HOW DR. MULHAUS GOT BUSHED IN THE RANGES, AND WHAT BEFEL HIM THERE.
I must recur to the same eventful night again, and relate another
circumstance that occurred on it. As events thicken, time gets more
precious; so that, whereas at first I thought nothing of giving you the
events of twenty years or so in a chapter, we are now compelled to
concentrate time so much that it takes three chapters to twenty-four
hours. I read a long novel once, the incidents of which did not extend
over thirty-six hours, and yet it was not so profoundly stupid as you
would suppose.
All the party got safe home from the picnic, and were glad enough to
get housed out of the frosty air. The Doctor, above all others, was
rampant at the thoughts of dinner, and a good chat over a warm fire,
and burst out, in a noble bass voice, with an old German student's song
about wine and Gretchen, and what not.
His music was soon turned into mourning; for, as they rode into the
courtyard, a man came up to Captain Brentwood, and began talking
eagerly to him.
It was one of his shepherds, who lived alone with his wife towards the
mountain. The poor woman, his wife, he said, was taken in labour that
morning, and was very bad. Hearing there was a doctor staying at the
home station, he had come down to see if he could come to their
assistance.
"I'll go, of course," said the Doctor; "but let me get something to eat
first. Is anybody with her?"
"Yes, a woman was with her; had been staying with them some days."
"I hope you can find the way in the dark," said the Doctor, "for I can
tell you I can't."
"No fear, sir," said the man; "there's a track all the way, and the
moon's full. If it wasn't for the fog it would be as bright as day."
He took a hasty meal, and started. They went at a foot's pace, for the
shepherd was on foot. The track was easily seen, and although it was
exceedingly cold, the Doctor, being well wrapped up, contrived, with
incessant smoking, to be moderately comfortable. All external objects
being a blank, he soon turned to his companion to see what he could get
out of him.
"What part of the country are you from, my friend?"
"Fra' the Isle of Skye," the man answered. "I'm one of the Macdonalds
of Skye."
"That's a very ancient family, is it not?" said the Doctor at a
venture, knowing he could not go wrong with a Highlander.
"Very ancient, and weel respeckit," the man answered.
"And who is your sheik, rajah, chieftain, or what you call him?"
"My lord Macdonald. I am cousin to my lord."
"Indeed! He owns the whole island, I suppose?"
"There's Mackinnons live there. But they are interlopers; they are
worthless trash," and he spit in disgust.
"I suppose," said the Doctor, "a Mackinnon would return the compliment,
if speaking of a Macdonald."
The man laughed, and said, he supposed "Yes," then added, "See! what's
yon?"
"A white stump burnt black at one side,--what did you think it was?"
"I jaloused it might be a ghaist. There's a many ghaists and bogles
about here."
"I should have thought the country was too young for those gentry,"
said the Doctor.
"It's a young country, but there's been muckle wickedness done in it.
And what are those blacks do you think?--next thing to devils--at all
events they're no' exactly human."
"Impish, decidedly," said the Doctor. "Have you ever seen any ghosts,
friend?"
"Ay! many. A fortnight agone, come to-morrow, I saw the ghost of my
wife's brother in broad day. It was the time of the high wind ye mind
of; and the rain drove so thick I could no see all my sheep at once.
And a man on a white horse came fleeing before the wind close past me;
I knew him in a minute; it was my wife's brother, as I tell ye, that
was hung fifteen years agone for sheep-stealing, and he wasn't so much
altered as ye'd think."
"Some one else like him!" suggested the Doctor.
"Deil a fear," replied the man, "for when I cried out and said, 'What,
Col, lad! Gang hame, and lie in yer grave, and dinna trouble honest
folk,' he turned and rode away through the rain, straight from me."
"Well!" said the Doctor, "I partly agree with you that the land's
bewitched. I saw a man not two months ago who ought to have been dead
five or six years at least. But are you quite sure the man you saw was
hung?"
"Well nigh about," he replied. "When we sailed from Skye he was under
sentence, and they weren't over much given to reprieve for
sheep-stealing in those days. It was in consequence o' that that I came
here."
"That's a very tolerable ghost story," said the Doctor. "Have you got
another? If you have, I shouldn't mind hearing it, as it will beguile
the way."
"Did ye ever hear how Faithful's lot were murdered by the blacks up on
the Merrimerangbong?"
