection. I could attend to his education, which would be the best Australia can offer, and I would give him a start in life. Would you like that?”
“Oh, I would! I would!”
“Then I won’t think about it. I’ll take him with me. You are very right and very brave to part with him, rather than let him grow up here. A woman who can love like you could not have an unworthy son.”
Her breath caught, and her hand flew to her mouth. Tears streamed down her face and blurred her eyes while for half a second she looked at him. Then suddenly she snatched up a protesting Bubbles and fled back to the house, leaving a very thoughtful man repairing water-drums, work which up to that time had not greatly advanced.
When a hand-bell was rung half an hour later, calling all for morning tea, Monty, while not regretting his promise to Mabel Hogan, wondered how he was going to get Martin, Austiline, and the child one night secretly away.
“Reckon I’m going to be terrible busy,” he remarked to the blow-lamp, the flame of which died out when he unscrewed the cock.
CHAPTER XXVII
A NEW GUEST
THE following morning found two groups of talkers on the broad veranda of the House of Cain.
Dr. Moore had returned from Marree late the evening before, bringing with him as passenger a new guest named Anthony Cotton. Neither of the Sherwoods had met the new arrival, who had retired to his room immediately after his reception by Anchor. He had not yet made an appearance, but was expected any moment.
Breakfast had been disposed of with the usual unconventional conversation, and now Martin sat with Mrs. Jonas at one end of the veranda; whilst Dr. Moore and his friend and protector occupied the other.
The lady and the blind man discussed the pros and cons of spiritualism, the theory and practice of which Mrs. Jonas emphatically disapproved. Of the regular inmates she was the most enigmatic in character. Her earnestness and honesty, together with her so evident disapproval of the callous nature of the table-talk, were so startlingly inconsistent with what must have been a solitary manifestation of her under-nature, that Monty found it difficult to believe she was a murderess.
Martin, however, learned from that veranda talk a great deal about Mrs. Jonas. She gave him several glimpses of her naked soul, and ever afterwards Martin regarded murderers less with inward shudderings and more with pity as unhappy sufferers from a lesion of the brain. It was the quiet, earnest voice of Mrs. Jonas, seeking neither pity nor censure, but sympathetic understanding, which converted Martin from the view that a destroyer of human life should suffer summary execution.
The subject debated by the two leading spirits in their corner, if not a deep question of human ethics, was in another way as grave. While watching indolently the huge figure of Montague Sherwood engaged in boiling out his repaired water-drums with a solution of caustic soda to cleanse them, with Bubbles busily gathering chips from odd corners for the fire, William J. Anchor imparted to his friend a disquieting news item.
“I received a message from our Wirra-wirra wireless station, outside Port Augusta, last night, just before you got back,” he was saying. “I was listening-in to Adelaide and enjoying a really good concert, when friend Smythe, the announcer, signalled me, by the usual method of coughing during an announcement, to alter the wave-length to Wirra-wirra.”
“Ah!” the doctor murmured. “That sounds serious.”
“Exactly. It was with not a little trepidation that I got in touch with Mason, of Wirra-wirra, for you know that he has instructions to communicate with us only in exceptional circumstances.”
It may be explained here that Anchor’s wireless communication with the outside world was necessarily somewhat intricate. The leaders of his organization reported important news by code telegram to a man in Adelaide named Smythe. He was the announcer at the Adelaide Symphony Broadcasting Company’s studio. By means of a special code of punctuating his announcements by various coughs, long and short, occurring before, during, and after his announcements, he passed to Anchor every night, at nine o’clock, any simply expressed items of news.
News messages of greater length or difficulty were telegraphed to Mount Barker, in the Adelaide Hills, where an experimental wireless expert reported direct to Anchor at nine o’clock precisely. Urgent information demanding instant dispatch in the evening was telegraphed to a man named Mason, who owned a small transmitting set at a selection on the outskirts of Port Augusta. Since this latter sending station was illegal, and
the authorities were already hunting for it, only information of supreme urgency was sent by it.
A man who loved to play with his audience, the millionaire dawled in imparting to his companion the kernel of the news he had received from Port Augusta. Anchor would have made a great actor. Straw after straw he added to the fire of Moore’s impatience, until at last the irritable doctor burst out:
“Well, and what the devil did Mason say?”
