THREE MONTHS AFTERWARDS.
A hot December day, with a cloudless blue sky, and a sun blazing down
on the earth, clothed in all the beauty of summer garments. Such a
description of snowy December sounds perchance a trifle strange to
English ears. It may strike them as being somewhat fantastic, as was
the play in "A Midsummer Night's Dream," to Demetrius when he remarked,
"This is hot ice and wondrous cold fire."
But here in Australia we are in the realm of contrariety, and many
things other than dreams go by contrary. Here black swans are an
established fact, and the proverb concerning them, made when they were
considered as mythical a bird as the Phoenix, has been rendered null
and void by the discoveries of Captain Cook. Here ironwood sinks and
pumice stone floats, which must strike the curious spectator as a queer
freak on the part of Dame Nature. At home the Edinburgh mail bears the
hardy traveller to a cold climate, with snowy mountains and wintry
blasts; but here the further north one goes the hotter it gets, till
one arrives in Queensland, where the heat is so great that a profane
traveller of an epigrammatic turn of mind once fittingly called it, "An
amateur hell."
But however contrary, as Mrs. Gamp would say, Nature may be in her
dealings, the English race out in this great continent are much the
same as in the old country--John Bull, Paddy, and Sandy, all being of a
conservative turn of mind, and with strong opinions as to the keeping
up of old customs. Therefore, on a hot Christmas day, with the sun one
hundred odd in the shade, Australian revellers sit down to the roast
beef and plum-pudding of Old England, which they eat contentedly as the
orthodox thing, and on New Year's Eve the festive Celt repairs to the
doors of his "freends" with a bottle of whisky and a cheering verse of
Auld Lang Syne.
Still it is these peculiar customs that give an individuality to a
nation, and John Bull abroad loses none of his insular obstinacy; but
keeps his Christmas in the old fashion, and wears his clothes in the
new fashion, without regard to heat or cold. A nation that never
surrenders to the fire of an enemy cannot be expected to give in to the
fire of the sun, but if some ingenious mortal would only invent some
light and airy costume, after the fashion of the Greek dress, and
Australians would consent to adopt the same, life in Melbourne and her
sister cities would be much cooler than it is at present.
Madge was thinking somewhat after this fashion as she sat on the wide
verandah, in a state of exhaustion from the heat, and stared out at the
wide plains lying parched and arid under the blazing sun. There was a
dim kind of haze rising from the excessive heat, hanging midway between
heaven and earth, and through its tremulous veil the distant hills
looked aerial and unreal.
Stretched out before her was the garden with its intensely vivid
flowers. To look at them merely was to increase one's caloric
condition. Great bushes of oleanders, with their bright pink blossoms,
luxurious rose trees, with their yellow, red, and white blooms, and all
along the border a rainbow of many-coloured flowers, with such
brilliant tints that the eye ached to see them in the hot sunshine, and
turned restfully to the cool green of the trees which encircled the
lawn. In the centre was a round pool, surrounded by a ring of white
marble, and containing a still sheet of water, which flashed like a
mirror in the blinding light.
The homestead of Yabba Yallook station was a long low house, with no
upper-storey, and with a wide verandah running nearly round it. Cool
green blinds were hung between the pillars to keep out the sun, and all
along were scattered lounging chairs of basket-work, with rugs, novels,
empty soda-water bottles, and all the other evidences that Mr.
Frettlby's guests had been wise, and stayed inside during the noonday
heat.
Madge was seated in one of these comfortable chairs, and she divided
her attention between the glowing beauty of the world outside, which
she could see through a narrow slit in the blinds. But she did not seem
greatly interested in her book, and it was not long before she let it
fall unheeded to the ground and took refuge in her own thoughts. The
trial through which she had so recently passed had been a great one,
and it had not been without its outward result. It had left its impress
on her beautiful face, and there was a troubled look in her eyes. After
Brian's acquittal of the murder of Oliver Whyte, she had been taken by
her father up to the station, in the hope that it would restore her to
health. The mental strain which had been on her during the trial had
nearly brought on an attack of brain fever; but here, far from the
excitement of town life, in the quiet seclusion of the country, she had
recovered her health, but not her spirits. Women are more
impressionable than men, and it is, perhaps, for this reason that they
age quicker. A trouble which would pass lightly over a man, leaves an
indelible mark on a woman, both physically and mentally, and the
terrible episode of Whyte's murder had changed Madge from a bright and
merry girl into a grave and beautiful woman. Sorrow is a potent
enchantress. Once she touches the heart, life can never be quite the
same again. We never more surrender ourselves entirely to pleasure; and
often we find so many of the things we have longed for are after all
but dead sea fruit. Sorrow is the veiled Isis of the world, and once we
penetrate her mystery and see her deeply-furrowed face and mournful
eyes, the magic light of romance dies all away, and we realise the hard
bitter fact of life in all its nakedness.