"No, but I should like to; is it a ghost story?"
"Deed ay, and is it. This is how it happened:--When Faithful came to
take up his country across the mountains yonder, they were a strong
party, enough to have been safe in any country, but whether it was food
was scarce, or whether it was on account of getting water, I don't
know, but they separated, and fifteen of them got into the Yackandandah
country before the others.
"Well, you see, they were pretty confident, being still a strong mob,
and didn't set any watch or take any care. There was one among them
(Cranky Jim they used to call him--he as told me this yarn--he used to
be about Reid's mill last year) who always was going on at them to take
more care, but they never heeded him at all.
"They found a fine creek, with plenty of feed and water, and camped at
it to wait till the others came up. They saw no blacks, nor heard of
any, and three days were past, and they began to wonder why the others
had not overtaken them.
"The third night they were all sitting round the fire, laughing and
smoking, when they heard a loud co'ee on the opposite side of the
scrub, and half-a-dozen of them started up, and sang out, "There they
are!"
"Well, they all began co'eeing again, and they heard the others in
reply, apparently all about in the scrub. So off they starts, one by
one, into the scrub, answering and hallooing, for it seemed to them
that their mates were scattered about, and didn't know where they were.
Well, as I said, fourteen of them started into the scrub to collect the
party and bring them up to the fire; only old Cranky Jim sat still in
the camp. He believed, with the others, that it was the rest of their
party coming up, but he soon began to wonder how it was that they were
so scattered. Then he heard one scream, and then it struck him all at
once that this was a dodge of the blacks to draw the men from the camp,
and, when they were abroad, cut them off one by one, plunder the drays,
and drive off the sheep.
"So he dropped, and crawled away in the dark. He heard the co'ees grow
fewer and fewer as the men were speared one by one, and at last
everything was quiet, and then he knew he was right, and he rose up and
fled away.
"In two days he found the other party, and told them what had happened.
They came up, and there was some sharp fighting, but they got a good
many of their sheep back.
"They found the men lying about singly in the scrub, all speared. They
buried them just where they found each one, for it was hot weather.
They buried them four foot deep, but they wouldn't lie still.
"Every night, about nine o'clock, they get up again, and begin co'eeing
for an hour or more. At first there's a regular coronach of them, then
by degrees the shouts get fewer and fewer, and, just when you think
it's all over, one will break out loud and clear close to you, and
after that all's still again."
"You don't believe that story, I suppose?"
"If you press me very hard," said the Doctor, "I must confess, with all
humility, that I don't!"
"No more did I," said Macdonald, "till I heard 'em!"
"Heard them!" said the Doctor.
"Ay, AND SEEN THEM!" said the man, stopping and turning round.
"You most agreeable of men! pray, tell me how."
"Why, you see, last year I was coming down with some wool-drays from
Parson Dorken's, and this Cranky Jim was with us, and told us the same
yarn, and when he had finished, he said, 'You'll know whether I speak
truth or not to-night, for we're going to camp at the place where it
happened.'
"Well, and so we did, and, as well as we could reckon, it was a little
past nine when a curlew got up and began crying. That was the signal
for the ghosts, and in a minute they were co'eeing like mad all round.
As Jim had told us, one by one ceased until all was quiet, and I
thought it was over, when I looked, and saw, about a hundred yards off,
a tall man in grey crossing a belt of open ground. He put his hand to
his mouth, gave a wild shout, and disappeared!"
"Thank you," said the Doctor. "I think you mentioned that your wife's
confinement was somewhat sudden?"
"Yes, rather," replied the man.
"Pray, had you been relating any of the charming little tales to her
lately--just, we will suppose, to while away the time of the evening?"
"Well, I may have done so," said Macdonald, "but I don't exactly mind."
"Ah, so I thought. The next time your good lady happens to be in a
similar situation, I think I would refrain from ghost stories. I should
not like to commit myself to a decided opinion, but I should be
inclined to say that the tales you have been telling me were rather
horrible. Is that the light of your hut?"
Two noble colley dogs bounded to welcome them, and a beautiful
bare-legged girl, about sixteen, ran forth to tell her father, in
Gaelic, that the trouble was over, and that a boy was born.
On going in, they found the mother asleep, while her gossip held the
baby on her knee; so the Doctor saw that he was not needed, and sat
down, to wait until the woman should wake, having first, however,
produced from his saddle two bottles of port wine, a present from Alice.