Having elicited the outburst for which he had been angling, Anchor replied with his usual suaveness, unruffled and deadly cool:
“To-day is Friday,” he said. “On Sunday the police from Innaminka will pay us a call.”
“Well, they have done that before.”
“Precisely. But then they were not ordered to do so by Headquarters at Adelaide.”
“The devil!” “It is, I agree, the devil. When I deciphered Mason’s code, the message ran: ‘Innaminka police instructed by Central Office investigate you. H.Q.’s motive unknown, so far. Believed not serious, but caution advised.”
In silence the two men pensively watched Monty at work outside the tool-house. They were quite used to police visits, as is every outback squatter. In the remoter regions of South Australia a police-trooper’s beat extends for many hundreds of miles. His duties are various. He takes the census, issues summonses against defaulting or reluctant income-tax payers, checks the electoral rolls. Invariably he sends word before him of the date of his arrival at a station homestead, an act of courtesy which ensures hospitality for himself and his horse. In common with other station-holders, Anchor always knew when to expect one of these duty visits, during which the most conspicuous members of his household lived in the secret underground rooms. Being himself a Justice of the Peace, the millionaire thoroughly enjoyed his temporary and official guests’ conversation, and treated them as comrades and friends.
But this coming police visit was a cat of another colour. It was a perturbing thought that official circles in Adelaide had suddenly conceived suspicions of him.
“Can Hill be at the bottom of it, do you think?” asked Moore.
“No. Hill is passionately fond of his wife and baby. Melbourne organization sent Hill a visitor to his bedside at the hospital. Hill admitted to the visitor that it was to Monty Sherwood only that he had given information, and that only because he was under a great debt to Miss Thorpe and the blind man. The visitor told Hill that, should he be so inconsiderate as to give to any second person the same information, ‘Mrs. Hill and baby would be found very dead.’ No, it is not Hill.”
“Then possibly Monty Sherwood left instructions behind.”
“That may be so. He may have instructed some person to act, failing news of his whereabouts after the lapse of a certain time. But, so far, the two have not been here long enough to cause anxiety at home. The bushman would have estimated the number of days required to get here and back, to say nothing of several days’ grace.
“Remember, Hill told him only that Miss Thorpe was within a hundred miles of Lake Moonba. He told nothing about us. If Sherwood did leave instructions, they could only provide for a search in this direction should he fail to report after a certain time.”
“Humph!”
Anchor lit a cigarette. His eyes were dreamy.
“To-day is Friday. The Sherwoods must leave to-morrow at the latest. So far, Austiline is amenable to my will. From the Sherwoods’ conversation immediately after they left her, which I collected per dictaphone, I am sure she has convinced them that she desires to remain here. I understand from you that she declared she is to become my wife. Doubtless she will be known here as Mrs. Anchor, but I think no record will ever be made in a register. I do not suffer insults gladly.
“However, I am obliged to humour her to a certain extent. She declines most emphatically to become Mrs. Anchor until forty-eight hours have elapsed from the time she herself, from this veranda, watches them leave. So leave they must.”
“Anchor, you’re a fool.”
Moore’s voice was low and tinged with passion.
“Probably, my dear Moore, you are right,” came the drawled assent. “But, as all poets agree, it is divine foolishness.” The doctor leaned forward in his chair and almost glared at the unconscionable millionaire. He said:
“If you allow the Sherwoods to get away, I am quite sure it will be the end of all things for us. Certainly, never again shall we feel secure from the illogical fate which this Home has helped us so far to evade. You had better give me a free hand. Let me take care of them in my laboratory, since you decline to allow Miss Thorpe to accompany them. You could have depended upon the honour of the three of them; but you mistake the big Sherwood if you think he will be satisfied to let such an affair be tamely forgotten.”
“Tut! tut!”
“It is not ‘tut, tut,’ Anchor, believe me. You have made up your mind to conquer the woman, which is one foolishness. For heaven’s sake, don’t commit the second and fatal foolishness of allowing those men to depart. Give them to me! Let Lane and ‘The Cat’ plant their gear in the bush, and, when the police have gone, stage a deserted camp somewhere fifty or sixty miles distant.”