Madge felt something of all this. She saw the world now, not as the
fantastic fairyland of her girlish dreams, but as the sorrowful vale of
tears through which we must all walk till we reach the "Promised Land."
And Brian, he also had undergone a change, for there were a few white
hairs now amid his curly, chestnut locks, and his character, from being
gay and bright, had become moody and irritable. After the trial he had
left town immediately, in order to avoid meeting with his friends, and
had gone up to his station, which was next to that of the Frettlbys'.
There he worked hard all day, and smoked hard all night, thinking over
the secret which the dead woman had told him, and which threatened to
overshadow his life. Every now and then he rode over and saw Madge. But
this was generally when he knew her father to be away from Melbourne,
for of late he had disliked the millionaire. Madge could not but
condemn his attitude, remembering how her father had stood beside him
in his recent trouble. Yet there was another reason why Brian kept
aloof from Yabba Yallook station. He did not wish to meet any of the
gay society which was there, knowing that since his trial he was an
object of curiosity and sympathy to everyone--a position galling enough
to his proud nature.
At Christmas time Mr. Frettlby had asked several people up from
Melbourne, and though Madge would rather have been left alone, yet she
could not refuse her father, and had to play hostess with a smiling
brow and aching heart.
Felix Rolleston, who a month since had joined the noble army of
benedicts, was there with Mrs. Rolleston, NEE Miss Featherweight, who
ruled him with a rod of iron. Having bought Felix with her money, she
had determined to make good use of him, and, being ambitious to shine
in Melbourne society, had insisted upon Felix studying politics, so
that when the next general election came round he could enter
Parliament. Felix had rebelled at first, but ultimately gave way, as he
found that when he had a good novel concealed among his parliamentary
papers time passed quite pleasantly, and he got the reputation of a
hard worker at little cost. They had brought up Julia with them, and
this young person had made up her mind to become the second Mrs.
Frettlby. She had not received much encouragement, but, like the
English at Waterloo, did not know when she was beaten, and carried on
the siege of Mr. Frettlby's heart in an undaunted manner.
Dr. Chinston had come up for a little relaxation, and gave never a
thought to his anxious patients or the many sick-rooms he was in the
habit of visiting. A young English fellow, called Peterson, who amused
himself by travelling; an old colonist, full of reminiscences of the
old days, when, "by gad, sir, we hadn't a gas lamp in the whole of
Melbourne," and several other people, completed the party. They had all
gone off to the billiard-room, and left Madge in her comfortable chair,
half-asleep.
Suddenly she started, as she heard a step behind her, and turning, saw
Sal Rawlins, in the neatest of black gowns, with a coquettish white cap
and apron, and an open book. Madge had been so delighted with Sal for
saving Brian's life that she had taken her into her service as maid.
Mr. Frettlby had offered strong opposition at first that a fallen woman
like Sal should be near his daughter; but Madge was determined to
rescue the unhappy girl from the life of sin she was leading, and so at
last he reluctantly consented. Brian, too, had objected, but ultimately
yielded, as he saw that Madge had set her heart on it. Mother
Guttersnipe objected at first, characterising the whole affair as
"cussed 'umbug," but she, likewise, gave in, and Sal became maid to
Miss Frettlby, who immediately set to work to remedy Sal's defective
education by teaching her to read. The book she held in her hand was a
spelling-book, and this she handed to Madge.
"I think I knows it now, miss," she said, respectfully, as Madge looked
up with a smile.
"Do you, indeed?" said Madge, gaily. "You will be able to read in no
time, Sal."
"Read this?" said Sal, touching "Tristan: A Romance, by Zoe."
"Hardly!" said Madge, picking it up, with a look of contempt.
"I want you to learn English, and not a confusion of tongues like this
thing. But it's too hot for lessons, Sal," she went on, leaning back in
her seat, "so get a chair and talk to me."
Sal complied, and Madge looked out at the brilliant flower-beds, and at
the black shadow of the tall witch elm which grew on one side of the
lawn. She wanted to ask a certain question of Sal, and did not know how
to do it. The moodiness and irritability of Brian had troubled her very
much of late, and, with the quick instinct of her sex, she ascribed it
indirectly to the woman who had died in the back slum. Anxious to share
his troubles and lighten his burden, she determined to ask Sal about
this mysterious woman, and find out, if possible, what secret had been
told to Brian which affected him so deeply.
