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OTHER BOOKS BY MR. HORNUNG
THE AMATEUR CRACKSMAN. $1.25.
RAFFLES. MORE ADVENTURES OF THE
AMATEUR CRACKSMAN. Illustrated by
F. C. YOHN. $1.50.
PECCAVI. A NOVEL. $1.50.
THE SHADOW OF A MAN. $1.25.
DEAD MEN TELL NO TALES. A
NOVEL. $1.25.
SOME PERSONS UNKNOWN. $1.25.
YOUNG BLOOD. $1.25.
MY LORD DUKE. $1.25.
THE ROGUE'S MARCH. A ROMANCE.
$1.50.
THE BOSS OF TAROOMBA. [_Ivory
Series._] 16mo. $0.75.
A BRIDE FROM THE BUSH. [_Ivory
Series._] 16mo. $0.75.
IRRALIE'S BUSHRANGER. A STORY
OF AUSTRALIAN ADVENTURE. [_Ivory
Series._] 16mo. $0.75.
AT LARGE
AT LARGE
_A NOVEL_
BY
E. W. HORNUNG
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
NEW YORK::::::::::::::::: 1902
COPYRIGHT, 1902, BY
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
_All rights reserved_
PUBLISHED FEBRUARY, 1902
TROW DIRECTORY
PRINTING AND BOOKBINDING COMPANY
NEW YORK
CONTENTS
Page
I. A Nucleus of Fortune 1
II. Sundown 11
III. After Four Years 20
IV. How Dick Came Home 28
V. The First Evening at Graysbrooke 41
VI. Sisyphus 53
VII. South Kensington 64
VIII. The Admirable Miles 72
IX. A Dancing Lesson and its Consequences 86
X. An Old Friend and an Old Memory 98
XI. Dressing, Dancing, Looking on 109
XII. "To-Morrow, and To-Morrow, and To-Morrow" 123
XIII. In Bushey Park 132
XIV. Quits 152
XV. The Morning After 163
XVI. Military Manoeuvres 174
XVII. "Miles's Beggars" 185
XVIII. Alice Speaks for Herself 196
XIX. Conterminous Courses 206
XX. Strange Humility 216
XXI. An Altered Man 227
XXII. Extremities 234
XXIII. The Effect of a Photograph 244
XXIV. The Effect of a Song 256
XXV. Melmerbridge Church 271
XXVI. At Bay 286
XXVII. The Fatal Tress 296
XXVIII. The Effort 307
XXIX. Elizabeth Ryan 313
XXX. Sweet Revenge 325
XXXI. The Charity of Silence 333
XXXII. Suspense: Reaction 343
XXXIII. How Dick Said Good-Bye 353
AT LARGE
At Large
I
A NUCLEUS OF FORTUNE
A hooded wagon was creeping across a depressing desert in the middle of
Australia; layers of boxes under the hood, and of brass-handled,
mahogany drawers below the boxes, revealed the licensed hawker of the
bush. Now, the hawker out there is a very extensive development of his
prototype here at home; he is Westbourne Grove on wheels, with the
prices of Piccadilly, W. But these particular providers were neither so
universal nor so exorbitant as the generality of their class. There were
but two of them; they drove but two horses; and sat shoulder to shoulder
on the box.
The afternoon was late; all day the horses had been crawling, for the
track was unusually heavy. There had been recent rains; red mud clogged
the wheels at every yard, and clung to them in sticky tires. Little
pools had formed all over the plain; and westward, on the off-side of
the wagon, these pools caught the glow of the setting sun, and filled
with flame. Far over the horses' ears a long low line of trees was
visible; otherwise the plain was unbroken; you might ride all day on
these plains and descry no other horse nor man.
The pair upon the box were partners. Their names were Flint and
Edmonstone. Flint was enjoying a senior partner's prerogative, and
lolling back wreathed in smoke. His thick bare arms were idly folded. He
was a stout, brown, bearded man, who at thirty looked many years older;
indolence, contentment, and goodwill were written upon his face.