“My dear Moore, what you don’t grasp is the fact that there are real gentlemen in this world outside of England,” Anchor said blandly. “Even I, the descendant of the Mayflower cabin-boy, hold to my given word of honour. One need not necessarily be related to a duke to be a gentleman. The Sherwoods are gentlemen. I like Montague’s strength of character and Martin’s firm but gentle nature. If they promise utter silence about us, you may depend on their keeping their promise. I intend depending upon that. Besides, it will please Austiline. And really I must please her during, at least, the period of our––er––engagement.”
“Have your own way, and damn us all! I can say no more.”
“Gently, my dear friend––gently, I implore you.” The doctor found himself looking into the blazing slate-coloured eyes of his patron, yet Anchor’s voice was in no way altered. “Understand, Moore,” he added, “I have wanted Austiline for some considerable time. The conditions she lays down for her surrender shall be complied with. You will not, I trust, interfere with my little romance.”
“Hell!” muttered the tall man; and, rising suddenly, he passed along the veranda to the hall.
The millionaire remained smoking as though without a care in the world. Five minutes passed in their drowsy way. Then Mabel Hogan, who had been hiding among the dining-room window curtains, quietly stepped across the room and made her way to her bedroom, She was glad and sorry that Monty and Martin would be leaving the next day. Bubbles would go with them. She cried silently while packing his tiny garments in a suit-case.
In the Australian bush it is the custom to drink morning and afternoon tea, at ten and three respectively. This light refreshment is in addition to the three usual meals, and one becomes so used to a cup of tea and scones or cake at ten in the morning and three in the afternoon that to miss the tea makes something like a gap in the day.
Monty had just finished cleaning up after his work when the bell for morning tea was rung. With Bubbles clinging to his hand he walked over to the house, where Mabel Hogan took charge of her baby and the big man repaired to the bathroom to wash his hands. When he regained the veranda, where morning tea was invariably served, it was to find gathered there all the inmates of the house excepting Austiline and the unsociable chef.
The fair-haired girl, Madeline Fox, brought in the tray, and a moment later the new guest appeared, in company with Dr. Moore. The scene reminded the bushman of a Sunday gathering of a family of farmers, a common enough sight, when sons and daughters with their partners and children congregate at, the old folks’ farm in a kind of weekly reunion.
Although tall, Mr. Cotton’s frame was slight, and his shoulders indicated the student. He was immaculately dressed in a grey flannel suit, soft collar, and white canvas shoes. He wore a light brown beard trimmed to a point. His large hazel eyes peered about
through pince-nez. He seemed nervous and ill at ease.
At his appearance Anchor hurried to his side, and, taking his arm, led him with friendly assurance towards the waiting group. To each of them he introduced Mr. Cotton with old-fashioned courtesy, reciting in his interesting style the reason and the details of the crime committed by the person figuring in the introduction. When they came to the mightily amused Monty, the millionaire said with his habitual silkiness:
“This, Mr. Cotton, is Mr. Montague Sherwood. So far he is but an honorary member of our little community. However, he is not entirely without claim upon us, for at extremely long range he deprived us of one of our guests in a rifle duel. You will observe that the result of the duel nowise affects our mutual regard.”
Monty found himself looking into a pair of partly veiled eyes observing him quizzically. The brown, curly beard he noticed was of recent growth. Holding out his hand, he drawled:
“Happy to know you, Mr. Cotton. What is your favourite brand of murder?”
The new guest seemed hardly prepared for this somewhat unconventional opening, but was spared the embarrassment of reply by their host tugging at his sleeve and urging him forward to the seated Martin.
“This is Mr. Martin Sherwood, who is paying us a brief visit in company with his brother. Mr. Martin Sherwood is editor-in-chief of the Melbourne Tribune. Unfortunately, a recent severe illness has affected his sight, let us but hope temporarily.”
“In happier circumstances I should have appreciated more keenly the honour of meeting so distinguished a journalist,” Mr. Cotton remarked in a soft voice.
“And I no less, to meet so distinguished a writer,” Martin responded gently, without, however, offering his hand. That he could not bring himself to do, at least not yet, to a murderer.
The company became seated. Mrs. Jonas presided at the teapot and Madeline Fox was an attentive waitress. It was plain that the new guest was the centre of keen interest and that all the others were longing to hear his story. The millionaire beamed over his teacup at the nervous Mr. Cotton, and said:
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