The woman soon woke, and the Doctor, having felt her pulse, and left
some medicine, started to ride home again, carrying with him an incense
of good wishes from the warm-hearted Highlanders.
Instead of looking carefully for the road, the good Doctor was soon
nine fathoms deep into the reasons why the mountaineers and coast folk
of all northern countries should be more blindly superstitious than the
dwellers in plains and in towns; and so it happened that, coming to a
fork in the track, he disregarded the advice of his horse, and, instead
of taking the right hand, as he should have done, he held straight on,
and, about two o'clock in the morning, found that not only had he lost
his road, but that the track had died out altogether, and that he was
completely abroad in the bush.
He was in a very disagreeable predicament. The fog was thicker than
ever, without a breath of air; and he knew that it was as likely as not
that it might last for a day or two. He was in a very wild part of the
mountain, quite on the borders of all the country used by white men.
After some reflection, he determined to follow the fall of the land,
thinking that he was still on the water-shed of the Snowy-river, and
hoping, by following down some creek, to find some place he knew.
Gradually day broke, cold and cheerless. He was wet and miserable, and
could merely give a guess at the east, for the sun was quite invisible;
but, about eight o'clock, he came on a track, running at right angles
to the way he had been going, and marked with the hoofs of two horses,
whose riders had apparently passed not many hours before.
Which way should he go? He could not determine. The horsemen, it seemed
to him, as far as he could guess, had been going west, while his route
lay east. And, after a time, having registered a vow never to stir out
of sight of the station again without a compass, he determined to take
a contrary direction from them, and to find out where they had come
from.
The road crossed gully after gully, each one like the other. The timber
was heavy stringy bark, and, in the lower part of the shallow gullies,
the tall white stems of the blue gums stood up in the mist like ghosts.
All nature was dripping and dull, and he was chilled and wretched.
At length, at the bottom of a gully, rather more dreary looking, if
possible, than all the others, he came on a black reedy waterhole, the
first he had seen in his ride, and perceived that the track turned
short to the left. Casting his eye along it, he made out the dark
indistinct outline of a hut, standing about forty yards off.
He rode up to it. All was as still as death. No man came out to welcome
him, no dog jumped, barking forth, no smoke went up from the chimney;
and, looking round, he saw that the track ended here, and that he had
ridden all these miles only to find a deserted hut.
But was it deserted? Not very long so, for those two horsemen, whose
tracks he had been on so long, had started from here. Here, on this
bare spot in front of the door, they had mounted. One of their horses
had been capering; nay, here were their footsteps on the threshold.
And, while he looked, there was a light fall inside, and the chimney
began smoking. "At all events," said the Doctor, "the fire's in, and
here's the camp-oven, too. Somebody will be here soon. I shall go in
and light my pipe."
He lifted the latch, and went in. Nobody there. Stay--yes, there is a
man asleep in the bed-place. "The watchman, probably," thought the
Doctor; "he's been up all night with the sheep, and is taking his rest
by day. Well, I won't wake him; I'll hang up my horse a bit, and take a
pipe. Perhaps I may as well turn the horse out. Well, no. I shan't wait
long; he may stand a little without hurting himself."
So soliloquised the Doctor, and lit his pipe. A quarter of an hour
passed, and the man still lay there without moving. The Doctor rose and
went close to him. He could not even hear him breathe.
His flesh began to creep, but his brows contracted, and his face grew
firm. He went boldly up, and pulled down the blanket, and then, to his
horror and amazement, recognised the distorted countenance of the
unfortunate William Lee.
He covered the face over again, and stood thinking of his situation,
and how this had come to pass. How came Lee here, and how had he met
his death? At this moment something bright, half hidden by a blue shirt
lying on the floor, caught his eye, and, going to pick it up, he found
it was a beautiful pistol, mounted in silver, and richly chased.
He turned it over and over till in a lozenge behind the hammer he
found, apparently scratched with a knife, the name, "G. Hawker."
Here was light with a vengeance! But he had little time to think of his
discovery ere he was startled by the sound of horses' feet rapidly
approaching the hut.
Instinctively he thrust the pistol into his pocket, and stooped down,
pretending to light his pipe. He heard some one ride up to the door,
dismount, and enter the hut. He at once turned round, pipe in mouth,
and confronted him.