The junior partner was driving, and taking some pains about it--keeping
clear of the deep ruts, and pushing the pace only where the track was
good. He looked twenty years Flint's junior, and was, in fact, just of
age. He was strongly built and five-feet-ten, with honest gray eyes,
fair hair, and an inelastic mouth.
Both of these men wore flannel shirts, buff cord trousers, gray felt
wideawakes; both were public-school men, drawn together in the first
instance by that mutually surprising fact, and for the rest as different
as friends could be. Flint had been ten years in the Colonies,
Edmonstone not quite ten weeks. Flint had tried everything, and failed;
Edmonstone had everything before him, and did not mean to fail. Flint
was experienced, Edmonstone sanguine; things surprised Edmonstone,
nothing surprised Flint. Edmonstone had dreams of the future, and golden
dreams; Flint troubled only about the present, and that very little. In
fine, while Edmonstone saw licensed hawking leading them both by a short
cut to fortune, and earnestly intended that it should, Flint said they
would be lucky if their second trip was as successful as their first,
now all but come to an end.
The shadow of horses and wagon wavered upon the undulating plain as
they drove. The shadows grew longer and longer; there was a noticeable
change in them whenever young Edmonstone bent forward to gaze at the sun
away to the right, and then across at the eastern sky already tinged
with purple; and that was every five minutes.
"It will be dark in less than an hour," the lad exclaimed at last, in
his quick, anxious way; "dark just as we reach the scrub; we shall have
no moon until eleven or so, and very likely not strike the river
to-night."
The sentences were punctuated with sharp cracks of the whip. An answer
came from Edmonstone's left, in the mild falsetto that contrasted so
queerly with the bodily bulk of Mr. John Flint, and startled all who
heard him speak for the first time.
"My good fellow, I implore you again to spare the horseflesh and the
whipcord--both important items--and take it easy like me."
"Jack," replied Edmonstone warmly, "you know well enough why I want to
get to the Murrumbidgee to-night. No? Well, at all events, you own that
we should lose no time about getting to some bank or other?"
"Yes, on the whole. But I don't see the good of hurrying on now to reach
the township at an unearthly hour, when all the time we might camp in
comfort anywhere here. To my mind, a few hours, or even a night or two,
more or less----"
"Are neither here nor there? Exactly!" broke in Edmonstone, with
increasing warmth. "Jack, Jack! the days those very words cost us! Add
them up--subtract them from the time we've been on the roads--and we'd
have been back a week ago at least. I shall have no peace of mind until
I step out of the bank, and that's the truth of it." As he spoke, the
fingers of Edmonstone's right hand rested for a moment, with a curious,
involuntary movement, upon his right breast.
"I can see that," returned Flint, serenely. "The burden of riches, you
see--and young blood! When you've been out here as long as I have,
you'll take things easier, my son."
"You don't understand my position," said Edmonstone. "You laugh when I
tell you I came out here to make money: all the same, I mean to do it. I
own I had rotten ideas about Australia--all new chums have. But if I
can't peg out my claim and pick up nuggets, I'm going to do the next
best thing. It may be hawking and it may not. I mean to see. But we must
give the thing a chance, and not run unnecessary risks with the gross
proceeds of our very first trip. A hundred and thirty pounds isn't a
fortune; but it may be the nucleus of one; and it's all we've got
between us in this world meanwhile."
"My dear old boy, I'm fully alive to it. I only don't see the point of
finishing the trip at a gallop."
"The point is that our little all is concealed about my person," said
Edmonstone, grimly.
"And my point is that it and we are absolutely safe. How many more times
am I to tell you so?" And there was a squeak of impatience in the absurd
falsetto voice, followed by clouds of smoke from the bearded lips.
Edmonstone drove some distance without a word.
"Yet only last week," he remarked at length, "a store was stuck up on
the Darling!"
"What of that?"
"The storekeeper was robbed of every cent he had."
"I know."
"Yet they shot him dead in the end."
"And they'll swing for it."
"Meanwhile they've shown clean heels, and nobody knows where they
are--or are not."
"Consequently you expect to find them waiting for us in the next clump,
eh?"
"No, I don't. I only deny that we are absolutely safe."
Flint knocked out his pipe with sudden energy.
