One day Lancelot called upon a certain famous specialist (I'll tell you

a pretty piece of scandal about his wife some day), and after a brief

wait was shown into the consulting-room. He sniffed the professional

smell of the place for five minutes, and while listening to the ticking

of the clock upon the mantelpiece, made up his mind on a certain

subject.

After the specialist had completed a searching examination, Lancelot

said,--"As you see, I am growing thinner every day; it nearly kills me

to walk fifty yards, and my appetite has forsaken me completely. It's

not the first time you've told men their fate: tell me mine. What is the

length of my tether?"

"My dear sir, my very dear sir!" that worthy man replied, as he put his

paraphernalia back into their respective cases, "we must not despair!

While there is life there is hope; with proper care you may yet----"

"But I shall take no care. How long have I to live?"

"As I have said, with scrupulous attention to detail and proper advice,

say twelve months, possibly more."

"And without that care?"

"I cannot tell you--perhaps five minutes, perhaps five months; it

depends upon yourself."

"I am glad to hear that. Good-day!"

As he stepped into his buggy a letter crinkled in his breast-pocket. He

laid himself back on the seat, murmuring Heine's

"Lay your dear little hand on my heart, my fair!

Ah! you hear how it knocks on its chamber there?

In there dwells a carpenter grim and vile,

And he's shaping a coffin for me the while.

"There is knocking and hammering night and day;

Long since they have frightened my sleep away.

Oh, carpenter, show that you know your trade,

That so to sleep I may soon be laid!"

Half-way up the mountain-road, Arthur overtook the buggy and cantered

alongside.

"You're looking pretty cheap, old man," he said; "better come to dinner

to-night, and see if we can't cheer you up--7.30 as usual!"

"Thanks! I think I will," answered Lancelot. "I don't feel particularly

bright!"

* * * * *

Immediately after dessert Guinevere retired, leaving her husband and

their guest together.

As Lancelot drew his handkerchief from his pocket, a letter came with it

and fell unnoticed to the floor.

On rising Arthur saw it and picked it up. He read it without apology,

and as he did so his face set. Then he politely handed it to his guest,

saying,--

"I must beg your pardon, this is evidently your property!"

Lancelot did not speak, but sank back in his chair while the other

continued,--"This is really a most unfortunate affair; and so my wife is

about to dishonour my name, in order to devote herself more exclusively

to the care of your health?"

"The fault is mine," stammered Lancelot, "only mine!"

"My dear fellow, not at all. Judging from that letter, she is in love

with you--possibly she is right. We won't argue that matter. She seems

fond of playing the _role_ of St. Mary Magdala."

"What do you mean to do?"

"Turn her out of my house to-night, or settle the matter with you!"

"Settle with me; but for God's sake spare her!"

"Very well! Let us discuss the question quietly. As you know, I do not

believe in what is called sentiment, and fortunately I am able to say,

with a clear conscience, that I am not in love with my wife. Probably if

I were, I should act otherwise. Now, what I propose is, that chance

shall decide for us whether my wife leaves Australia, as she suggests,

with you, or whether you go alone concealing your destination and

promising never to communicate in any way with her again. Both are

unpleasant alternatives, but my gain is, that in either case I shall be

rid of you!"

"Good God, man, what an unholy arrangement! Supposing I refuse?"

"For her sake you cannot. I assure you I should turn her out of my house

to-night!"

"But will you treat her kindly if I agree?"

"Isn't that rather a curious question from you to me? You must see that

it depends entirely on her. Do you agree to my proposal?"

"God help me, I have no alternative!"

There was a long pause, during which Guinevere's music came faintly from

the drawing-room.

"Very well; in that case, we had better decide at once. What is my wife

playing?"

"An Andante and Scherzo of Beethoven's."

"Do you know it?"

"Thoroughly."

"Then you have that much in your favour. See, here, it is just three and

a half minutes to nine by that clock. If she stops before the first

stroke of the hour, I win, and she stays with me, and _vice versa_. Do

you agree?"

"I cannot do otherwise. God help her; it is all my fault!"

"Not at all, I assure you. Let us make ourselves comfortable. Will you

try that port? No? You are foolish; it is an excellent vintage. Ah! one

minute gone! What a lovely melody it is; and she plays it charmingly.

The laughter of the Scherzo is delicious! May I trouble you for that

decanter? Thank you! Two minutes gone. It appears as if my luck is going

to fail me at last. Well, it can't be helped. I don't know which of us

will be the gainer by the change. By the way, let me recommend you to go

to Europe, and you might winter in Algiers; the climate you will find

most ben----Ah! she has stopped. Well, I am afraid, Mr. Haywood, Fate

has decided _against_ you. Shall I order your carriage?"

Lancelot did not answer save by a little convulsive gasp. Then a little

trickle of blood ran from his lips down his chin. The excitement had

been too much for him; the frail cord that bound him to life had

snapped, and he was dead.

The Story of Tommy Dodd and "The Rooster"

"Keep back, in the yellow! Come up, on Othello!

Hold hard, on the chestnut! Turn round, on The Drag:

Keep back there, on Spartan! Back, you, sir, in tartan!

So! steady there! easy! and down went the flag."

--Adam Lindsay Gordon.

Men in all ranks of society, from cabinet ministers to hotel clerks, are

apt to underestimate the true importance of Little Things. Women never

do, because it is their business in life to overestimate everything.

Though these statements may seem paradoxical, when you've studied the

sad history of Tommy Dodd and "The Rooster," my meaning will be as clear

as noonday.

Jack Medway's Love Affair was a case in point; for if he had paid proper

attention to small matters, he would not have cuffed "The Rooster" in

Bourke Street, nor emphasized the insult by calling him a "dirty brat";

then most assuredly he would have married the girl of his heart, instead

of a certain vivacious widow who now bullies his life away. Of course

people bursting with common sense will deem it impossible that a rebuke

given to a street-arab in Melbourne could affect the destinies of four

people three years afterwards in North Queensland; nevertheless, without

a shadow of doubt, such was the case. Just let me explain a little

before you watch the course of events for yourself.

In the first place, Tommy Dodd was a racehorse, and one who had earned

fame for himself on every course in Victoria from Mosquito Creek to Cape

Howe. That he was not originally intended for the turf was evident from

the fact that he made his first appearance in Government employ; and it

was not until he had nearly killed four telegraph messengers and two

important citizens that he was deemed unfit for the public service. Then

he was put up to auction, and Lazarus Levi secured him for a quarter of

his real value. He was a most accommodating quadruped, and with not more

than nine-stone-six on his back was able, when his owner so desired, to

make even crack performers look ridiculous. He had one fault, however,

and that was----But I'll tell you about that directly.

"The Rooster" was another curiosity. His body was the body of a child,

his face was the face of a lad; but his knowledge of the world, and the

racing world in particular, could only have been gained in generations

of experience. A great love for Tommy Dodd, and an intense hatred for

the before-mentioned Mr. John Medway, of Barcoola Station, were among

other of his peculiarities.

Now it so happened that after Jack Medway was appointed manager of

Barcoola, he fell in love. I don't push this forward as anything

extraordinary; but, as the statement of the fact is necessary to the

proper narration of this story, I am bound to repeat, Jack Medway was in

love, and Gerty Morris was the object of his affection. He also

_respected_ a dashing widow, named Leversidge.

The trouble dates from the issue of the first advertisements in

connection with the Barcoola Races. At this yearly festival every owner,

manager, jackeroo and rouseabout, within a hundred miles of the course,

makes it a point of honour to be present. Then, for the space of a week,

life is one whirl of shows, picnics, dances, and meetings. But above all

the races reigned supreme.

One Sunday afternoon in Dr. Morris's verandah The Ladies' Bracelet was

discussed, and Gerty Morris half hinted that Medway should enter a horse

for it in her name. Naturally he jumped at the chance, and after summing

up the strength of the most likely entries, cast about him for a nag.

(At this point the curtain should fall upon Act I., with rosy limelight

effects, suggestive of Dawning Love and High Ideas.)

* * * * *

When an owner runs a horse to suit his book he should not grumble if his

method is discovered; for stewards do _sometimes_ see crooked running,

and when they do they are apt to make things troublesome for that owner.

Perhaps the proprietor of Tommy Dodd had met with some misfortune of

this sort, for that sagacious animal suddenly disappeared from the

southern racing world, and was seen therein no more.

A month later a mob of horses came up to Queensland, and at the sale a

long, lolloping chestnut gelding, name unknown, was knocked down to

Medway for twenty pounds. Though he was not aware of the fact, he was

now the owner of the famous Tommy Dodd.

After the sale, driving home from the township, Beverley, of Kimona,

nearly annihilated a drunken atom lying on the track. He picked him up

and drove on. Next day, ascertaining that he possessed racing

experience, he put him on to exercise The Gift. The Gift was his entry

for The Bracelet, under the nomination of an _unknown_ Alice Brown, in

whom everybody, of course, recognised the before-mentioned Miss Gertrude

Morris. That atom was "The Rooster," who had followed Tommy Dodd from

the south. And here again Fate played up against Jack Medway.

(Curtain on Act II.: subdued lights and music suggestive of much

Mystery.)

* * * * *

A week later the entries of the Barcoola Jockey Club's Autumn Meeting

were announced, and Mr. J. Medway's Young Romeo, and Mr. R. Beverley's

The Gift, were in the list of competitors.

The training of both animals was proceeding satisfactorily, and the

owner of Young Romeo, _alias_ Tommy Dodd, informed Miss Morris that the

bracelet she so much coveted must certainly become her property.

Beverley had written to her that morning to the same effect.

"The Rooster" ferreted about until he discovered his equine friend's

abode, and at the same time learnt all he cared to know about the owner.

Then, remembering the insult of three years before, he saw a chance of

revenge. He was quick-witted enough to notice the rivalry between

Beverley and Medway, and he quite understood that both men had staked

their life's happiness upon the issue of the race. He knew more about

Tommy Dodd than any man living, so he took Beverley into his confidence,

and revealed the animal's one peculiarity. That gentleman gave him a

sovereign to hold his tongue, and as Young Romeo was the only horse he

feared, he now saw his way clear to victory.

(Here Act III. terminates, with much red fire and music suggestive of

conspiracy.)