He was a tall, ill-looking, red-haired man, and to the Doctor's
pleasant good morning he replied by sulkily asking what he wanted.
"Only a light for my pipe, friend," said the Doctor; "having got one, I
will bid you good morning. Our friend here sleeps well."
The new comer was between him and the door, but the Doctor advanced
boldly. When the two men were opposite their eyes met, and they
understood one another.
Moody (for it was he) threw himself upon the Doctor with an oath,
trying to bear him down; but, although the tallest man, he had met his
match. He was held in a grasp of iron; the Doctor's hand was on his
collar, and his elbow against his face, and thus his head was pressed
slowly backwards till he fell to avoid a broken neck, and fell, too,
with such force that he lay for an instant stunned and motionless, and
before he came to himself the Doctor was on horseback, and some way
along the track, glad to have made so good an escape from such an
awkward customer.
"If he had been armed," said the Doctor, as he rode along, "I should
have been killed: he evidently came back after that pistol. Now, I
wonder where I am? I shall know soon at this pace. The little horse
keeps up well, seeing he has been out all night."
In about two hours he heard a dog bark to the left of the track, and,
turning off in that direction, he soon found himself in a courtyard,
and before a door which he thought he recognised: the door opened at
the sound of his horse, and out walked Tom Troubridge.
"Good Lord!" said the Doctor, "a friend's face at last; tell me where I
am, for I can't see the end of the house."
"Why, at our place, Toonarbin, Doctor."
"Well, take me in and give me some food; I have terrible tidings for
you. When did you last see Lee?"
"The day before yesterday; he is up at an outlying hut of ours in the
ranges."
"He is lying murdered in his bed there, for I saw him so not three
hours past."
He then told Troubridge all that had happened.
"What sort of man was it that attacked you?" said Troubridge.
The Doctor described Moody.
"That's his hut-keeper that he took from here with him; a man he said
he knew, and you say he was on horseback. What sort of a horse had he?"
"A good-looking roan, with a new bridle on him."
"Lee's horse," said Troubridge; "he must have murdered him for it. Poor
William!"
But when Tom saw the pistol and read the name on it, he said,--
"Things are coming to a crisis, Doctor; the net seems closing round my
unfortunate partner. God grant the storm may come and clear the air!
Anything is better than these continual alarms."
"It will be very terrible when it does come, my dear friend," said the
Doctor.
"It cannot be much more terrible than this," said Tom, "when our
servants are assassinated in their beds, and travellers in lonely huts
have to wrestle for their lives. Doctor, did you ever nourish a passion
for revenge?"
"Yes, once," said the Doctor, "and had it gratified in fair and open
duel; but when I saw him lying white on the grass before me, and
thought that he was dead, I was like one demented, and prayed that my
life might be taken instead of his. Be sure, Tom, that revenge is of
the devil, and, like everything else you get from him, is not worth
having."
"I do not in the least doubt it, Doctor," said Tom; "but oh, if I could
only have five minutes with him on the turf yonder, with no one to
interfere between us! I want no weapons; let us meet in our shirts and
trowsers, like Devon lads."
"And what would you do to him?"
"If you weren't there to see, HE'D never tell you."
"Why nourish this feeling, Tom, my old friend; you do not know what
pain it gives me to see a noble open character like yours distorted
like this. Leave him to Desborough,--why should you feel so deadly
towards the man? He has injured others more than you."
"He stands between me and the hopes of a happy old age. He stands
between me and the light, and he must stand on one side."
That night they brought poor Lee's body down in a dray, and buried him
in the family burying-ground close beside old Miss Thornton. Then the
next morning he rode back home to the Buckleys', where he found that
family with myself, just arrived from the Brentwoods'. I of course was
brimful of intelligence, but when the Doctor arrived I was thrown into
the shade at once. However, no time was to be lost, and we despatched a
messenger, post haste, to fetch back Captain Desborough and his
troopers, who had now been moved off about a week, but had not been as
yet very far withdrawn, and were examining into some "black" outrages
to the northward.
Mary Hawker was warned, as delicately as possible, that her husband was
in the neighbourhood. She remained buried in thought for a time, and
then, rousing herself, said, suddenly,--
"There must be an end to all this. Get my horse, and let me go home."
In spite of all persuasions to the contrary, she still said the same.