"Sal," she said, after a short pause, turning her clear grey eyes on
the woman, "I want to ask you something."
The other shivered and turned pale.
"About--about that?"
Madge nodded.
Sal hesitated for a moment, and then flung herself at the feet of her
mistress.
"I will tell you," she cried. "You have been kind to me, an' have a
right to know. I will tell you all I know."
"Then," asked Madge, firmly, as she clasped her hands tightly together,
"who was this woman whom Mr. Fitzgerald went to see, and where did she
come from?"
"Gran' an' me found her one evenin' in Little Bourke Street," answered
Sal, "just near the theatre. She was quite drunk, an' we took her home
with us."
"How kind of you," said Madge.
"Oh, it wasn't that," replied the other, dryly. "Gran' wanted her
clothes; she was awful swell dressed."
"And she took the clothes--how wicked!"
"Anyone would have done it down our way," answered Sal, indifferently;
"but Gran' changed her mind when she got her home. I went out to get
some gin for Gran', and when I came back she was huggin' and kissin'
the woman."
"She recognised her."
"Yes, I s'pose so," replied Sal, "an' next mornin', when the lady got
square, she made a grab at Gran', an' hollered out, 'I was comin' to
see you.'"
"And then?"
"Gran' chucked me out of the room, an' they had a long jaw; and then,
when I come back, Gran' tells me the lady is a-goin' to stay with us
'cause she was ill, and sent me for Mr. Whyte."
"And he came?"
"Oh, yes--often," said Sal. "He kicked up a row when he first turned
up, but when he found she was ill, he sent a doctor; but it warn't no
good. She was two weeks with us, and then died the mornin' she saw Mr.
Fitzgerald."
"I suppose Mr. Whyte was in the habit of talking to this woman?"
"Lots," returned Sal; "but he always turned Gran' an' me out of the
room afore he started."
"And"--hesitating--"did you ever overhear one of these conversations?"
"Yes--one," answered the other, with a nod. "I got riled at the way he
cleared us out of our own room; and once, when he shut the door and
Gran' went off to get some gin, I sat down at the door and listened. He
wanted her to give up some papers, an' she wouldn't. She said she'd die
first; but at last he got 'em, and took 'em away with him."
"Did you see them?" asked Madge, as the assertion of Gorby that Whyte
had been murdered for certain papers flashed across her mind.
"Rather," said Sal, "I was looking through a hole in the door, an' she
takes 'em from under her piller, an' 'e takes 'em to the table, where
the candle was, an' looks at 'em--they were in a large blue envelop,
with writing on it in red ink--then he put 'em in his pocket, and she
sings out: 'You'll lose 'em,' an' 'e says: 'No, I'll always 'ave 'em
with me, an' if 'e wants 'em 'e'll have to kill me fust afore 'e gits
'em.'"
"And you did not know who the man was to whom the papers were of such
importance?"
"No, I didn't; they never said no names."
"And when was it Whyte got the papers?"
"About a week before he was murdered," said Sal, after a moment's
thought. "An' after that he never turned up again. She kept watchin'
for him night an' day, an' 'cause he didn't come, got mad at him. I
hear her sayin', 'You think you've done with me, my gentleman, an'
leaves me here to die, but I'll spoil your little game,' an' then she
wrote that letter to Mr. Fitzgerald, an' I brought him to her, as you
know."
"Yes, yes," said Madge, rather impatiently. "I heard all that at the
trial, but what conversation passed between Mr. Fitzgerald and this
woman? Did you hear it?"
"Bits of it," replied the other. "I didn't split in Court, 'cause I
thought the lawyer would be down on me for listening. The first thing I
heard Mr. Fitzgerald sayin' was, 'You're mad--it ain't true,' an' she
ses, 'S'elp me it is, Whyte's got the proof,' an' then he sings out,
'My poor girl,' and she ses, 'Will you marry her now?' and ses he, 'I
will, I love her more than ever;' and then she makes a grab at him, and
says, 'Spile his game if you can,' and says he, 'What's yer name?' and
she says--"
"What?" asked Madge, breathlessly.
"Rosanna Moore!"
There was a sharp exclamation as Sal said the name, and, turning round
quickly, Madge found Brian standing beside her, pale as death, with his
eyes fixed on the woman, who had risen to her feet.
"Go on!" he said sharply.
"That's all I know," she replied, in a sullen tone. Brian gave a sigh
of relief.
"You can go," he said slowly; "I wish to speak with Miss Frettlby
alone."
Sal looked at him for a moment, and then glanced at her mistress, who
nodded to her as a sign that she might withdraw. She picked up her
book, and with another sharp enquiring look at Brian, turned and walked
slowly into the house.