ΣΚΥΤΑ’ΛΗ.
“No more by thee my steps shall be
For ever and for ever.”
In a long, ceilingless room, half kitchen and half parlour, two
figures are seated near an enormous fireplace, in which a glowing
heap of wood ashes illuminates that end of the otherwise somewhat
gloomy chamber. One figure, that of an elderly lady, is reclining
in an easy chair. Her brain is evidently busy with anxious and even
painful thoughts, the object of which is made evident as she turns
her moist eyes, from gazing at the scintillating wonderland amongst
the embers, to glance from time to time at the form opposite to her.
The lady’s _vis-à-vis_ at the fireside is a well-built, athletic
young man, to whom we have already been introduced. In the rough
garments of a working farmer, he lies sleeping there in his chair
just as he came in from ploughing twenty minutes before.
The sleepy god, however, has apparently less power over the youth’s
brain than his body. The twitching mouth and hands, the murmured
words, show that the anima is busy, if the body is not. The sudden
barking of a sharp-voiced collie outside the house presently causes
the sleeper to open his eyes. They turn immediately to meet the smile
of the lady opposite.
“Well, you have not had a very good sleep after all, Claude,”
murmured the latter. “I think Dick is back. It was Bob’s barking
awakened you.”
“Ah,” returned the still dozy young man, “that’s all right. The old
chap’s rather late, isn’t he? D’you know,” he added slowly, “I’ve
been dreaming about my trip to Queensland.” Here Claude rose, and,
taking both the lady’s hands in his, continued, “I’ve made up my
mind, mother, to run over to Queensland, and find out the particulars
of Uncle Sam’s death. I’m not superstitious, but I’m sure there’s
something odd about it. I’ve dreamed a dozen times since we saw that
horrible telegram in the paper that poor uncle was calling me to come
to him.”
“Nonsense, my boy, nonsense,” gently returned the lady, “you know we
can’t spare you. It’s right you should wish to go, Claude, but we
can’t spare you. It’s a fearful place, that Queensland.”
“Oh you! Mollie wouldn’t be alone. Would you, Mollie?” Claude
remarked in a louder voice, as a pretty young girl tripped into the
room, bearing a lighted lamp in her hands.
“Don’t be silly, Claude,” answered the fair one, smoothing down a
spotless white cloth upon a table standing in the centre of the room.
“Dick is back, and he’ll be so famished. Do run away and get ready
for tea.”
“Oh, of course, it’s Dick is hungry now,” laughed the young man;
“your poor brother is second fiddle in the domestic orchestra since
the arrival of the young Irishman.” As one door bangs with the exit
of the last speaker, another leading on to the verandah opens and
quickly closes, showing in the interval a brief picture of fiery
sunset behind dark fir-trees. A fresh figure is in the room. It is
that of a jolly-looking individual, whose plan of construction, so
to speak, is more inclined to squareness than height. The younger of
the two women is soon helping the new-comer to empty his pockets and
shoulder-bag of letters and papers, chattering all the time. “Oh,
Dick, haven’t you got a letter for me?”
“Nary a one, ducky; but I’ve got an important one for Claude. D’you
know, Mrs. Angland, it’s from the Queensland police. They sent it
here to Inspector Goode, and he gave it to me just before I left
town. Maybe now it’s something about poor Dr. Dyesart.” Here Claude
re-enters the room.
“Well, old man, glad you’re back safe. How did the mare go? She was
bound to be a bit skittish after the long spell she’s had. I hope
you’ve had her shod? Have you any news of the Doctor?”
“_Taihoa_ (wait a bit), old chap,” interrupts Dick, with his fingers
to his ears to illustrate histrionically the pain such rapid
questioning is giving him. “Why, Claude, you’re getting as bad as
your sister. Here’s a letter for you, which you needn’t apologise
for opening at tea. I myself beg to move that we do now partake of
what our black brethren here call ‘kai,’ _alias_ ‘tucker.’”
The little circle now gathered round the white-clothed table consists
of an English lady, her son and daughter, and a friend,—a young man
from northern Ireland. They had left the old country together, some
four years before the time when our story opens, to settle upon a
farm in New Zealand.
The youth from the Emerald Isle had, some time before leaving his
native land, determined in his own mind that as long as he could
settle down close to his friend Claude’s pretty sister, he would
remain perfectly contented anywhere. Our friends had not been “out”
long enough to feel homesick; the many novelties of life in a new
country had not yet lost their charms. The rough life was almost like
one long picnic. The lovely climate made up for many hardships; and
if it would rain a little less at times, and if a market could be
depended upon for fowls when fattened and cheese when made, the life
of a New Zealand farmer was one, they all agreed, to be envied.
Claude, to the surprise of his mother, quietly finished his tea
before opening the letter. There it lay by his plate in tantalising
proximity to her hand, containing, perhaps, news of that poor brother
of hers,—long estranged from all his family through no real fault of
his or hers, to wander in a barbarous country, and die at last in
the wilderness he had braved so long. Tea is cleared away, Dick and
Mollie go out into the verandah,—to look at the stars probably,—and
in the room the purring of the “harmless necessary cat” upon the
hearthrug, and the _click click_ of Mrs. Angland’s knitting needles,
are the only sounds. Claude has taken a seat at the lamplit table,
and lays the envelope, marked O. H. M. S., and bearing the Queensland
postmark, before him upon the red cloth.