"My dear boy," cried he, "have I or have I not been as many years out
here as you've been weeks? I tell you I was in the mounted police, down
in Vic, all through the Kelly business; joined in the hunt myself; and
back myself to know a real bushranger when I see him or read about him.
This fellow who has the cheek to call himself Sundown is not a
bushranger at all; he and his mates are mere robbers and murderers. Ned
Kelly didn't go shooting miserable storekeepers; and he was the last of
the bushrangers, and is likely to remain the last. Besides, these chaps
will streak up-country, not down; but, if it's any comfort to you, see
here," and Flint pocketed his pipe, made a long arm overhead and reached
a Colt's revolver from a hook just inside the hood of the wagon, "let
this little plaything reassure you. What, didn't you know I was a dead
shot with this? My dear chap, I wasn't in the mounted police for
nothing. Why, I could pick out your front teeth at thirty yards and
paint my name on your waistcoat at twenty!"
Flint stroked the glittering barrel caressingly, and restored the pistol
to its hook: there was a cartridge in every chamber.
The other said nothing for a time, but was more in earnest than ever
when he did speak.
"Jack," said he, "I can only tell you this: if we were to lose our money
straight away at the outset I should be a lost man. How could we go on
without it--hawking with an empty wagon? How could I push, push,
push--as I've got to--after losing all to start with? A hundred pounds!
It isn't much, but it is everything to me--everything. Let me only keep
it a bit and it shall grow under my eyes. Take it away from me and I am
done for--completely done for."
He forgot that he was using the first person singular instead of plural;
it had become natural to him to think out the business and its
possibilities in this way, and it was no less in Flint's nature to see
no selfishness in his friend's speech. Flint only said solemnly:
"You shouldn't think so much about money, old chap."
"Money and home!" exclaimed Dick Edmonstone in a low, excited tone.
"Home and money! It's almost all I do think about."
Jack Flint leaned forward, and narrowly scanned the face of his friend;
then lay back again, with a light laugh of forced cheerfulness.
"Why, Dick, you speak as though you had been exiled for years, and it's
not three months since you landed."
Dick started. It already seemed years to him.
"Besides," continued the elder man, "I protest against any man growing
morbid who can show a balance-sheet like ours. As to home-sickness, wait
until you have been out here ten years; wait until you have tried
digging, selecting, farming, droving; wait until you have worn a
trooper's uniform and a counter jumper's apron, and ridden the
boundaries at a pound a week, and tutored Young Australia for your
rations. When you have tried all these things--and done no good at any
of 'em, mark you--then, if you like, turn home-sick."
The other did not answer. Leaning forward, he whipped up the horses, and
gazed once more towards the setting sun. His companion could not see his
face; but trouble and anxiety were in that long, steady, westward gaze.
He was very young, this lad Edmonstone--young even for his years. Unlike
his mate, his thoughts were all of the past and of the future; both
presented happy pictures; so happy that his mind would fly from the one
to the other without touching the present. And so he thought now, gazing
westward, of home, and of something sweeter than home itself; and he
blended that which had gone before with that which was yet to come; and
so wonderful was the harmony between these two that to-day was entirely
forgotten. Then the sun swung half-way below the dark line of the
horizon; a golden pathway shone across the sandy track right to the
wheels of the wagon; the dark line of scrub, now close at hand, looked
shadowy and mysterious; the sunset colours declared themselves finally
in orange and pink and gray, before the spreading purple caught and
swallowed them. The dreamer's face grew indistinct, but his golden
dreams were more vivid than before.
A deadly stillness enveloped the plain, making all sounds staccato: the
rhythmical footfall of the horses, the hoarse notes of crows wheeling
through the twilight like uncanny heralds of night, the croaking of
crickets in the scrub ahead.
Dick was recalled to the antipodes by a mild query from his mate.
"Are you asleep, driver?"
"No."
"You haven't noticed any one ahead of us this afternoon on horseback?"
"No; why?"
"Because here are some one's tracks," said Flint, pointing to a fresh
horse-trail on the side of the road.
Edmonstone stretched across to look. It was difficult in the dusk to
distinguish the trail, which was the simple one of a horse walking.