* * * * *

It is all nonsense to say that a good day's sport cannot be enjoyed

without grand-stands, electric scratching-boards, and telegraphs. The

Barcoola Jockey Club possessed none of these advantages, and yet their

races were always wonderfully successful. The fact is, in North

Queensland the horse is _the_ consideration; but the farther you go

south, the nearer you get to directors' meetings and bank

overdrafts--consequently, the more iniquitous and black-guardly the

sport becomes.

Jack Medway drove his party on to the course in great style, and pretty

Gerty Morris sat beside him, looking the picture of health and

happiness. Beverley watched the waggonette draw up in a good position,

and smiled sardonically. (The Gift was as fit as hands could make him:

Young Romeo was his only enemy; and armed with "The Rooster's"

knowledge, he knew he held _him_ safe.)

Now, the secret was very simple after all. Years before, when Tommy Dodd

was in Government employ, he had been put to a good deal of torture by

one small telegraph boy, whose peculiar pleasure it was to flay him

daily with a green hide whip. When this amiable young gentleman had

succeeded in rawing the horse's sides to his own satisfaction, he still

further goaded the poor brute by raising the hide as if to strike, yet

never letting it descend. The result of this was that, even in his

racing days, Tommy Dodd could never be persuaded to pass a lifted whip.

This was "The Rooster's" secret, and the sequel you shall know directly.

The races opened splendidly. A Bush Handicap of 30 sovs., half a mile,

was won after a determined struggle by Mr. Exton's Headstrong, 7 st. 2

lb., totalisator dividend, L3 10s. The District Plate went to Mr.

Goodwyn's Endymion, 6 st. 10 lb., totalisator dividend, L5 6s. After

that, hampers were opened, and every one went to luncheon. Dick Beverley

lunched with the Barcoola party, and made himself vastly agreeable to

all concerned--his rival included. The Bracelet Stakes was the first

event after luncheon, and the two men went away to dress.

Young Romeo had been excellently prepared, and for old association's

sake took to the process very kindly. "The Rooster" kept The Gift out of

the way till he was wanted, on the plea that he was "a mighty nervous

'oss to 'andle."

After weighing in, Jack Medway offered Beverley a level fifty against

his mount. "I'll take you," said Beverley, and strolled away to saddle.

Every one was pleased with the appearance of Young Romeo. He carried

himself prettily, and swept over the ground with that easy gliding

motion characteristic of a thoroughbred. His rider looked and behaved

well in the saddle, so the ladies were unanimous in their praise. The

Gift was not a handsome horse, but he had a wear-and-tear appearance

that was better than mere beauty, and more than one who could judge of

horse-flesh slipped away to put "just a saver" on him. The remainder of

the field were a very so-so lot indeed.

As the rivals passed the Barcoola party in their preliminary canter,

Gerty Morris scanned both men carefully, but could not make up her mind

which she preferred. However, Medway had openly promised her the

bracelet, so he had that in his favour. His colours were white jacket,

red sleeves and cap; and she had worked a tiny sprig of ivy on the

collar, of which he was inordinately proud.

After a little delay at the post, the flag dropped to a good start.

Warrigal was the first away, with Endymion and The Gift in close

attendance; Young Romeo was unfortunate, and brought up the rear with

The Jackeroo and Blush Rose. As they passed the windmill, Endymion

changed places with Warrigal, and Young Romeo came up to fourth place.

Then The Gift forged to the front and led by a length. On entering the

dip, Medway pushed Young Romeo to second place, and remained there

watching events until they came into the straight. The crowd, thinking

all was over, commenced shouting, "The Gift wins," "The Gift in a

canter," "The Gift," etc., etc., etc., until Jack Medway thought it time

to make play, so he set sail in pursuit. Young Romeo was full of running

and overhauled his rival foot by foot; when fifty yards from the post

they were locked neck and neck. Both were doing all they knew. Then "The

Rooster's" secret flashed through Beverley's mind, and instantly he

raised his whip, _but did not strike_. Next moment he was past the post

with a couple of lengths to spare. To every one's surprise, Young Romeo,

on his right, had shut up like a concertina just as he had it all his

own way. _The bracelet was the property of Miss Brown._

Next day we were informed that Gerty Morris had accepted Beverley, of

Kimona, with her parents' full consent, and, strange to say, at the

dinner given to celebrate that wonderful event she wore the bracelet of

the famous race. Medway was among those invited, but he declined the

invitation on the plea that business demanded his presence elsewhere.

* * * * *

"I often think that if he knew everything he would be the first to

regret having hurt 'The Rooster's' feelings that night in Bourke Street.

They say he is not having a very happy time of it with his wife--once

the Widow Leversidge."

Now don't you think I'm right about the importance of Little Things?

Quod Erat Demonstrandum

"That this is doctrine, simple, ancient, true;

Such is life's trial, as old Earth smiles and knows.

If you loved only what were worth your love,

Love were clear gain, and wholly well for you;

Make the low nature better by your throes!

Give earth yourself, go up for gain above!"

--R. Browning.

Any afternoon, between three and five, you will probably find in the

Club Library, somewhere near the S T E and T R A Bookcase, a thin,

restless-eyed man of perhaps five-and-fifty years of age. He will answer

to the name of Pennethorne--Cornelius Pennethorne--and he can

_sometimes_ be trusted to converse in a fairly rational manner.

Generally, however, he is chock-full of nonsensical ideas, founded on

what he calls "Inferences from Established Principles," and these make

it almost impossible for him to do anything, from tying his bootlace to

reducing his Overdraft, except on theories of his own determining.

He sold out of the Army because he had proved to the War Office that the

science of modern warfare was founded on an entirely wrong basis, and

the greyheads refused his aid to set it right. So, washing his hands of

the whole affair, he came to Australia. This was in '69, or perhaps '70.

Knowing nothing about station work, he gave sixty thousand pounds for a

property on the Diamantina, in order to demonstrate his own theories on

cattle-breeding. And when they proved unworkable, he spent a small

fortune inventing a gold-crushing plant--another failure. In similar

manner all his pet projects faded away, one after another, like

cats'-paws on a big lagoon.

But he learnt nothing from these rebuffs, and there was no _kudos_ to be

gained by showing him what an utter ass he really was. You _can_ reason

with some men, but not with Pennethorne: he came from obstinate Cornish

stock; and as soon as he saw the theory of the moment a failure, he

threw it away and dived deeper still into something else.

When he had exhausted cattle-breeding, horse-breaking, irrigation and

gold-mining, he hunted about for some other channel in which to sink his

money; but for the moment nothing came to hand.

Then some one sent him a pamphlet entitled "The Folklore of our

Aboriginal Predecessors," or something of an equally idiotic nature; and

in this he saw a fresh opening. His district was infested with blacks,

so he plunged holus-bolus into their private affairs. He argued that the

theory of their treatment was altogether wrong, and for three months he

choked the Colonial Press with lengthy screeds denouncing every one

concerned in their government. Beginning with the Protector of

Aboriginals and his staff, he took in the Commissioner of Police, and

clergy of all denominations. Then, working through the Legislative and

Executive Councils, he finished with a great blare at the Governor

himself. It never, for an instant, struck him that he was making an

egregious ass of himself. That, probably, would be some one else's

theory.

Now of all this absurd man's absurd ideas, his fondest, and consequently

his most absurd, was that, fundamentally, the nature of both blacks and

whites is the same. He contended that education and opportunity are

alone responsible for the difference. He said he would prove it.

Taking from the nearest tribe a little half-caste girl, perhaps eight

years of age, he sent her south to school, and, cutting off all

communication with her people, sat himself down to watch results.

After the child had been enjoying the advantages of every luxury for ten

years, he went down to ascertain what progress she had made, and was

astounded at the result. In place of the half-wild urchin he remembered,

he found a well-mannered, accomplished girl, able to hold her own

anywhere. She received him with an air of _abandon_ that staggered him,

and he was pleased beyond measure. He said he would go down to the Club

and show the scoffers there that one theory, at least, had proved

successful.

On reaching it he discovered a strange generation, and was not a little

chagrined to find himself and his theories almost forgotten. The younger

men watched him meandering about the rooms, and said to each other, "Who

is this old bore Pennethorne, and what forgotten part of the interior

does he come from?"

So delighted was he with the success of his scheme that he sent the girl

to Europe for a year, he himself returning to the Back-blocks. It must

be remembered here that her colour was not pure black, but a sort of

dirty brown, that she was by no means ill-looking, and that she had been

perfectly educated.

Then came the situation he should have foreseen, "When her education was

completed, what was to be done with her?" In the loneliness of his

station he thought and thought, but could come to no conclusion. She

would know enough to make a perfect governess; but then, perhaps, no one

would care to give her employment. It was impossible that she should go

back to the tribe, and it was equally unlikely that any suitable man

would ask her hand in marriage. He began to realize what a white

elephant he had raised up for himself.

One cold winter's night, when the rain was beating down and the wind

whistling round the station-house, it flashed through his mind that it

would be by no means unpleasant to exchange his grumpy old housekeeper

for a younger woman--one who could make the evenings pleasant with music

and intellectual conversation. But it would have this drawback--it would

mean matrimony.

All this time his _protegee_ was writing him charming letters from Rome

and Naples, commenting shrewdly on all the wonders she was seeing.

Sometimes on the run he would read these letters, and think out certain

schemes all by himself.

On her return he went down to Sydney for the special purpose of meeting

her. He found a pretty little woman in a neat dark blue travelling dress

awaiting him. Her white cuffs and collar contrasted charmingly with her

dark complexion. She received him very nicely, and he noticed that she

had picked up the little mannerisms of the better-class Englishwomen she

had met. They drove to the Australian, and a week later were married by

special licence.

Most men who remembered him said he was a very big fool; the rest said

that they would give _their_ opinions when they saw how events turned

out.

Directly they were married they posted straight off to the station. And

herein Pennethorne acted very unwisely. He should have toured Tasmania

and New Zealand, or visited Japan in the orthodox way. But he was unlike

other men, and it was a moral impossibility for him to act like a

rational being--his theories got in the way and tripped him up.

For the first year or so everything progressed beautifully, and he wrote

glowing accounts of his new life to the few men whose friendship he had

thought worth retaining. Then the correspondence ceased abruptly, and

his friends marvelled.

Now, of all those who had scoffed at Pennethorne's theories, the most

persistent was William Pevis Farrington, afterwards His Honour Mr.