"Mrs. Buckley, I will go home and see if I can meet him alone. All I
ask of you is to keep Charles with you. Don't let the father and son
meet, in God's name."
"But what can you do?" urged Mrs. Buckley.
"Something, at all events. Find out what he wants. Buy him off,
perhaps. Pray don't argue with me. I am quite determined."
Then it became necessary to tell her of Lee's death, though the fact of
his having been murdered was concealed; but it deeply affected her to
hear of the loss of her old faithful servant, faithful to her at all
events, whatever his faults may have been. Nevertheless, she went off
alone, and took up her abode with Troubridge, and there they two sat
watching in the lonely station, for him who was to come.
Though they watched together there was no sympathy or confidence
between them. She never guessed what purpose was in Tom's heart; she
never guessed what made him so pale and gloomy, or why he never stirred
from the house, but slept half the day on the sofa. But ere she had
been a week at home, she found out. Thus:--
They would sit, those two, silent and thoughtful, beside that unhappy
hearth, watching the fire, and brooding over the past. Each had that in
their hearts which made them silent to one another, and each felt the
horror of some great overshadowing formless calamity, which any instant
might take form, and overwhelm them. Mary would sit late, dreading the
weary night, when her overstrained senses caught every sound in the
distant forest; but, however late she sat, she always left Tom behind,
over the fire, not taking his comfortable glass, but gloomily
musing--as much changed from his old self as man could be.
She now lay always in her clothes, ready for any emergency; and one
night, about a week after Lee's murder, she dreamt that her husband was
in the hall, bidding her in a whisper which thrilled her heart, to come
forth. The fancy was so strong upon her, that saying aloud to herself,
"The end is come!" she arose in a state little short of delirium, and
went into the hall. There was no one there, but she went to the front
door, and, looking out into the profoundly black gloom of the night,
said in a low voice,--
"George, George, come to me! Let me speak to you, George. It will be
better for both of us to speak."
No answer: but she heard a slight noise in the sitting-room behind her,
and, opening the door gently, saw a light there, and Tom sitting with
parted lips watching the door, holding in his hand a cocked pistol.
She was not in the least astonished or alarmed. She was too much TETE
MONTEE to be surprised at anything. She said only, with a laugh,--
"What! are you watching, too, old mastiff?--Would you grip the wolf,
old dog, if he came?"
"Was he there, Mary? Did you speak to him?"
"No! no!" she said. "A dream, a wandering dream. What would you do if
he came,--eh, cousin?"
"Nothing! nothing!" said Tom. "Go to bed."
"Bed, eh?" she answered. "Cousin; shooting is an easier death than
hanging,--eh?"
Tom felt a creeping at the roots of his hair, as he answered,--"Yes, I
believe so."
"Can you shoot straight, old man? Could you shoot straight and true if
he stood there before you? Ah, you think you could now, but your hand
would shake when you saw him."
"Go to bed, Mary," said Tom. "Don't talk like that. Let the future lie,
cousin."
She turned and went to her room again.
All this was told me long after by Tom himself. Tom believed, or said
he believed, that she was only sounding him, to see what his intentions
were in case of a meeting with George Hawker. I would not for the world
have had him suppose I disagreed with him; but I myself take another
and darker interpretation of her strange words that night. I think,
that she, never a very strong-minded person, and now, grown quite
desperate from terror, actually contemplated her husband's death with
complacency, nay, hoped, in her secret heart, that one mad struggle
between him and Tom might end the matter for ever, and leave her a free
woman. I may do her injustice, but I think I do not. One never knows
what a woman of this kind, with strong passions and a not over-strong
intellect, may be driven to. I knew her for forty years, and loved her
for twenty. I knew in spite of all her selfishness and violence that
there were many good, nay, noble points in her character; but I cannot
disguise from myself that that night's conversation with Tom showed me
a darker point in her character than I knew of before. Let us forget
it. I would wish to have none but kindly recollections of the woman I
loved so truly and so long.
For the secret must be told sooner or later,--I loved her before any of
them. Before James Stockbridge, before George Hawker, before Thomas
Troubridge, and I loved her more deeply and more truly than any of
them. But the last remnant of that love departed from my heart twenty
years ago, and that is why I can write of her so calmly now, and that
is the reason, too, why I remain an old bachelor to this day.