"I saw no one," he said; "but during the last hour it would have been
impossible to see any one, as close to the scrub as we are now. Whoever
it is, he must have struck the track hereabouts somewhere, or we should
have seen his trail before sundown."
"Whoever it is," said Flint, "we shall see him in a minute. Don't you
hear him? He is still at a walk."
Edmonstone listened, and the measured beat of hoofs grew upon his ear;
another moment and a horseman's back was looming through the dusk--very
broad and round, with only the crown of a wideawake showing above the
shoulders. As the wagon drew abreast his horse was wheeled to one side,
and a hearty voice hailed the hawkers:
"Got a match, mateys? I've used my last, and I'm just weakening for a
smoke."
"Here's my box," said Dick, pulling up. "Take as many as you like."
And he dropped his match-box into a great fat hand with a wrist like a
ship's cable, and strong stumpy fingers: it was not returned until a
loaded pipe was satisfactorily alight; and as the tobacco glowed in the
bowl the man's face glowed in company. It was huge like himself, and
bearded to the eyes, which were singularly small and bright, and set
very close together.
"I don't like that face," said Dick when the fellow had thanked him with
redoubled heartiness, and ridden on.
"It looked good-natured."
"It was and it wasn't. I don't want to see it again; but I shall know it
if ever I do. I had as good a look at him as he had at us."
Flint made no reply; they entered the forest of low-sized malee and pine
in silence.
"Jack," gasped Edmonstone, very suddenly, after half-an-hour, "there's
some one galloping in the scrub somewhere--can't you hear?"
"Eh?" said Flint, waking from a doze.
"Some one's galloping in the scrub--can't you hear the branches
breaking? Listen."
"I hear nothing."
"Listen again."
Flint listened intently.
"Yes--no. I thought for an instant--but no, there is no sound now."
He was right: there was no sound then, and he was somewhat ruffled.
"What are you giving us, Dick? If you will push on, why, let's do it;
only we do one thing or the other."
Dick whipped up the horses without a word. For five minutes they trotted
on gamely; then, without warning, they leaped to one side with a shy
that half-overturned the wagon.
Side by side, and motionless in the starlight, sat two shadowy forms on
horseback, armed with rifles, and masked to the chin.
"Hands up," cried one of them, "or we plug."
II
SUNDOWN
There was no time for thought, much less for action, beyond that taken
promptly by Flint, who shot his own hands above his head without a
moment's hesitation, and whispered to Dick to do the same. Any other
movement would have been tantamount to suicide. Yet it was with his eyes
open and his head cool that Flint gave the sign of submission.
The horsemen sat dark and motionless as the trees of the sleeping forest
around them. They were contemplating the completeness of their triumph,
grinning behind their masks.
Flint saw his chance. Slowly, very slowly, his left arm, reared rigidly
above his head, swayed backward; his body moved gently with his arm; his
eyes never left the two mysterious mounted men.
He felt his middle finger crowned by a cool ring. It was the muzzle of
his precious Colt. One grasp, and at least he would be armed.
He turned his wrist for the snatch, gazing steadily all the while at the
two vague shadows of men. Another second--and a barrel winked in the
starlight, to gleam steadily as it covered Flint's broad chest. He who
had called upon them to throw up their hands spoke again; his voice
seemed to come from the muzzle of the levelled rifle.
"Stretch an inch more, you on the near-side, and you're the last dead
man."
Flint shrugged his shoulders. The game was lost. There was no more need
to lose his head than if the game had been won. There was no need at all
to lose his life.
"I give you best," said he, without the least emotion in his
extraordinary voice.
"Fold your arms and come down," said the man with the rifle, his finger
on the trigger.
Flint did as he was ordered.
"The same--you with the reins."
Edmonstone's only answer was a stupefied stare.
"Jump down, my friend, unless you want helping with this."
Dick obeyed apathetically; he was literally dazed. At a sign from the
man with the rifle he took his stand beside Flint; three paces in front
of the luckless pair shone the short barrel of the Winchester repeater.
The other robber had dismounted, and was standing at the horses' heads.