Justice Farrington. In the middle of his happiness, Pennethorne had

invited the judge, if ever he should be travelling that way, etc.--you

know the usual sort of thing--to put in a day or two with him, and see

for himself how things stood. About a year later Farrington did happen

to be somewhere in the district and called as requested.

Meeting his host near the homestead, they rode up together, and

Farrington noticed that Pennethorne decidedly looked his age. When they

reached the house the latter, leaving his guest in the dining-room, went

in search of his wife, to return about ten minutes later saying she was

unwell. They dined alone. All through the meal Pennethorne seemed

disturbed and uncomfortable, and when it was over led the way into the

garden, where he said abruptly, "Farrington, you think me a madman,

don't you?"

The judge mumbled the only thing he could think of at the moment, and

endeavoured to push the conversation off to a side track by an inquiry

after Mrs. Pennethorne's health. It had precisely the contrary effect to

what he intended.

His friend had twelve years' arrears to work off before he could be

considered, conversationally, a decent companion. So, setting to work,

he poured into the unfortunate judge's ears his granary of theories,

facts, and arguments. He marshalled his arguments, backed them up with

his theories, and clinched all with his facts, his voice rising from its

usual placid level to a higher note of almost childish entreaty.

Unconsciously he was endeavouring to convince himself, through the

medium of a second person, of the wisdom contained in his marriage

experiment.

Farrington listened attentively. His trained mind distinguished between

what the other believed and what he was endeavouring to prove against

his own convictions. However, he could see that the keynote of the whole

harangue was Failure, but as every one admitted that the last experiment

had proved entirely successful, in what direction did such failure lie?

He was more than a little mixed, and by delicate cross-examination

elicited certain facts that puzzled him still more.

One thing was plainly evident: Pennethorne was very much in love with

his wife. In the first place he was given to understand that no man

could desire a more amiable wife than Mrs. Pennethorne had proved

herself to be. This heading included virtues too numerous to

mention--but she was not well. Nor could any man desire a more

_accomplished_ wife than Mrs. Pennethorne, who was fit to be the

helpmate of an Oxford Don--but she was not well. His assertions always

had the same refrain--"She was not well!"

Because he could not understand, Farrington became deeply interested.

* * * * *

Just before daylight the judge was wakened by his host. He saw in an

instant that something terrible had happened.

_Mrs. Pennethorne had disappeared in the night, her husband knew not

whither!_

Even with his teeth chattering in his head, and his palsied old hand

rattling the candlestick, he was compelled to state _his theory_ of her

absence.

Farrington, seeing he was not responsible for his actions, acted for

him. He routed out all the station hands and scoured the country. They

spent all day searching the scrub, dragging the dams and waterholes, and

at nightfall had to give it up as hopeless.

Farrington and Pennethorne rode home together. Passing through a rocky

gully, they noticed the smoke of a camp fire floating up into the still

night air, and rode up to make inquiries. The blacks were at their

evening meal. One filthy girl raised her head and looked up at them from

her frowsy blankets. _It was Mrs. Pennethorne!_

After thirteen years of civilization the race instinct had proved too

strong: the reek of the camp fires, the call of the Bush, and the

fascination of the old savage life had come back upon her with double

intensity, and so the last theory had to be written down a failure.

_Q.E.D._

Cupid and Psyche

"Handsome, amiable, and clever,

With a fortune and a wife;

So I make my start whenever

I would build the fancy life.

After all the bright ideal,

What a gulf there is between

Things that are, alas! too real

And the things that might have been!"

--Henry S. Leigh.

His name upon the ship's books was Edward Braithwaite Colchester, but

between Tilbury and Sydney Harbour he was better known as Cupid. His

mother was a widow with four more olive branches, absolutely dependent

on her own and Teddy's exertions.

At the best of times Kindergartens for the children of respectable

tradespeople are not particularly remunerative, and the semi-detached

villa in Sydenham was often sorely tried for petty cash. But when Teddy

was appointed fourth officer of the X.Y.Z. Company's steamship _Cambrian

Prince_, endless possibilities were opened up.

If you will remember that everything in this world is ordained to a

certain end, you will see that Teddy's future entirely depended on his

falling in love--first love, of course, and not the matter-of-fact

business-like affair that follows later.

After his second voyage he obtained a fortnight's leave and hastened

home. Being fond of tennis and such-like amusements, he was naturally

brought into contact with many charming girls, who, because he was a

strange man and a sailor, were effusively polite. Then he fell

hopelessly in love with a horribly impossible girl, and in the

excitement of the latest waltz proposed, and was accepted, on the

strength of a fourth officer's pay, an incipient moustache, and a dozen

or so brass buttons.

During the next voyage his behaviour towards unmarried women was marked

by that circumspection which should always characterize an engaged man.

He never allowed himself to forget this for an instant, and his cabin

had for its chief ornament a plush-framed likeness of a young lady

gazing, with a wistful expression, over a palpably photographic sea.

Now, it was necessary for his ultimate happiness that Teddy Colchester

should learn that, like his own brass buttons, without constant

burnishing, a young lady's affection is apt to lose much of its pristine

brightness, and that too much sea air is good for neither. He ticked off

the days of absence, and, as his calendar lessened, his affection

increased.

At Plymouth a letter met him--a jerky, inky, schoolgirl epistle,

evidently written by a writer very cold and miserable; and the first

reading stunned him. Had he seen a little more of the real world, he

would have been able to read between the lines something to this effect:

"You're Teddy, three months away, and I'm madly in love with a soldier."

Then he would have noted that the writer was staying in Salisbury, after

which he would have hunted up his home papers and discovered that the

Royal Wiltshire Yeomanry Cavalry were encamped at Humington Down. But as

he had only seen life through a telescope, he could not do this,

consequently his pain was a trifle acute.

His mother wrote him four pages of sympathy. But though she wondered at

any girl jilting her boy, she could not help a feeling of satisfaction

at its being still in her power to transmute three-quarters of his pay

into food and raiment for her brood.

Next voyage the _Cambrian Prince_ had her full complement of passengers,

and the "Kangaroo Girl," whom perhaps you may remember, was of the

number. At Plymouth a little reserved girl joined, and as she is

considerably mixed up in this story, you must know that she rejoiced in

the unpretentious name of Hinks.

For the first week or so Teddy held very much aloof from the passengers,

engaging himself entirely with recollections of the girl for whose sake

he was going to live "only in a memory."

Being an honest, straightforward young fellow, he of course followed the

prescribed programme of all blighted love affairs. He began by pitying

himself for the sorrow he was undergoing, then went on to picture the

future that might have been theirs had she married him; but before they

were clear of the Bay he had arrived at the invariable conclusion, and

was pitying himself for pitying the girl who was foolish enough to jilt

such an entirely estimable young man as Edward Braithwaite Colchester.

One moonlight night, after leaving "Gib," he was leaning over the rails

of the promenade deck, feeling sympathetically inclined to the world in

general, when somebody stepped up beside him. It was Miss Hinks. She

prefaced her conversation with two or three questions about the sea, and

he made the astounding discovery that her voice possessed just the note

of sympathy he required for his complaint. He had felt sorry for her

because other people snubbed her, and she for him because she had been

told exaggerated stories about his love affair. Together they made

rather a curious couple.

[Illustration: "One moonlight night ... somebody stepped up beside

him."]

When, under the supervision of the "Kangaroo Girl," the shore parties

for Naples were being organized, Miss Hinks was tacitly left out.

Somehow the impression got about that she was poor, and no one cared

about paying her expenses. But eventually she did go, and it was in the

charge of the fourth officer. When she thanked him for his kindness, he

forgot for the moment his pledge "to live henceforth only in a memory."

The "Kangaroo Girl," on discovering that Miss Hinks _had_ been on shore,

under the escort of that "dear little pink officer," was vastly amused,

and christened them Cupid and Psyche.

Now, the end of it all was, that Teddy began to find himself caring less

and less for the thumb-stained photograph in his locker, and more and

more for the privilege of pumping his sorrows into a certain sympathetic

ear. Shipboard allows so many opportunities of meeting; and, strange as

it may appear, a broken heart is quickest mended when subjected to a

second rending. This cure is based on the homoeopathic principle of

like curing like.

By the time they reached Aden he had convinced himself that his first

love affair had been the result of a too generous nature, and that this

second was the one and only _real_ passion of his life.

At Colombo Miss Hinks went ashore with the doctor's party--tiffined at

Mount Lavinia, dined at the Grand Oriental, and started back for the

ship about nine o'clock.

Teddy, begrimed with coal-dust, watched each boat load arrive, and as he

did so his love increased.

On account of the coal barges it was impossible for boats to come

alongside, consequently their freight had to clamber from hulk to hulk.

Miss Hinks was the last of her party to venture; and just as the doctor,

holding out his hand, told her to jump, the hulk swayed out and she fell

with a scream into the void. Then, before any one could realize what had

happened, the barge rolled back into its place. Miss Hinks had

disappeared.

Teddy, from half-way up the gangway, tore off his coat, leapt into the

water, and, at the risk of having his brains knocked out, dived and

plunged between the boats, but without success. Then he saw something

white astern, and swam towards it.

* * * * *

The half-drowned couple must have come to an understanding in the

rescuing-boat, for next day their engagement was announced.

The "Kangaroo Girl" gave evidence of her wit when she said, "It was

fortunate they were Cupid and Psyche, otherwise they would find love

rather insufficient capital to begin housekeeping upon!"

Teddy wrote to his mother from Adelaide, and she, poor woman, was not

best pleased to hear the news. But a surprise was in store for us all.

On the _Cambrian Prince's_ arrival in Sydney, Miss Hinks was met by an

intensely respectable old gentleman, who, it appeared, was her

solicitor. On being informed of the engagement, he examined Teddy with

peculiar interest, and asked if he were aware of his good fortune. Miss

Hinks smiled.

Half an hour later we learnt that the girl whom we'd all been pitying

for her poverty was none other than Miss Hinks-Gratton, _the

millionairess and owner of innumerable station and town properties_!

The Teddy of to-day is a director of half a dozen shipping companies,

and he quite agrees with me "that everything in this world is ordained

to a certain end."

Misplaced Affections

"Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,

Old Time is still a-flying:

And this same flower that smiles to-day,

To-morrow will be dying.

"Then be not coy, but use your time;

And while ye may, go marry:

For having lost but once your prime,

You may for ever tarry."

--R. Herrick.

