As Esmeralda rode along between her two captors, she felt that they
were ascending one of the hills, and then that they were going down
on the other side. Neither of the men spoke, and at last she said:
“Will you not take this thing off my head?”
“Not yet,” growled the man on her right.
She knew that prayers and protestations would be of no avail, and
said no more.
It would be vain to deny that she was frightened; but she was not
overcome by terror, and she was able to reason. It occurred to her
that they did not mean to kill her, or they would have shot her
long before this. It was not the first time she had been in danger;
for in the rough and lawless camps which first dotted the wilds of
Australia, life was not held of much account, and men--and women,
too--were often in peril of life and limb.
She had been reared amid scenes which would have terrified a
London girl to death, and her nerve, strengthened by her rough
experiences, did not desert her at this juncture. Once or twice
she could even feel that she was capable of a smile, though the
smile did not actually come. Very few duchesses had ridden across
Australian hills with their heads muffled in a cloth and a couple
of ruffians with drawn revolvers at her side. If Lilias could only
see her now!
After a considerable ride, they pulled up; the man lifted her from
the horse, and taking her hand, led her into a hut; Esmeralda
offering no resistance, for she knew it would be worse than useless.
The man removed the cloth from her head, and, passing her
hand across her eyes--for they were confused by their long
blindfolding--she saw that she was in a diggers’ hut. A woman
stood by a table holding a candle in her hand. Esmeralda’s heart
rose as she saw her, and she looked at her with more than the
usual feminine curiosity--with an anxious scrutiny. The woman
was middle-aged, with a careworn face which was not altogether
repellant. She glanced at Esmeralda, then looked at Simon, as if
awaiting his orders.
“We’ve brought her,” said Simon, shortly. Then he turned to
Esmeralda: “So long as you keep quiet and behave yourself,
nobody’ll do yer any harm; I’d advise you not to make any attempt
to get away.”
Esmeralda said nothing, but stood looking at the woman.
“Give her some food,” said Simon, “and make her comfortable. We’ve
no grudge against her, as long as she doesn’t try to escape. We’re
outside, remember,” he added, to Esmeralda.
The two men went out, and Esmeralda sunk into a chair. The woman
put some food on the table and motioned Esmeralda to eat and drink.
She drank some tea and nibbled at some bread and butter, though, as
may be well understood, she was not much inclined for eating; but
she deemed it best to put on a cheerful countenance and affect to
take things coolly.
“Will you tell me your name?” she asked the woman.
The woman bit her lip, as if she found it difficult to resist the
fascination of the sweet voice and the lovely, pleading eyes.
“My name don’t matter,” she said. “You’d best not talk.”
She glanced unconsciously toward the door.
Esmeralda smiled a little wearily.
“Why not?” she said, pleasantly. “There’s no harm in talking,
surely, and I shall not say anything that I mind their hearing. Do
you know how long I am to be kept here?”
The woman shook her head.
“I don’t know anything,” she said, “and I couldn’t tell you if I
did. Them’s my orders, and I’ve got to obey them.”
She sighed as she spoke, and Esmeralda quickly divined that the
woman was an unwilling participant in her capture and detention.
Out of pity for her she refrained from asking any more questions,
but finished her tea and sat silent, with her head upon her hand.
“You’d best lie down,” said the woman; and she pointed to a rough
bed in the corner.
“Thank you,” said Esmeralda, gently, as she got up and went to the
bed; but she made no pretense of sleeping, and lay on her elbow,
watching the woman thoughtfully.
“Will you not let me help you wash up?” she said, presently. “I’m
not used to sitting by and seeing others at work that I can help
in.”
The woman shook her head.
“You look like a great lady,” she said, reluctantly, and as if she
could not help speaking, which was not strange, for few men and
women in the great world of London had been able to resist the
subtle fascination of Esmeralda’s manner.
“I am Esmeralda of Three Star Camp,” she said; “that is all.”
The woman stopped in the process of washing up, and looked at her
with an interest marked by the same reluctance.
“I heard somewhere that you was a great lady,” she said--“that you
was a lady by birth and in your own right.”