In this position, a moment's silence fell upon the four men, to be
broken by the coarse, grating laughter of a fifth. Edmonstone turned his
head, saw another horseman issuing from the trees, and at once
recognised the burly figure of the traveller who had borrowed his
match-box less than an hour before. At that moment, and not until then,
Dick Edmonstone realised the situation. It was desperate; all was lost!
The lad's brain spun like a top: reason fled from it; his hand clutched
nervously at the pocket where the money was, and he swore in his heart
that if that went, his life might go with it.
In another instant the hairy ruffian had ridden his horse close up to
Edmonstone, whipped his foot from the stirrup, and kicked the youngster
playfully in the chest--on that very spot which his thoughtless gesture
had betrayed.
At this the other bushrangers set up a laugh--a short one.
With a spring like a young leopard, Dick Edmonstone had the big horseman
by the beard, and down they came to the ground together. There, in the
sand, they rolled over each other, locked in mortal combat--writhing,
leaping, twisting, shifting--so that the leader of the band, though he
pointed his rifle at the struggling men, dared not fire, for fear of
hitting the wrong one. But there came a moment when the struggling
ceased, when Flint sprang forward with a hoarse cry on his lips and
Sundown took careless aim with the Winchester.
Dick Edmonstone was lying on his back with white, upturned face. Two
crushing weights pinned down each arm below the shoulder; his adversary
was kneeling on him with grinding teeth and a frightful face, and one
hand busy at his belt. His hand flew up with a gleam. It was at that
moment that the man with the rifle raised it and fired.
The bearded ruffian shook his hand as though hit, and the haft of a
knife slipped from it; the bullet had carried away the blade. With a
curse he felt for his revolver.
"Don't be a fool, Jem Pound," said the marksman quietly, lowering his
smoking piece. "Before you bring the lot of us to the gallows, I'll put
a bullet through your own fat head. Get up, you big fool! Cut the mokes
adrift, and turn everything out of the wagon."
The man Pound rose sulkily, with a curious last look at the young
Englishman's throat, and hell-fire in his little eyes.
"Ben, watch this cove," the chief went on, pointing to Flint, "and watch
him with the shooter. I'll see to the youngster myself. Come here, my
friend."
The speaker was plainly no other than the rascal who called himself
Sundown; the hawkers heard the sobriquet on the lips of the other masked
man, and their glances met. He was wrapped in a cloak that hid him from
head to heels, stooped as he walked, and was amply masked. What struck
Flint--who was sufficiently cool to remain an attentive observer--was
the absence of vulgar bluster about this fellow; he addressed
confederates and captives alike in the same quiet, decisive tones,
without either raising his voice to a shout or filling the air with
oaths. It appeared that Ned Kelly had not been the last of the real
bushrangers, after all.
"You come along with me," said he, quietly; and drew Dick aside,
pointing at him the rifle, which he grasped across the breech, with a
finger still upon the trigger.
"Now," continued Sundown, when they had withdrawn a few yards into the
scrub, "turn out that pocket." He tapped Edmonstone on the chest with
the muzzle of the rifle.
Dick folded his arms and took a short step backward.
"Shoot me!" he exclaimed, looking the robber full in the face. "Why did
you save me a minute ago? I prefer to die. Shoot me, and have done with
it."
"Open your coat," said the bushranger.
Edmonstone tore open not only his coat, but his shirt as well, thus
baring his chest.
"There. Shoot!" he repeated hoarsely.
Sundown stared at the boy with a moment's curiosity, but paid no heed to
his words.
"Empty that pocket."
Dick took out the pocket-book that contained all the funds of the firm.
"Open it."
Dick obeyed.
"How much is in it?"
"A hundred and thirty pounds."
"Good! Cheques!"
"More notes."
The robber laughed consumedly.
"Take them, if you are going to," said Dick, drawing a deep breath.
Sundown did take them--pocket-book and all--still covering his man with
the rifle. The moon was rising. In the pale light the young fellow's
face was ghastly to look upon; it had the damp pallor of death itself.
The bushranger eyed it closely, and half-dropped the bushranger's
manner.