The point I wish to illustrate is, that it is not safe, at any time, to

play with such an inflammable passion as Love, even though it be to

oblige one's nearest and dearest friend. Once upon a time pretty Mrs.

Belverton used to laugh at me for warning her, but she is compelled to

admit the truth of my argument now.

It was Mrs. Belverton, you will remember, who originated the famous

Under Fifty Riding Club, whose initials, _U.F.R.C._, over two crossed

hunting-crops and a double snaffle, were construed, by irreverent folk,

to mean _Unlimited Flirtation Religiously Conserved_. The Club is now

defunct, but its influence will be traceable in several families for

many years to come.

The following events, you must know, occurred the summer before William

Belverton received the honour of knighthood, and while he was renting

Acacia Lodge at the corner of the Mountain Road, the house below Tom

Guilfoy's, and nearly opposite the residence of the Kangaroo Girl of

blessed memory.

It was by extending her sympathies as guide, philosopher, and friend to

all unhappy love affairs that Mrs. Belverton made herself famous in our

Australian world; and many and extraordinary were the scrapes this

little amusement dragged her into. Could her drawing-room curtains have

spoken, they would have been able to throw light upon many matters of

vital interest, but matters of such a delicate nature as to absolutely

prohibit their publication here.

The Otway-Belton couple, for instance, owe their present happiness to

her assistance at a critical juncture in their family history; while the

Lovelaces, man and wife, would to-day be separated by the whole length

and breadth of our earth, but for her tact during a certain desperate

five minutes in the Greenaways' verandah. So on, in numberless cases, to

the end of the chapter.

You must know that for three months during the particular year of which

I am writing, we had with us a young globe-trotter, who rejoiced in the

name of Poltwhistle. I can't tell you any more about him, save that he

was a big Cornishman, rawboned, and vulgarly rich. His people should

have been more considerate; they should have kept him quietly at home

counting his money-bags, instead of allowing him to prowl about God's

earth upsetting other people's carefully thought-out arrangements.

The trouble all commenced with his meeting pretty little dimpled Jessie

Halroyd at a Government House tennis-party and convincing himself, after

less than half an hour's disjointed conversation, that she was quite the

nicest girl he had ever encountered. He met her again next day at the

Chief Justice's dinner-party. Then by dint of thinking continually in

the same strain, he fell to imagining himself in love. But as she had

long since given her affections to Lawrence Collivar, of the Treasury,

and had not experience enough to conduct two affairs at one and the same

time, his behaviour struck us all as entirely ridiculous.

Having called on Mrs. Halroyd the Monday following, where he was fed and

made much of, he set to work thenceforward to pester the daughter with

his attentions. It was another example of the Lancaster trouble, of

which I've told you elsewhere, only with the positions turned wrong-side

uppermost.

For nearly a month this persecution was steadily and systematically

carried on, until people, who had nothing at all to do with it, began to

talk, and the girl herself was at her wits' end to find a loophole of

escape. I must tell you at this point, that, even before the

Cornishman's coming, her own selection had been barely tolerated by the

Home Authorities; now, in the glare of Poltwhistle's thousands, it was

discountenanced altogether. But Jessie thought she loved Collivar, and

she used to grind her pretty little teeth with rage when Poltwhistle

came into the room, and say she was not going to give up Lawrence,

whatever happened. Then she suddenly remembered Mrs. Belverton, and with

desperate courage went down, told her all, and implored her aid.

Now it so happened that Mrs. Belverton had nothing to do just then, and

stood in need of excitement. Moreover, Collivar was her own special and

particular _protege_. In fact, it was neither more nor less than _her_

influence that had given him his rapid advancement in the Public

Service, and through this influence his love for little Jessie Halroyd.

She was educating him, she said, to make an ideal husband, and she was

certainly not going to allow a rawboned New Arrival to upset her plans.

At the end of the interview, taking the girl's hand in hers, she said

comfortingly,--

"Go home, my dear, and try to enjoy yourself; snub Mr. Poltwhistle

whenever you see him, and leave the rest to me!"

When she was alone, this excellent woman settled herself down in her

cushions, and devoted half an hour to careful contemplation.

She understood that with a man whose skull went up to nothing at the

back of his head, like Poltwhistle's, ordinary measures would be worse

than useless, so she decided upon a scheme that embodied an honour which

even kings and princes might have envied.

That same night she was booked to dine with Arthur and Guinevere, of

whom I have also told you, on the Mountain Road, and Providence (which

is more mixed up in these little matters than most people imagine)

placed on her left hand none other than the Cornishman himself.

Having heard a great deal of the famous Mrs. Belverton and her sharp

sayings, he was prepared to be more than a little afraid of her. She

observed this and utilised it to the best advantages.

Neglecting every one else, even her own lawful partner, who, I may tell

you, was a globe-trotter of no small importance, she made herself

infinitely charming to the angular gawk beside her, and to such good

purpose that, before Belverton began, according to custom, to brag about

his port, he was in a whirlwind of enchantment, and had forgotten his

original admiration for good and all.

Next day as he was riding down to tennis at the Halroyds', he met Mrs.

Belverton outside the library. Looking at him through the lace of a

pretty red parasol, and with the most innocent of faces, she asked his

advice as to the sort of literature she should peruse. Of course that

necessitated sending home his horse and overhauling the

bookshelves--with any woman a dangerous proceeding, but with Mrs.

Belverton an act of more than suicidal folly. A child might have

foreseen the result. Before they had reached shelf B he had completely

lost his head, and when they left the library, he disregarded his tennis

appointment and begged to be allowed to carry home her books for her.

She kept him with her until all chance of tennis was over, then having

filled him with pound cake, tea, and improving conversation, sent him

away, vowing that he had at last met perfection in womankind.

Her scheme was succeeding admirably, for Poltwhistle from that hour

forsook his former flame altogether. Mrs. Halroyd wondered; but her

daughter professed delight, and seeing this, Collivar prosecuted his

wooing with renewed ardour.

But Mrs. Belverton, with all her cleverness, had made one

miscalculation, and the effect was more than usually disastrous. She had

forgotten the fact that Jessie Halroyd was, in spite of her heart

trouble, little more than a child. And the upshot of this was that when

that young lady saw Poltwhistle no longer worshipped at her shrine, but

was inclining towards another woman, prettier and more accomplished than

herself, she allowed her school-girl's vanity to be hurt.

Within a week of her visit to Acacia Lodge, she had developed an idea

that, all things considered, Poltwhistle was by no means bad looking,

and certainly everybody knew that he was rich. Within a fortnight,

Collivar having offended her, she was sure that she liked him quite as

much as most men; and in less than three weeks (so strangely perverse is

woman) she had snubbed Collivar, and was hating Mrs. Belverton with all

her heart and soul for enticing the Cornishman's attentions away from

herself.

Then it became Collivar's turn to seek assistance; and at this juncture,

as the situation looked like getting beyond even her, Mrs. Belverton

lost her temper and said some very bitter things about everybody

concerned, herself included.

However, to sit down and allow herself to be beaten formed no part of

that lady's nature; so carefully reviewing the case, she realized that

the only possible way out of the difficulty was a reversal of her former

tactics. To this end she dropped Poltwhistle and took up Collivar,

hoping thereby to turn the jealous girl's thoughts back into their

original channel.

The Hillites stared and said to each other:--

"Dear, dear! What a shocking flirt that Mrs. Belverton is, to be sure!

First it was that nice Mr. Poltwhistle, and now it's young Collivar, of

the Treasury. Her conduct is really too outrageous!"

One muggy Saturday afternoon, towards the end of the hot weather, the

Under Fifty Riding Club met opposite the library to ride to The Summit

for tea and strawberries. There was a good attendance of members, and

Mrs. Belverton, Miss Halroyd, Poltwhistle, and Collivar were among the

number.

Every one paired off in the orthodox fashion, and as Collivar annexed

Mrs. Belverton, Poltwhistle was obliged to content himself with Miss

Halroyd. He was not too polite in consequence.

Before they reached the summit of the mount, thick clouds had gathered

in the sky, and heavy thunder was rumbling along the hills. The Club

members ate their strawberries, flirted about the grounds, and started

for home just as dusk was falling.

The same pairing was adopted on the return journey, and Poltwhistle,

from his place in the rear, watched the other couple with jealous,

hungry eyes.

It was a tempestuous evening. Heavy thunder rolled continuously, and

when, nearly half-way home, the clouds burst and the rain poured down,

there was a general rush for shelter. Mrs. Belverton, to her dismay,

found herself, in the half darkness, sitting on her horse, beneath a big

gum-tree, with both Collivar and Poltwhistle for her companions.

The latter, whose manners were about on a par with his modesty, had left

Miss Halroyd on the road to seek shelter for herself.

With a hurricane of rage in her heart, the poor girl, now, according to

her lights, thoroughly in love, saw the reason of his conduct and

followed him, reaching the other side of the tree unperceived. It was so

dark you could hardly distinguish your hand before your face, and the

rain was simply pouring down.

Sometimes, when she is in a communicative mood, Mrs. Belverton can be

persuaded to tell the story of that half-hour under the gum-tree, and

she catalogues it as the funniest thirty minutes she has ever

experienced. But though she laughs about it now, I fancy she did not

enjoy it so much at the time.

From each hinting that the other should retire, both men fell to

justifying their presence there, and finished by whispering into the

lady's ears, between the thunder-claps, protestations of their undying

love and devotion.

Then, while the thunder was crashing, the lightning flashing, the rain

soaking them through and through, and Mrs. Belverton was wondering how

it was all to end, Jessie Halroyd rode round the tree.

They all stared, you may be sure, and because Mrs. Belverton had

adventured the whole miserable business for her sake, she naturally

hissed,--

"False friend, false friend, I hate you! Oh, Mrs. Belverton, how I hate

you--I could kill you!"

A flash of lightning showed her face. It was all white and quivering,

like a badly made _blanc-mange_ pudding. There was a pause till somebody

said very innocently, and I am told it was the funniest part of the

whole affair,--

"My dear child, you're getting wet through; do bring your horse into

shelter!"

But before the sentence was finished the girl had turned her horse's

head and was galloping down the streaming road at break-neck speed.

Then Mrs. Belverton gathered her wits together and set to work to

undeceive her two admirers. All things considered, the operation must

have been a curious one. When it was accomplished she rode home alone,

meditating, I presume, on the futilities of this mundane existence.