“Well, I suppose I am,” said Esmeralda, with a little laugh, for it
struck her as comical that she should be the Duchess of Belfayre.
“But it doesn’t much matter, does it, seeing that I’m a prisoner
here?” Then suddenly a thought flashed upon her. “Do you think they
want money?” she asked. “Because, if so--”
The woman shook her head.
“I don’t know anything about it; I don’t think so.”
Esmeralda dropped back with a sigh.
Simon had really made a very great mistake. Instead of applying to
Varley Howard for ransom, he should have obtained a written promise
for a sum of money from Esmeralda; but he had either not thought of
this, or deemed it better to obtain cash on the nail.
“If it is money they want,” said Esmeralda, “I would give them what
they asked. I am not anxious or afraid about myself, but I know
what trouble they will be in at Three Star.” Her voice faltered for
the first time, and she turned her head aside. “Go and tell them
what I say.”
The woman hesitated for a moment or two, then she went to the door
and spoke to the man on guard there.
“It ain’t for me to say,” Esmeralda heard him answer. “Simon’s
gone away for a bit; she can speak to him when he comes back.”
The woman continued talking for a minute or two, and during that
time Esmeralda looked round the hut. She saw a man’s coat hanging
on a nail, and her quick eyes caught the glint of a revolver stock
protruding from the pocket. She darted from the bed noiselessly,
snatched the revolver from the pocket, and concealed it in the
folds of her dress as she lay down again in her former attitude.
The woman came back to the table and stolidly took up a plate.
“It can’t be done now,” she said; “you’ll have to wait.”
“Very well,” said Esmeralda, with a sigh.
Then she let her head fall upon the pillow and closed her eyes, to
think, not to sleep.
She knew she was not in a camp, by the intense silence around, and
she rightly judged that she had been brought to a hut on one of
the deserted claims which were so numerous in the district. When
once a claim was deserted, it was not only neglected, but shunned
as a place of ill luck. No doubt Simon had taken refuge here from
the police. No one was likely to pass in this direction, and no
one could approach without giving Simon timely warning. She was a
prisoner on this lonely hill, utterly helpless, and in the power of
two unscrupulous men. But was she helpless? Her hand closed upon
the revolver, and her heart beat with a throb of that spirit which
she had breathed into her with the free air of Three Star. She had
heard that Simon had gone; there was, therefore, only one man on
guard, and this woman who bore her no ill will. She began to think
of escape, and her heart beat so fast that she could almost fancy
the woman would hear it. She opened her eyes from time to time and
looked at the woman, measuring her, as it were, and asking herself
whether she was a match for her in strength.
It was evident by Simon’s leaving them and the carelessness of the
guard outside--for she could hear him snoring at intervals--that it
had not occurred to them that she should dare to make any attempt
at escape, by which they proved that they did not know Esmeralda of
Three Star. She lay still, thinking intently. All her married life
passed before her as in a panorama. She wondered where Trafford was
at that moment. Perhaps he had obtained a divorce and was going to
marry Lady Ada; her eyelids quivered, and a long sigh broke from
her parched lips. The woman started.
“I thought you were asleep,” she said.
Esmeralda smiled.
“Would you be able to sleep if you were in my place?” she asked.
The woman bit her lip.
“I’d try to sleep, all the same,” she said, doggedly. “P’r’aps
you’re cold; I’ll get you another blanket.”
She passed behind the bed and reached up to a shelf for the
blanket. As she did so, Esmeralda rose, and gliding behind her,
touched her on the forehead with the muzzle of the revolver.
“Don’t cry out, don’t speak!” she said in a whisper.
The woman dropped her arms and turned her head away with a startled
and terrified expression on her careworn face.
“Don’t be frightened,” said Esmeralda in the lowest of whispers.
“I am not going to shoot you--but you can pretend I am--I mean to
escape, and you may as well help me, while pretending not to. Don’t
speak! You’re a woman like myself; think of what your friends would
be suffering if you had been carried off as I have been--if you
were in the same danger as I am! It is of them I am thinking more
than myself, and I mean to get away.”
The woman trembled, though more in fear of the men than Esmeralda,
as Esmeralda felt.