"New chum, I take it!"
"What of that?" returned Dick bitterly.
"And not long set up shop?"
Dick made no answer. Sundown stepped forward and gripped his shoulder.
"Say, mate, is this hundred and odd quid so very much to you?"
Still no answer.
"On oath, now: is it so very much?"
Dick looked up wildly.
"Much? It is everything. You have robbed me of all I have! You have
saved my life when I'd as soon lose it with my money. Yes, it's all I
have in the world, since you want to know! Do you want to madden me, you
cur? Shoot me--shoot, I tell you. If you don't I'll make you!" And the
young madman clenched his fist as he spoke.
That instant he felt himself seized by the neck and pushed forward, with
a ring of cold steel pressing below his ear.
"Here you--Jem Pound--have your revenge and bind this cub. Bind tight,
but fair, for I'm watching you."
In five minutes the blood would scarcely circulate in a dozen different
parts of Edmonstone's body; he was bound as tightly as vindictive
villain could bind him, to the off hind-wheel of his own wagon. Sundown
stood by with the rifle, and saw it done.
Flint had already been bound to the near hind-wheel, so that the
partners were lashed back to back--both able to watch their property
looted at the rear of the wagon, but unable to exchange glances.
Sundown strolled about during the operation, which his subordinates
conducted with deepening disgust, till he returned and asked what they
had got.
"Precious little," was the answer. "Stock sold out--boxes mostly empty."
Nevertheless some few varieties of bush merchandise strewed the ground,
and hats, boots, and pipes were quickly selected by Jem Pound and the
man addressed as Ben; though as for Sundown, he seemed content with a
supply of smoking materials, and, indeed, to be more or less preoccupied
while the plunder went forward. At length, at a word from him, the other
men mounted their horses, while their leader walked round to where Flint
was spread-eagled against the wheel.
"Is there anything you want before we go?" the bushranger inquired, as
civilly as you please.
"Yes," said Flint; "I want you to fill my pipe, stick it in my mouth,
and put a match to it, if you will be so good."
The other laughed, but complied with the full request before turning his
attention to young Edmonstone.
"As for you," he said, "here's your pocket-book. I couldn't take such a
treasure from you. Better keep it in memory of the fortune (the immense
fortune of a hundred and thirty pounds) it once contained. Not that I
have quite emptied it, though; I may be a devil, but I never clean a man
out quite; so you'll find enough left to get you a night's lodging and
some tucker. And--and don't forget old Sundown altogether; you may be
able to put in a good word for him some day!"
These last words, though spoken after a pause, were thrown off lightly
enough; yet somehow they were unlike the rest that had gone before.
Before their sound had died away Sundown was in his saddle, and the
sound of horses galloping through the scrub was growing faint and far
away.
Flint was the first to free himself. It took him hours. His teeth ached,
his fingers bled, before the last knot that bound his hands was undone.
His knife quickly did the rest.
He went straight to Edmonstone, who had not spoken since the gang
decamped. Flint found him pale and cold, with a very hard expression
upon his face. Dick allowed himself to be set free without a
word--without so much as an intelligent glance.
The horses could be heard munching bits of bushes close at hand. They
were easily caught. Nor was it a difficult task to a ready-handed fellow
like Flint to splice the traces, which the bushrangers had cut.
The crestfallen partners were on the point of reentering the wagon, when
Flint saw the pocket-book lying where it had been dropped.
"Better take it," said Flint sorrowfully.
In utter apathy Dick picked it up.
"Wouldn't you see if they've cleaned it entirely?" suggested Flint.
With listless fingers Edmonstone withdrew the elastic and opened the
pocket-book.
By this time the moon had mounted high in the clear southern sky; by her
pure white rays they might have read small print. Flint's heart smote
him; it was by his doing they had carried so many notes, through a fad
of his about opening their banking account with hard cash; at cheques
the bushrangers might easily have turned up their noses, as bushrangers
had done before. But now, as it was--poor, poor young devil!
A cry broke the silence, and rang out loud and wild upon the still night
air. It came from Flint's side. He turned to find his companion
tottering and trembling.