The sad conclusion we, the Hillites, have come to, is that both

Poltwhistle and Collivar hate their would-be benefactress most cordially

for endeavouring to promote their happiness, and abominate each other

still more for interfering and spoiling sport. While Miss Halroyd, who

goes home next mail-day, hates all three with an undying hatred, and of

course cannot be made to understand that her own folly alone is

responsible for everything that happened. Personally, I should be more

interested to know what easy-going William Belverton thinks about it

all.

In Great Waters

"Short shrift! sharp fate! dark doom to dree!

Hard struggle, though quickly ending!

At home or abroad, by land or sea,

In peace or war, sore trials must be,

And worse may happen to you or to me,

For none are secure and none can flee

From a destiny impending."

--Adam Lindsay Gordon.

"Don't thank me; I'm sure I'm equally obliged to you. I haven't seen a

strange face these three months; and though I am that despised animal, a

broken-down gentleman, I've never quite been able to overcome a foolish

hankering after some dealing with my old caste again. Pardon the implied

compliment!

"You'd better hobble your horses and turn them loose towards the creek.

I'll run them up in the morning with my own.

"Having done that, if you're hungry, you'll find tea in the billy, and

damper and meat in those ration bags. It's Queensland boundary rider's

fare, but the best I can offer you.

"Monotonous country? By Heavens, yes! The children in exile knew no

worse. On all sides, sand, mulga, and desolation--desolation, mulga, and

sand, and unceasing regret, the portion of every man who has his lot in

it!

"Have you quite finished? Then light your pipe. No, no! not with a vesta

like a new chum, but with a fire-stick--so! When you've been in the Bush

as long as I have, you will see in a match something more than a

pipe-light. But by that time you will be on the high road to a still

more peculiar wisdom, which will never be of service to you.

"Now, draw your blankets to the fire and cease thinking of your horses.

They're on good feed, so let them eat their fill. If what I hear of the

country out back is true, they'll get no more this side of the Barcoo.

"What do I say? How do I know that you are new to the country? Simply

enough! By the light in your eyes, the palms of your hands, and the

freshness of your voice. Besides, when a man has been long in the West,

does he stand up for want of a chair? Forgive my rudeness, but you'll

learn it all soon enough.

"Talking of classes! Consider the class I represent. In this country it

is a numerous one, and the Bush is both our refuge and our cemetery. As

we wish to know nobody, so we desire that nobody shall ever know us; and

being beyond the reach of pride or shame, we live entirely in memories

of the past, through which we enjoy a keener torture than any creed or

sect can promise us hereafter. If you have the understanding, you might

write the book of our misery, and, believe me, you'd have an

inexhaustible reservoir upon which to draw.

"Before you came out you had a different notion of Australia? Exactly!

Folk who live sixteen thousand miles away, and own bank-books and fat

stomachs, have one idea of it; while we, who exist like Esau, in the Red

Sand itself, if you approached us properly, would give quite another.

Now, I knew of a case once--but I beg your pardon!

"That old hut at the Creek Bend you passed at mid-day? Three black posts

and a wreck of charred timber, yellow boulders against an umber cliff,

and two dingoe pups rioting on the threshold--isn't that the picture?

"Well, if you think it dreary and lonesome to-day, try and imagine it

when it was the furthest boundary west, with only the Great Unknown

between the ranges at our back and the Timor Sea.

"For reasons which could not interest you, I was the first to live

there. Curiously enough, my hut-keeper was also of our caste. By

nationality he was a Hungarian, and in addition to other things, he was

a studious disciple of Goethe, and the finest zither player I have ever

heard. It's about his connection with that hut that I wish to tell you.

"As men seldom quarrel when ambition has gone out of their lives, for a

year we came as near a certain sort of happiness as a remorseless Heaven

would permit. Then everything suddenly changed.

"One day, after a long stretch of dry weather that looked almost like

settling in for a drought, welcome storm-clouds gathered in the west,

and night closed in with a vigorous downpour. The creek, which for

months past had been merely a chain of half-dry waterholes, began to

trickle briskly round its bends, and in the morning had risen to the

size of a respectable torrent. Next day, Thursday, it was a banker, and

still the rain continued. By Friday evening the flood was upon us. And

such a flood as you never in your life saw or dreamed of!

"To give you some idea of its size, you must imagine this plain, from

the mountains behind you to the scrub yonder, one vast sheet of foaming,

roaring, rushing, eddying water.

"Opposite the old hut we are talking of it was many miles in width, and

for more than a week we were hemmed in upon a tiny island (the hut

stands on a slight elevation, as you perhaps have observed), with the

waters drawing a line of yeast-like foam daily closer and closer to our

door. There was no escape, and I doubt if either of us would have taken

advantage of it if there had been.

"Morning, noon, and night, the flood went roaring and rushing by,

carrying on its bosom forest trees, and hopeless beasts of all sorts,

sizes, and descriptions. And each moment saw us waiting for the lip-lap

upon the threshold which should signal the destruction of the hut and

our immediate departure for Eternity!

"Now you must remember that in life there is no such thing as chance.

Every existence has its allotted span, and to avoid the pre-ordained

termination is impossible for any man. You may smile, but I am convinced

that what I say is correct, and this is a case in point.

"On the ninth night of our imprisonment we were sitting in our one room,

trying to keep warm, and listening to the storm outside. The wind,

moaning through the logs, played with the firelight and threw a thousand

fantastic shadows on the rough-hewn walls.

"When life carries no future for a man, you will readily understand that

he becomes callous, even as to the means of his death; so, even with

destruction hovering over him, Yadeski sought company in his music.

Drawing his zither from its case, he laid it on the table and allowed

his fingers to stray across the strings. The sweet, sad melody that

followed lent an air of almost reverence to the bare walls and homeless

aspect of the room.

"The storm outside yelled and muttered by turns; but, heedless of it, he

played on, wandering from the folk-songs of the old grey Magyar villages

to the paeans of victorious hunters, from mighty trampling war-chants to

tender, crooning cradle-songs.

"Suddenly a shout rang out clear and distinct above the storm. It was

the cry of a man who, feeling the hand of Death clutching at his

weasand, knows that unless help comes quickly that grip will tighten and

his life go from him. Before he could call again, we had rushed into the

storm.

"The wind blew a hurricane, the waters snarled at the tiny hill and

rolled in black waves, that might almost have been taken for the sea, to

our feet. Battling in the direction whence the sound proceeded, Yadeski

called with all the strength of his lungs. His voice, however, was lost

in the general turmoil. But at the same instant, as if in answer, a

white face rose through the foam not a dozen paces from our feet.

Yadeski instantly plunged in, the face vanished, and for a moment I lost

sight of both. Then they rose within an arm's length of where I stood,

and I went in and dragged them out--the working of Fate, mind you!

"Between us we carried the stranger to our hut and laid him before the

fire.

"For more than an hour, despite our exertions, he remained unconscious;

then his eyes slowly opened, and in a few moments his power of speech

returned to him. Two words escaped his lips, and when he heard them my

hut-keeper fell back against the wall with ashen face.

"A soft sleep followed the return to consciousness, and I turned into my

bunk. Yadeski, however, sat gazing into the fire with an expression on

his face I could not, for the life of me, understand. All night he must

have kept the same position; but when the sun rose he shook himself

together and set about his preparation of the morning meal.

"By the light of day I saw that the stranger was a young man of

prepossessing appearance. He explained that he was a Hungarian, and had

only been in Australia a month. From what I could gather he was

travelling to some new country that had lately been taken up further to

the north-west. When crossing the river, which, by reason of the floods,

was very much congested, the waters had separated him from his party and

had washed his horse from under him. He was carried mile after mile

battling for life, spent half a day in a tree, which was eventually

washed from under him, was borne out into the main stream, and, but for

our timely assistance, would soon have been a dead man.

"I hope I am not wearying you?

"Well, day after day the flood continued, and for more than a week our

chance guest was compelled to remain with us. Then the waters fell as

quickly as they had risen, and when the safety of the track was once

more assured, he decided to resume his journey.

"The night before he left us we were sitting round the fire listening to

Yadeski's music. As was his custom, he wandered from air to air,

seemingly unconscious of our presence.

"The stranger listened with his eyes full of an insatiable hunger.

"From gentlest pianissimo the music rose to a wild, fierce note of

despair. An unearthly pathos seized the instrument--an inexplicable, yet

intense longing, a vague desire for something unattainable, took

possession of us. Then the music ceased abruptly, the spell was broken,

and the younger man, springing to his feet, cried, in a voice tremulous

with excitement,--

"'Oh, where, tell me where you learned that dreadful air?'

"The musician did not answer, but sat gazing into the fire. Shaking him

by the shoulder, the younger man repeated his question till, as one in a

dream, Yadeski muttered,--

"'Many years ago, far from here. What does it matter?'

"'Matter! Why, man, it was that air that brought me out here; it was

that cursed air that killed my----' But he stopped, and leaned against

the wall.

"'Let me tell you why I asked you that question,' he said at length,

when he had recovered his calmness. 'We spoke to-night of Buda. I was

born within ten miles of it, the eldest of a family of eight. Our farm

was as good land as any in the district, and we had held it under the

Counts Romanyi for centuries. My father, I must tell you, died when I

was only nine years old, and so my mother, who was famous through the

district for her beauty and her zither-playing, was left alone to look

after us.

"'One evening while she sat playing, as was her custom, at our cottage

door, the Count passed, and, hearing her music, stopped to buy a glass

of milk. He was an accomplished musician himself, and at his request she

played to him. Then, after saying many pretty things, and distributing a

handful of coins from his pocket among us children, he rode away.

"'Next day he came again, and the next, and so on, day by day, till we

children, who had hitherto feared his name more than God's, grew so bold

that we could quite look upon him as one of ourselves.

"'Ah, how well I remember the night he played that hellish air for the

first time! I can see the drift-smoke lying low upon the land, and smell

the smell of the pines floating down the mountain-side. I can see my

mother sitting, watching, and listening like one spellbound. It must

have been the music of the devil, for it ate into her heart, and the

same day a week later, a neighbour came to tell us that our mother would

not come back to us again.

"'Six years after, when I was almost a man, she returned. I can remember

that homecoming as if it were but yesterday.

"'It was a night late in winter, and the young moon was shining faintly

above the snow. A knocking came to the door, and I opened it upon a heap

of rags--my mother!