He feels instinctively his uncle’s presence in that letter. There is
no particular sign by which an ordinary observer could tell it from
a letter of ordinary importance. Yet Claude knows, and it puzzles
him to think how he knows it, that an answer to his dreams is before
him. The truth of the theory of animism never appeared clearer to
him than at present. The envelope is addressed to Claude Angland,
Care of the Superintendent of Police, Auckland, N.Z. Below this
direction is a note to the effect that the writer will be glad if
the aforesaid Claude Angland can be found without delay, and handed
the enclosed letter and packet. Inside the envelope is a brief note
from some official at Cairns, informing Claude that a small packet,
enclosed, having been brought to the station of a Mr. Giles by the
late explorer’s black boy, that gentleman had forwarded it to the
writer, who took the present means of sending it to Mr. Angland,
hoping the simple address, as copied from the packet, would find him.
A few words expressive of the regret the writer, in common with all
colonists, felt at the loss of such an able explorer as Dr. Dyesart
closed the letter.
The packet referred to by the unknown correspondent at Cairns, whose
hieroglyphic signature looked more like the shadow of a delirious
spider than the name of a human being, now attracted Claude’s
attention. It was about the size of a large walnut, and its outer
covering consisted of a piece of soiled linen rag, tightly bound
with fine fishing line. In irregular and almost illegible blue-black
characters, the same address as that upon the envelope had been
scrawled upon it by aid of an indelible ink pencil. The covering
removed,—Claude saw at once it had at one time formed part of the
lining of a coat,—an empty revolver cartridge was discovered, tightly
plugged at one end with wood, the joints and cap-end being smeared
over with a kind of resinous, dark-coloured gum.
Claude’s strong but trembling fingers are not long in removing the
wooden stopper, and in his hands is a carefully folded piece of
paper, which he recognizes on opening it as a leaf from a sketching
block. The same handwriting that had attracted the young man’s
attention upon the linen wrapper of the packet has covered one side
of the opened paper before him.
With head on hand, Claude sits without moving aught save his eyes,
poring over the letters. At last, half turning in his chair, his
voice pitched in a slightly higher key than usual, he speaks:—
“Mother, here is my summons. I knew I should get one. Come and see
poor uncle’s letter.”
Mrs. Angland rises quickly, and stooping over the table, her right
hand on her son’s broad shoulder, gazes with filling eyes at the
well-known writing on that crumpled paper lying there. The writing
is small and somewhat obliterated, and from the varying character
and style of the different sentences the same have evidently been
written at intervals. One could easily imagine that a wounded man,
who required to rest often from his task, would write such a letter.
“Read it to me, my son, I cannot.”
He reads as follows:—
“_To my nephew, Claude Angland, of Auckland, New Zealand._
“_I am dying before my work is completed. It rests with you to
allow me to rest in peace after my death. I wish to make reparation
to those I have neglected too long. I have tried to bury the past
in science and in work. Your mother will explain all to you at the
proper time. Come to where I now lie. You can trust Billy, whom
you will remember with me in England. I believe he will get out of
this. Come here alone with him, and at once. Good-bye to all. I
hope you keep up your chemistry. Beware of squatters and police.
This note will be hard to read, but read the whole of it._
“_SAMUEL D. DYESART._”
“What does he mean?” muses Claude out loud, after a
pause,—inadvertently speaking as if the writer was still alive, so
difficult was it to believe that the hand that had guided the pencil
that traced those shaky letters was fast turning into its original dust.
Mrs. Angland comes of a practical stock, and sees the letter only as
it is.
“I suppose, poor fellow,” she says, speaking slowly and softly, “he
liked to think that some one he had loved in life would visit his
lonely grave out there in those fearful wastes. He was very fond of
you, Claude, even from the time he first saw you, a mere baby. But
don’t go, Claude,” she adds beseechingly; “that horrible Queensland
that has cost me a brother shall not take my son.”
“Mother,” interrupts Claude at this point, “you don’t understand what
I mean. Let me read the letter to you again.” The letter is re-read.
Presently Mrs. Angland breaks the silence.
“Perhaps he wants you to finish his work—his horrid exploring. God
forgive me if I am wicked when I think it was wrong of your uncle
to tempt you away from me. But perhaps he was wandering in his mind
rather. Poor fellow, what he must have suffered! How odd of him to
think of your chemistry. ‘I hope you keep up your chemistry,’” quoting
from the letter. “Fancy his thinking of that when so near death.”
Claude is listening in silence; but when Mrs. Angland speaks of his
uncle’s mention of chemistry, he rises quickly, and, seizing the
letter, holds it to the light, and then proceeds to carefully examine
the remainder of the packet, including the cartridge case, etc. He is
rewarded by finding the single word that heads this chapter scratched
upon the tarnished brass of the latter. “Hidden,” he murmurs, for
luckily he knew a little Greek. “Hidden, what is hidden?” and falls
to poring over the letter once more.