“You can’t,” she said, hoarsely. “There’s the man outside.”
Esmeralda backed behind the door, still covering the woman with the
revolver.
“Call him in,” she said in a whisper. “Offer him supper, a drink.”
The woman stood stolidly silent for a moment, and Esmeralda watched
her with a fast-beating heart. Was she going to refuse, or going to
give the alarm? It was a moment of suspense which seemed to spin
into years, for she knew that if her attempt failed her life would
pay the forfeit. Her eyes were fixed upon the woman’s face with an
imploration in them more eloquent than any spoken prayer could have
been; it was woman pleading to woman for help against their natural
foe--man.
The struggle that was going on within the woman’s mind was clearly
depicted on her face. She hesitated for another moment, then she
said in a voice of affected carelessness:
“Bill, you’d better come in and have something to eat and drink.”
Esmeralda held her breath and waited. She had heard the man yawn
and stretch himself; then the door opened and he entered, rubbing
his eyes and yawning again.
Esmeralda glided between him and the door, and said, quietly,
though every vein in her body was thrilling with excitement:
“Throw up your arms!”
The man swung round with an oath to find himself covered by the
revolver. His amazement was almost ludicrous, and he looked from
Esmeralda to the woman in speechless astonishment for a moment.
“Well,” he exclaimed, with an oath; “if this don’t beat anything!
How did she come by the iron?”
The woman shook her head.
“I don’t know,” she said, dully.
The man glanced at the coat hanging up on the wall of the hut, and
nodded.
“Well,” he said, philosophically, “it’s Simon’s coat, not mine. He
can’t blame me.”
He had his arms above his head, of course, as he spoke, and in his
bewilderment and chagrin he looked more comical than ever; but
Esmeralda knew that one false move of hers would turn the comedy
into a tragedy. The man had received orders to shoot her if she
attempted to escape, and he would carry them out promptly enough if
she gave him the chance.
Still covering him, she advanced slowly, and with fingers that
trembled notwithstanding her courage, she drew the revolver from
his belt.
The man offered no resistance, for he had heard of Esmeralda;
and if he had not, there was something in her flashing eyes, and
her lips, set resolutely, which would have inspired him with a
wholesome fear.
“Now get me the horse!” she said.
The man looked at her with a reluctant admiration.
“You’re a game ’un!” he said. “It ’pears to me that Simon has met
his match at last.” Then he turned to the woman: “I hold you to
witness that it was no fault of mine. It wa’n’t my revolver she got
hold of.”
The woman inclined her head.
“Get the horse,” said Esmeralda again. “This woman is as blameless
as you. I threatened to shoot her, and would have done so. You
forgot when you took me that I was reared in Three Star.”
She could not have denied herself the note of triumph if her life
had depended upon it.
“Yes; you’re always one too many for us,” said the man, resignedly.
“But there’ll be the devil to pay when Simon comes back.”
“Then pay him!” said Esmeralda. “Get the horse!”
As the man left the hut, she went to the woman and held out her
hand.
“Good-bye,” she whispered. “I know that you’re glad I am escaping;
for you are a woman, as I am.”
The woman’s hand closed over hers and her lips moved.
“Yes, I am glad,” she said, casting a fearful glance toward the
back of the man; “but you have not gone off yet.”
“I am not afraid,” said Esmeralda.
Her colloquy with the woman had taken but a second, and she
followed close upon the man’s heels. The horse was tethered close
beside the hut; the man put the saddle on without a word, and
Esmeralda sprung into it, the revolver still in her hand. The horse
was a young one, full of spirit and eager to be off, but she reined
him in for a moment.
“You won’t tell me the way to Three Star, I suppose?” she said in
her sweet voice.
The man looked up at her for a moment in silence.
“Well!” he exclaimed, with an oath, “if you ain’t the coolest hand
I’ve ever met with, may I be roasted eternally!” Then he blurted
out: “Keep on the ridge till you come to the stump of a pine,
then turn to the left, past the old Raven Claim, and go down the
track--and may Gawd help me when Simon comes back!”