"'She died with the dawn, but not before she had told me everything. I

want now to meet the Count. I have sworn that the hour I come face to

face with him shall be his last! Wouldn't you do the same?'

"Yadeski's head had sunk on his outstretched arms, and, but for a

certain tremulous movement of his shoulders, he might well have been

asleep. I lay in the shadow of my bunk, wondering what it all might

mean.

"'I commenced my search in Vienna, where he had a house; but it seems he

was in serious trouble with the Government, and had fled from Austria. I

followed him to Italy, to England, and to America, but in vain. I have

continued it all over the world; but I do not despair, for I am certain

that, sooner or later, God will lead me to his side.'

"Controlling his voice with an effort, Yadeski asked,--

"'And what then?'

"'Ah! what then? But I fear I have wearied you with my story. I am

sorry. Good-night!'

"He dropped on to his blankets, curled himself up, and spoke no more.

Only the crackling of the burning logs disturbed the silence.

"Just before dawn I was awakened by the sound of gentlest music--the

same weird melody we had heard earlier in the evening. It began, but was

never finished.

"Unseen by us, a thick glaze was creeping over the player's eyes, and

his supple fingers were stiffening in the grasp of Death. The music grew

fainter, and still more faint, until finally it merged itself into a

thick, monotonous drip--drip--drip, which caught the first red signs of

day as they stole into us under the old hut door.

"Then there was a curiously heavy sob, and a half-turn of the musician's

figure. After which a long, keen-bladed knife fell from the table, and

the clatter roused us both to action.

"But Yadeski was beyond the reach of human vengeance. He had severed a

vein in his arm, and so bled peacefully to death. _Quo cunque nomine de

mortuis nil nisi bonum loqua._

"See, here comes the moon, and the wind with her. You'd better take this

extra blanket. It will be cold before dawn.

"Hark! The horses have crossed the creek and are making towards the hut

we've just been talking of. They will be miles away in the morning.

Never mind! Good-night!"

Mr. Aristocrat

"'Shepherd, what's love? I pray thee tell.'

'It is that fountain and that well

Where pleasure and repentance dwell;

It is perhaps that sauncing bell

That tolls us all to heaven or hell,

And this is love as I heard tell.'"

--Sir Walter Raleigh.

The Australian Bush is pre-eminently a charnel-house of human lives, and

therefore of the affections. Innumerable histories, neatly folded up and

hidden away in the by-places of the great island continent, labelled

_Not wanted till the Judgment Day_, will prove this indisputably. When

Gabriel's trump shall call the sleepers from their resting-places in the

shadows of the frowning mountains, in the long, grey gullies, and from

the deserts and hopeless open plains, Australia's Bush contingent will

be among the saddest and most miserable to face the Judgment Throne.

"Mr. Aristocrat" will be there, and his case alone will be worth

hearing.

At the time I'm going to tell you about we were pushing out to new

country at the head of the Flinders River, in Northern Queensland, and

when three camps this side of our destination, horses and men knocked

up, things began to look the very reverse of cheering. Night was coming

on; the cold wind murmured among the rocks, and the high cane-grass

bowed its head before it, whispering, "Weep, weep, weep." Then the full

moon soared over the gaunt shoulders of the hills that peaked up into

the lonely sky, and as she rose, we saw in front of us the lights of

Mintabera Head Station.

To come across a dwelling in such a wilderness was a stroke of good

fortune we did not expect. We rode up, made ourselves and our errand

known, and were hospitably received. The manager, who came out to greet

us, was a middle-aged man, very tall and broad-shouldered. He was also

very quiet and reserved, which may or may not have been because he had

been cut off from the doubtful advantages of civilization for so many

years. He took me into the house and set his best before me. After

dinner we lit our pipes, and sat talking in the verandah until about

nine o'clock, when I craved permission to retire. My host accompanied me

to my room, and before saying "good-night," surprised me by inquiring if

I was to be easily frightened. Asking "By what?" he replied, "By

anything; by noises you might hear, or things you might see."

On my assuring him that I thought my nerves were equal to a considerable

strain, he left me to puzzle it out alone.

I was more mystified than I cared to own, and to tell the honest truth,

I crawled into bed, half wishing that, after all, we had camped in the

gully, as had been at first proposed. But, as nothing out of the common

occurred for fully half an hour, I rolled over, and was soon in the land

of dreams.

It must have been about midnight when I was suddenly awakened and

brought up to a sitting posture by a scream, so terrible, so unearthly,

that I could compare it to nothing I had ever heard before. Three times

it rang out shrill and distinct upon the still night-air, and at each

repetition my heart thumped with a new violence against my ribs, and the

perspiration rolled in streams down my face. Then came the words (it was

certainly a woman's voice), "They're coming! they're coming! Will nobody

save me?" Leaping out of bed, I huddled on my clothes, seized a

revolver, and rushed across the verandah in the direction whence I

thought the sound proceeded.

It was a glorious night, and the moon shone full and clear into the room

where we had dined; but, before I could look in and satisfy my

curiosity, my arm was seized from behind, and turning, I confronted the

manager.

"Hush, hush!" he whispered. "Not a word, for God's sake. Watch and

listen!"

He pointed into the room, and my eyes followed the direction of his

hand.

In the centre, looking straight before her, rigid as a marble statue,

every muscle braced for action, stood the most beautiful and majestic

woman I have ever seen in my life. To the stateliness of a Greek goddess

she united the beauty of a Cleopatra. Her eyes rivetted my attention;

they seemed to blaze from their sockets; her expression was that of a

tigress wounded and waiting for the death-stroke. But her hair was the

most weird part of her appearance, for it hung in glorious profusion

down to her waist, and was white as the driven snow.

When we looked she had paused for a moment, as if listening, and then

came that awful blood-curdling cry again:--

"They're coming! they're coming! Will nobody save me?"

It was so horrible that my blood felt as if it were freezing into solid

ice. However, before I could pull myself together, her whole demeanour

had changed, and she was kneeling on the floor kissing and caressing

something she believed to be beneath her. Then, gradually, her voice

died away in heart-rending sobs, and at this juncture my host went in

and lifted her up. She seemed to have lost all power of recognition, and

allowed him to lead her in a dazed sort of way to her room.

As he passed me the manager whispered, "Wait here!"

On his return, he led me across the verandah and into the garden. When

we were out of hearing of the house, and leaning on the slip-rails of

the horse paddock he told me the following extraordinary story, and the

glorious night and the long sighing night-breeze sweeping down from the

mountains seemed a fitting accompaniment to his tale.

"Fourteen years ago," he said, "by God's ordinance and with the blessing

of the Church of England, I married that woman whom you saw just now in

there.

"All my family were against it from the beginning. They had no name and

no story bad enough for her. One said she bore a most suspicious

character; another, that she had a temper like a fiend; but the

principal charge against her was that she had been a governess in a

certain nobleman's household, and had been the cause of the eldest son's

leaving home. However, I didn't care for anything they said; I was madly

in love, and I believe I would have married her if she had been proved

to have been the vilest wretch unhung.

"After we'd been married a month or so she begged me to sell my bit of a

farm in Somersetshire and take her to Australia.

"Accordingly, I got rid of the place that had been in our family for

centuries, and having packed up, set off, nearly breaking my old

mother's heart by doing so.

"Arriving in Sydney, I took a small house down Bondi way, and made

myself comfortable; but I couldn't be idle long, so after properly

providing for her happiness there, I said good-bye to her for a while,

and came into the Bush. Every time I could get a holiday I'd run down to

Sydney, and I believe, in a way, she was glad to see me, though her

manner was never anything but cold.

"By-and-by I drifted into Queensland, worked my way north, and then got

the management of this place. You must remember that it was almost

unknown country out here then, and what with blacks and wild dogs, want

of water, and ignorance of the lay of the land, I had troubles enough to

drive a man crazy. Before we had been here a year we were very hard

pushed for men, and the owner sent me up a young Englishman, who, he

said, was anxious to get as far out of the ken of the world as possible.

I didn't ask any questions, but made him as welcome as I could. He was a

decent enough young fellow, tall, graceful, and very self-contained.

Somehow, the hands took to calling him 'Mr. Aristocrat,' and the name

fitted him like a glove. He came up with pack-horses, and among other

letters he brought me one from my wife.

"'She had grown hopelessly tired of Sydney and the south,' she said,

'and after mature consideration, was coming out to join me in the Bush.'

"I didn't know what to do. We were too rough out here then for any

decent woman. But as she had evidently started and couldn't be stopped,

we had to make the best of it, and accordingly up she came with the next

bullock-teams.

"Poor idiot that I was, I thought it was the beginning of a new era in

my life, and certainly for a week or two she seemed pleased to be with

me again. But I was soon to be undeceived.

"About a month after her arrival I had reason to go out on the run for a

few days, and it was necessary for me to take all the available hands

with me. While rolling my swag close to the corner of the verandah, to

my astonishment I heard my wife's voice in the room within raised in

tones of which I had never thought it capable. She was evidently beside

herself with fury, and on stepping into the verandah, I could see that

the object of her anger was none other than the young Englishman, 'Mr.

Aristocrat.'

"I tell you, sir, she was tongue-lashing that man as I never heard a

woman do in my life before, and by the time I had stood there two

minutes I had learnt enough to shatter all my hopes, to kill my

happiness, and to convince me of her double-dyed treachery to myself.

"She paused for breath, and then began again:--

"'So, you cowardly, snivelling hound,' she hissed, with all the

concentrated venom of a snake, 'you thought you could sneak out of

England, so that I shouldn't know it, did you? But you couldn't. You

thought you could crawl out of Sydney so quietly that I shouldn't follow

you--did you? But you couldn't. You thought you could run away up here

to hide without my discovering and following your tracks--did you? But

you couldn't. No! No!! No!!! Go where you will, my lord, even down to

hell itself, and I'll track you there, to mock you, and to proclaim it

so that all the world shall hear, that this is a pitiful coward who

ruined a woman's life, and hadn't manhood enough in him to stand up and

make it good to her.'

"The young fellow only covered his face with his hands, and said, 'O

God! when will all this end?'

"'When you've done what you----' she was beginning again, but I could

bear it no longer, so pushed my way into the room between them.

"When she saw me the expression on her face changed at once, and she

came smiling to greet me like the Jezebel she was. But I wanted to have

nothing to say to her, so I put her on one side and closed with _him_.

He looked at me in a dazed sort of way for a moment. But only for that

space of time. Then a sort of Baresark madness came over him, and he

sprang upon me like a fiend. All the time we fought she sat watching us

with the same awful smile upon her face. When I had nearly killed him I

ordered him off the station, and, without a word to her, fled the house.

"That day we made a good stage on our journey, and by nightfall were

camped alongside the Cliff Lagoon (you'll probably camp there to-morrow

evening). I sought my blankets early, and, about an hour before

daylight, being unable to sleep, went out into the scrub to find and run

in the horses. On my return to the camp, I discovered one of the station

black boys, alongside the fire, jabbering and gesticulating wildly to an

excited audience. As I came up he was saying,--

"'So, my word, I look; him _baal budgerie_ black fellah along a'

station. Bang--bang--bang! him plenty dead white fellah.'

"There was no need for him to say more. I knew what it meant. And in

less time than it takes to tell we were on the road back, galloping like

madmen over rough or smooth country, regardless of everything but the

need for haste. In less than two hours we dashed up to the yards, those

you see down yonder, just in time to drive off the black brutes as they

were rushing the house.

"You will understand for yourself what a close shave it was when I tell

you that when we arrived the roof of the homestead was half burnt

through, while the hut and outhouse had long since been reduced to

ashes. The bodies of the old cook, and a tame black boy, named Rocca,

lay dead in the open--speared while running for the hut. It was a

horrible sight, and enough to turn a man sick, but I hadn't time to

think of _them_. I was looking for my wife; and until I heard a cry and

recognised her voice I thought she must be dead. Then, as I pushed open

the half-burnt door of the station-house (the brutes had thrown

fire-sticks everywhere), she shrieked out as you heard her to-night.

"'They're coming! they're coming! Will nobody save me?' When I entered

the room she was kneeling in the centre, surrounded by broken furniture

and portions of the smouldering roof, wringing her hands, and wailing

over a body on the floor.

"Though she was begrimed with dirt, smoke, and blood, she looked

surpassingly beautiful; but--I don't know whether you will believe

me--the terrors of that night had turned her hair snow-white, just as it

is to-day. The overseer led her to a seat, and I knelt beside the body

on the floor. It was 'Mr. Aristocrat.'

"He was well-nigh dead; it needed no doctor's knowledge to see that. He

lay in a large pool of blood, and breathed with difficulty; but after I

had given him water he revived sufficiently to tell me what had

happened.

"It appeared he had left the station as I had ordered him; but, as he

went, his suspicions were aroused by the number of smoke-signals going

up from the surrounding hills. Knowing they meant mischief, he kept his

eyes open, and when, before dark, he saw a tribe of blacks creeping up

the valley, he remembered that, save the cook and a black boy, the woman

was alone, and made back on his tracks as fast as he was able. But he

was too late; they had already surrounded the building, and had killed

the two men we found lying in the open. Then he heard the woman's

shriek, and forgot everything but the fact that she must be saved.

"Racing across the open, he made a dash for the house. She saw his

sacrifice and opened the door, but not before two spears were sticking

in his side. Plucking them out, he set to work to defend her.

"Fortunately, I had left a rifle and plenty of ammunition behind me; so

all through that sweltering, awful night he fought them inch by inch,

with his wounds draining his life-blood out of him, to save the woman

who had wrecked his life. By God, sir! whatever he may have been

earlier, he was a brave man then, and I honour him for it! By his own

telling he killed three of them. Then as day was breaking, a part of the

roof fell in, and he received another spear through the broken door.

This brought him to the ground; and at that moment we arrived, and drove

the devils off.

"With his last strength, he drew me down to him and whispered that on

his dying word he had always acted honourably towards me; and that, in

spite of her tempting, he had never yielded to her. By the God before

whose throne he was just about to stand, he swore this; and upon my

honour, sir, I believe he spoke the truth.

"When he had finished speaking, she rose and mocked him, calling me fool

and idiot for listening to his raving. Then, for the first and last time

in my life, I threatened her, and she was silent.

"As the sun rose and pierced the smouldering roof, 'Mr. Aristocrat'

whispered, "I want you to do me a favour. I want you to tell them at

home that I forgive them. They misjudged me, you see, and it will make

things a bit easier for my mother."

"Then, with that sacred name upon his lips, he passed quietly away from

the scene of his sacrifice into the mysteries of the world beyond.

"When he was dead, the woman that is my wife crawled from the place

where she lay, and threw herself upon the body, moaning as if her heart

would break. We took her away. But from that day forward her reason was

gone.

"Ever since that time, at the same hour, night after night, year after

year, she has gone through that awful tragedy in the old room yonder;

and with the loneliness of this life around me, I have to hear and bear

it. The strangest part of it is that I haven't the heart to put her away

from me.

"Now you understand the meaning of the scene you witnessed to-night, and

you can see in my case the fulfilment of the Church's order, 'Whom God

hath joined, let no man put asunder!'"

We walked back to the house together, and he left me at my bedroom door;

but though I went back to my bed, had I been offered the gold of all the

Indies I could not have slept a wink.

Next morning our horses were run up, and after breakfast we set off on

our way again. When we had travelled about a mile, the manager, who was

riding a short distance with us for company's sake, led me off the track

to a grassy knoll beside a creek bend. Here, under a fine coolabah, I

discovered a neatly fenced-in grave.

Beneath the tree, and at the head of the little mound, was a small white

board, and on it were these two words,--

"_Mr. Aristocrat._"

This Man and This Woman

"What matters Life, what matters Death,

What boots of vain remorse?

When days are dead, wherein we lived,

Our hearts should die--_of course_!"

--_Song of the Vain Regret._

First and foremost it must be understood that when men and women cross

the Borderland of Discretion into that Never-never Country where

wedding-rings are forgotten and family correspondence abruptly ceases,

they do so, believing it to be unlikely that they will ever meet any one

out of the old life again.

This fallacy may be attributed to one of two things: either to an

insufficient knowledge of their world, or to an exaggerated idea of

their own exclusiveness. The first is the more common, but the one is as

fatal as the other.

It is quite possible, after such a lapse of time, that no one will

remember the "Clitheroe, Gwynne-Harden" episode. Yet it made a great

stir at the time. Clitheroe, I fancy, was in the army; while the woman

was the wife of Gwynne-Harden, the banker. She came of good family, was

intensely proud, and, among other things, of more or less account, had

the reputation of being the acknowledged beauty of that season.

Clitheroe and The Other Man's Wife were unwise to the borders of

madness. For had they been content to worship each other according to

society's certificated code--surely sufficiently elastic--no trouble

would have ensued. But, for some reason or other, they were not

satisfied to jog along in the ordinary way; but must needs meet in all

sorts of hole-and-corner places, correspond in cipher, and send letters

by hand, rather than by post. Naturally, people talked, and the scandal,

by its obtrusiveness, became proverbial. All through the season they

were in each other's pockets, and during Goodwood week, after a period

of sentimental shilly-shallying, they disappeared for ever and a day.

Gwynne-Harden, though it was said he loved his wife with an exceeding

great love, was a philosopher in his own way. After the first shock he

made no attempt to find her; on the other hand, he put the money the

search would have cost him into Bolivian Rails, a doubtful, but still a

better, investment, he said. Having done this, he placed all the

belongings she had left behind her in an attic under lock and key,

bought a new brand of cigars, and endeavoured to forget all about her.

Four years later he went into the House, where he managed to interest

himself in Colonial affairs. Moreover, he had the sense to stick to his

work, and leave female society alone. He was a shrewd, cynical man, with

taste for epigram, and said to himself, "I am matrimonial Mahomet, for

the reason that, because I refuse to apply for a divorce, I hover

between a possible heaven and an accomplished hell." Which was a bitter,

but, under the circumstances, perhaps excusable speech.

Now, here comes the part of the story I am anxious to dwell upon. Three

years after the exodus just narrated, being desirous of extending his

political information, Gwynne-Harden set out for Australia with a sheaf

of introductions in his despatch-box. Downing Street busied herself on

his behalf, and, in consequence, Her Majesty's representatives were

politely instructed to yield him all the assistance in their power. It

is well to be a Somebody in the land, and, as any globe-trotter will

inform you, a Vice-Regal introduction is a lever by no means to be

despised.

When the Governor of a certain Colony had banqueted, feted, and

endeavoured to turn his guest inside out for his own purposes, he handed

him over to the tender mercies of his Colonial Secretary, or whatever

you call the leader of the gang then in power.

This gentleman had his own opinions on the subject of globe-trotters,

and argued that the majority were shown too much in order that they

might absorb too little. Therefore, he said he would take Gwynne-Harden

under his protection, and enact Gamaliel in his own way.

To this end he lured his victim into a lengthy driving tour through the

squatting districts, in order that he might see the backbone of the

country for himself and form his own conclusions. The idea was ingenuous

in the main, but because he had left all consideration of the past out

of his calculations it failed entirely in its purpose. Even Colonial

Secretaries are powerless against Fate.

As they proceeded from station to station on their route, they were

received with that hospitality for which the Australian Bush is so

justly famous. And, like the proverbial owl, Gwynne-Harden said little,

but thought the more.

Between three and four o'clock one roasting afternoon, the travellers

saw, on the rise before them, the charming homestead of Woodnooro

Station. The Colonial Secretary looked forward to a pleasant visit, for

he had stayed there before.

They resigned their buggy to the care of a black boy in the

horse-paddock, and as they approached the house, the Secretary explained

to Gwynne-Harden all the good things he knew of the owner and his wife.

He devoted considerable space to his description of the latter, and in

answer the banker smiled grimly.

* * * * *

Leaving the small flower-garden behind them, they enter a cool stone

verandah, where a lady rises from a long cane chair to greet them. The

Colonial Secretary dashes forward to take her hand....

_Colonial Secretary_ ... "Mr. Gwynne-Harden--Mrs. Chichester."

_Mrs. Chichester_ (as white as a ghost, vainly feeling for the wall

behind her with her left hand, while she fumbles at her collar with her

right): "Mr. Gwynne-Harden!" (Then slowly and with prodigious exertion):

"I--I--I'm--I hope you are very well."

_Mr. Gwynne-Harden_ (with a curious expression in his face, which the

Colonial Secretary attributes to nervousness): "Extremely well, I thank

you!"

_Colonial Secretary_: "I am looking forward to having the pleasure of

introducing Mr. Gwynne-Harden to your husband, Mrs. Chichester."