“Thank you,” said Esmeralda, as courteously as if she were in a
London ball-room; and the next moment the man was left staring
after her, still in a state of mingled bewilderment and admiration.
At noon of that day the good people of Wally-Wally were startled by
a man riding at full gallop into what is called its market-place.
The horse was covered with sweat, flecked with foam, and panting
as if it had just won the Derby; the man was white, almost livid,
and his short hair clung to his brows in perspiring streaks. He
was covered with dust and without his hat, for it had fallen off
some ten miles back and had been disregarded and left to ornament
the plain. It took the crowd some few minutes to recognize in
this perspiring and livid gentleman the usually calm and languid
individual, Mr. Varley Howard, the well-known gambler; but when
they recognized him, they gathered round him with sympathetic and
curious glances and questions.
“Riding a race against time, Varley?” said one.
“Anybody’s house afire?” inquired another.
“What’s yer hurry, Varley?” demanded a third.
Varley slid from his horse.
“Is the bank closed?” he asked in a voice rendered dry and husky
by the clouds of dust through which he’d passed like the Spirit
of Life or Death, by the terrible exertion crowded into those few
short hours.
“Just closing,” said one. “What’s the matter, Varley?”
“Nothing,” said Varley, languidly. “I want eighteen pence to pay a
man who’s hard up.”
The crowd was quick to appreciate the repartee, and laughed with
keen enjoyment.
“Take my horse and wash him down, and give him as much oats as he
can eat,” said Varley; then he passed into the bank.
The manager was at the counter, and received him with a smile of
fellowship and the air of respect which were always unquestioningly
and freely accorded to Mr. Varley Howard.
“Give me a hundred and sixty pounds in gold--and quick!” said
Varley.
The manager looked at him in surprise, but a little exclamation of
Varley’s, scarcely a word, not much more than a breath, spurred
the manager to haste. He counted out the gold and put it in a bag,
which Varley consigned to his pocket. Then, with a “Thanks; hot,
isn’t it?” he walked out. His reappearance was of course greeted
with numerous offers to drink. Varley went to the nearest pub and
tossed off a glass of whisky and water, then he rolled a cigarette
and smoked it deliberately. His admirers watched him with curious
and worshiping regard.
“Been killin’ any one, Varley, and want to provide for the widow?”
asked one. “Where have you come from?”
“From Three Star,” said Varley, quietly. “I left there at two
o’clock this morning.”
From any other man the assertion would have been received with
incredulous amusement; but Varley’s word was always ever so much
better than any other man’s bond, and the group stared at him with
amazement. He finished his cigarette and sauntered out. Half an
hour later he was mounted on his mare, who looked as if she had
just come fresh from the stable after a week’s rest, and was going
at an easy swing out of the embryo town.
As rider and horse were disappearing in a cloud of dust, the
Ballarat coach drove in. The coachman--no other than Johnson,
the phlegmatic--nodded toward the disappearing horseman, and,
addressing a gentleman who sat beside him, remarked:
“There goes the best man we’ve got on show in these parts.” The
gentleman to whom he spoke turned a somewhat pale and weary face to
the coachman.
“Who is he?” he asked.
“Mr. Varley Howard,” answered Johnson.
Trafford, for it was he, started slightly.
“Varley Howard?” he repeated, mechanically.
“Yes,” said Johnson. “He’s just ridden in. He ain’t made much of a
stay. I heard at the stables that there was some trouble at Three
Star--something in which his ward, Esmeralda, was concerned.”
Trafford almost rose from his seat.
“Esmeralda!” he exclaimed, half unconsciously.
“Yes,” said Johnson. “It must be something to do with her, or you
wouldn’t find Varley Howard moving at this rate. She came out with
my coach six weeks ago or thereabouts. We was ‘put up’ by the Dog’s
Ear men, and Varley saved us.”
“And Esmeralda--this lady?” asked Trafford, with a tightening of
the lips.
“Oh, she was safe enough. Varley brought her down to the camp, and
they gave her a reception that took the cake! What’s happened to
her now, I don’t rightly know.”
Trafford leaned back and wiped his brow, and something like a groan
escaped his lips. She was here, then!