_Mrs. Chichester_ (with a supreme effort): "I'm sorry to say my husband

is camped on the run at present."

_Mr. Gwynne-Harden_: "Then I must await his return with proper patience.

_I shall be delighted to meet him, I am sure._ Mrs. Chichester, is

anything the matter?"

_Mrs. Chichester_ (still fumbling at her neck): "No, no--r--r--really

nothing. I feel the heat very much, that is all. Won't you come inside?"

(Rises and leads the way into the dining-room, where she unlocks a

sideboard, and puts whisky on the table.) "I'm sure you must need some

refreshment after your long and hot drive."

_Colonial Secretary_ (enthusiastically, pointing to a creeper through

the door).... "By Jove! look here, Harden; isn't this perfect? I

challenge you to find its equal anywhere--the _Buginvillea Speciosa_ in

all its glory. Ah! I beg your pardon, Mrs. Chichester."

_Mrs. Chichester_ (passing him): "Thank you. If you will excuse me, I

think I will go and see about your rooms." [_Exits across verandah._]

The Colonial Secretary solemnly takes to himself a whisky-peg, while

Gwynne-Harden, turning his back, fixes his eye-glass and critically

examines two photos on the mantelpiece.

_Colonial Secretary_ (warmly, referring to their hostess): "Egad,

Harden, what would many men give for a wife like that?"

_Mr. Gwynne-Harden_ (dropping his eye-glass, and facing round): "What,

indeed!"

They adjourn to the verandah, where enter to them a small and very dirty

child, presumably a boy, who scrutinizes both men carefully before

venturing near.

_Mr. Gwynne-Harden_: "Ah, my little man, and pray what may your name

be?"

_Child_: "Jack 'Ister."

_Colonial Secretary_: "Anglise--Jack Chichester. He is a fine boy, and

typical of the country. Come here, Jack. How old are you?"

_Child_: "I'se free--Baby's one."

_Mr. Gwynne-Harden_: "So there's a baby, too, eh?"

_Mrs. Chichester_ (appearing at the end of the verandah): "Jack, it's

your bed-time. Say good-night, and come along at once."

Jack goes to Gwynne-Harden, and holds up his face to be kissed; but the

honour is declined. The Colonial Secretary accepts it effusively. Then

mother and child disappear together.

_Colonial Secretary_ (laughingly): "You don't seem fond of kissing

children!"

_Mr. Gwynne-Harden_: "Not other people's children, thank you!"

_Colonial Secretary_ (who has never heard the scandal, to himself): "I

wonder if there's a Mrs. Gwynne-Harden?"

* * * * *

_The quarter of an hour preceding dinner._ Gwynne-Harden is standing

with his hands on the chimney-piece, looking into the empty fireplace.

To him enter Mrs. Chichester.

_Mrs. Chichester_ (advancing): "George! George--for myself I ask

nothing; but for my children's sakes. Oh, George, be merciful!"

_Mr. Gwynne-Harden_ (turning): "Mrs. Chichester, I beg your pardon ten

thousand times for not seeing you enter. This light is so deceptive,

perhaps you thought I was your husband!"

_Mrs. Chichester_: "George, have you forgotten me?"

_Mr. Gwynne-Harden_: "My dear _Mrs. Chichester_, pray let me turn up the

lamp, then you will see whom you are addressing. I am Mr. Gwynne-Harden,

and if you will pardon my saying so, I don't remember ever having seen

your face before. If I have, I have been rude enough to forget the

circumstance. _Your husband's_ acquaintance I shall----"

_Mrs. Chichester_: "What of my husband?"

_Mr. Gwynne-Harden_: "Only that I shall hope to meet him face to face

very soon."

Enter the Colonial Secretary simultaneously with dinner.

* * * * *

_10 p.m., the same evening. Scene--Gwynne-Harden's bedroom._ He divests

himself of his coat and waistcoat, and having done so, discovers a note

addressed to himself upon the table. He reads it, and then looks long

and fixedly at his own reflection in the glass.

_Mr. Gwynne-Harden_ (tearing the note into a hundred pieces): "Humph!

This is certainly the Nineteenth Century--well, I'll sleep on it."

* * * * *

Next morning the Colonial Secretary and his companion, without any

apparent reason, changed their plans and continued their journey. When

the buggy was at the door and the latter came to bid his hostess

farewell, he said,--

"I am very sorry that we are compelled to go, for I shall not have an

opportunity now of meeting your husband, Mrs. Chichester. And as I leave

for England in a month, _it is improbable that we shall ever meet_!"

To this speech Mrs. Chichester, so the Colonial Secretary thought,

rather illogically said,--

"God bless you!"

OTHER PUBLICATIONS

WORKS BY GUY BOOTHBY

IN STRANGE COMPANY

THE MARRIAGE OF ESTHER

A BID FOR FORTUNE

THE BEAUTIFUL WHITE DEVIL

DR. NIKOLA

THE FASCINATION OF THE KING

BUSHIGRAMS

THE LUST OF HATE

ACROSS THE WORLD FOR A WIFE

PHAROS, THE EGYPTIAN

LOVE MADE MANIFEST

THE RED RAT'S DAUGHTER

A MAKER OF NATIONS

A PRINCE OF SWINDLERS

A SAILOR'S BRIDE

LONG LIVE THE KING

MY INDIAN QUEEN

SHEILAH McLEOD

FAREWELL, NIKOLA

MY STRANGEST CASE

THE KIDNAPPED PRESIDENT

CONNIE BURT

A TWO-FOLD INHERITANCE

A BID FOR FREEDOM

WORKS BY E. PHILLIPS OPPENHEIM.

All Illustrated.

The Master Mummer.

A romance of quality. A Princess of the Kingdom of Bartena is kept out

of the way so that her position may be filled by that of her cousin. Her

temporary guardian is killed, and, knowing nothing of her parentage, and

while without friends, she finds one in an English gentleman, who makes

a place for her in his house. Then a thousand intrigues to get her out

of his hands are set on foot. It is without doubt the most romantic and

entertaining novel which Mr. Oppenheim has yet written.

The Betrayal.

The Dundee Advertiser says:--"Mr. Oppenheim's skill has never been

displayed to better advantage than here.... He has excelled himself, and

to assert this is to declare the novel superior to nine out of ten of

its contemporaries."

Anna, The Adventuress.

The Globe says:--"The story is ingeniously imagined and cleverly wrought

out. Mr. Oppenheim has the gift of invention and keeps his readers on

the tenter-hooks of suspense."

The Daily News says:--"Mr. Oppenheim keeps his readers on the alert from

cover to cover, and the story is a fascinating medley of romance and

mystery."

The Yellow Crayon.

The Daily Express says:--"Mr. Oppenheim has a vivid imagination and much

sympathy, fine powers of narrative, and can suggest a life history in a

sentence. As a painter of the rough life of mining camps, of any strong

and striking scenes where animal passions enter, he is as good as Henry

Kingsley, with whom, indeed, in many respects, he has strong points of

resemblance."

A Prince of Sinners.

Vanity Fair says:--"A vivid and powerful story. Mr. Oppenheim knows the

world and he can tell a tale, and the unusual nature of the setting in

which his leading characters live and work out their love story gives

this book distinction among the novels of the season."

The World says:--"Excellent. A book to read, enjoy, and think over."

The Traitors.

The Athenaeum says:--"Its interest begins on the first page and ends on

the last. The plot is ingenious and well-managed, the movement of the

story is admirably swift and smooth, and the characters are exceedingly

vivacious. The reader's excitement is kept on the stretch to the very

end."

A Millionaire of Yesterday.

The Daily Telegraph says:--"The story is admirably constructed, and

developed simply and forcibly. It abounds in dramatic situations, and

there is more than one note of pathos which at once captures our

sympathies. We cannot but welcome with enthusiasm a really well-told

story like 'A Millionaire of Yesterday.' At the same time there is no

lack of character-study in this very satisfactory book."

The Survivor.

The Nottingham Guardian says:--"We must give a conspicuous place on its

merits to this excellent story. It is only necessary to read a page or

two in order to become deeply interested in the central figure of the

story; while the opening scenes, on which not a word is wasted, impress

by their originality and power, and give promise of something worth

following up. A story marked by brilliant and terse narration, vivid

touches of characterization, and a plot that is consistent and yet

fruitful in surprises."

The Great Awakening.

The Yorkshire Post says:--"A weird and fascinating story, which, for

real beauty and originality, ranks far above the ordinary novel."

The Daily Telegraph says:--"Possesses an absorbing interest; it has also

an extraordinary fascination."

As a Man Lives.

The Sketch says:--"The interest of the book, always keen and absorbing,

is due to some extent to a puzzle so admirably planned as to defy the

penetration of the most experienced novel reader."

A Daughter of the Marionis.

The Scotsman says:--"Mr. Oppenheim's stories always display much

melodramatic power and considerable originality and ingenuity of

construction. These and other qualities of the successful writer of

romance are manifest in 'A Daughter of the Marionis.' Full of passion,

action, strongly contrasted scenery, motives, and situations."

Mr. Bernard Brown.

The Daily Graphic says:--"Mr. E. Phillips Oppenheim has a remarkable

gift of making up an exciting story."

The Aberdeen Daily Journal says:--"The story is rich in sensational

incident and dramatic situations. It is seldom, indeed, that we meet

with a novel of such power and fascination."

The Man and His Kingdom.

The Freeman's Journal says:--"It is high praise to say that in this

novel the author has surpassed his previous thrilling and delightful

story, 'The Mysterious Mr. Sabin.' Yet that high praise is eminently

deserved. The story is worthy of Merriman at his very best. It is a

genuine treat for the ravenous and often disappointed novel reader."

The World's Great Snare.

The World says:--"If engrossing interest, changing episode, deep insight

into human character, and bright diction are the _sine qua non_ of a

successful novel, then this book cannot but bound at once into popular

favour. It is so full withal of so many dramatic incidents, thoroughly

exciting and realistic. There is not one dull page from beginning to

end."

A Monk of Cruta.

The Bookman says:--"Intensely dramatic. The book is an achievement at

which the author may well be gratified."

Mysterious Mr. Sabin.

The Literary World says:--"As a story of incident, with a deep-laid and

exciting plot, this of the 'Mysterious Mr. Sabin' can hardly be

surpassed."

End of Project Gutenberg's A Crime of the Under-seas, by Guy Boothby