Dick Edmonstone had dropped the pocket-book, and was nervously counting
a roll of crisp, crackling papers.
"They are all here!--all! all!" he whispered in a strange, broken voice.
"Never!"
"Yes, all--all! Only think of it; our fortune is not lost, after
all--it's made--the key to it is in my hand again! Jack, the fellow had
pity on me. No, I mean on us. I don't mean to be selfish, Jack; it's
share and share alike, between you and me, and always will be. But if
you knew--if you knew! Jack, I'll put in that good word for him--I'll
make it more than words, if ever I get the chance! For I do owe him
something," said the poor fellow, carried away by reaction and
excitement, so that his breaking voice trembled between sobs and
laughter. "I do owe that Sundown something. God bless him--that's all
_I_ say."
But Flint said nothing at all; he was much too amazed for words.
III
AFTER FOUR YEARS
One chilly night in June, 1886, the ship _Hesper_, bound from Melbourne
to London, sailed into the Channel. She carried the usual wool cargo and
twenty saloon passengers besides. When the Lizard light was sighted, the
excitement--which had increased hourly since the Western Islands were
left astern--knew no reasonable bounds. For the _Hesper_ was a hundred
and eight days out; and among her passengers were grizzled Colonists, to
whom this light was the first glimmer of England for thirty years; men
who had found in the Colonial Exhibition at South Kensington an excuse
to intrust vast flocks and herds to the hands of overseers, and to
consummate that darling scheme of every prosperous Colonial, which they
render by their phrase "a trip home." Sweepstakes on the date of
sighting England, got up in the tropics, were now promptly settled;
quarrels begun in the Southern Ocean were made up in the magic element
of British waters; discontent was in irons, and joy held the ship. Far
into the middle-watch festive souls perambulated the quarter-deck with
noisy expressions of mirth, though with the conviction that the vessel
was behaving badly; whereas the vessel was a good deal more innocent of
that charge than the gentlemen who preferred it. But even when the last
of these roysterers retired there was still one passenger left on the
poop.
A young man leaned with folded arms upon the port rail, staring out into
the night. It seemed as though his eye penetrated the darkness, and
found something bright beyond, so wistful was its gaze. One bell rang
out from the forecastle, two bells followed half an hour later at one
o'clock, but the figure of this dreamer remained motionless. For an hour
he did not stir; but, as his imagination became more vivid, the
expression of his eyes grew softer, until their yearning melted into a
thin, thin film, and the firm lines of the mouth relaxed, and facial
creases carved by a few hard years were smoothed away. He was only a few
hours ahead of the _Hesper_ after all: she was off the Cornish coast,
and he (in fancy) far up the Thames.
Three-bells aroused the dreamer. He stood upright with a start. He
passed his hand quickly across his forehead, as if to rid his brain of
weak thoughts. He began tramping the deck rapidly. Now the whole man was
changed: his step was brisk, his frame instinct with nervous animation,
his chest swelled proudly, his eyes sparkled with triumph. He had hung
over the rail like any sentimental home-comer; he marched the deck like
a conquering hero.
Yet this was one of the youngest men on board, and his years of absence
from England were but a tithe of some of his fellow-passengers. During a
long voyage the best and the worst of a man's character come out; but
this man's display had been less complete than any one else's, and he
was probably the better liked on board in consequence. Though reserved
and quiet, he had, indeed without being conscious of it, become very
popular. Perhaps one factor in this was the accidental discovery,
half-way through the voyage, that he could draw uncommonly well; for it
opened up a source of unexpected entertainment at a time when the stock
amusements of the high seas had begun to flag. But there was one thing
about him which, had his fellow-passengers suspected it, in all
probability would have interfered considerably with his popularity: this
was the astounding fact that at the age of twenty-five he had already
made his fortune.
One scene from the bush life of this exceedingly lucky young gentleman
has already been set forth. It will be sufficient to briefly glance at
the remainder of his Colonial career, since details of unbroken success
are voted a bore by common consent.
The firm of Flint and Edmonstone did well out of licensed hawking.
Perhaps their honesty--which was as transparent as it was original in
that line of business--had much to do with their success; for although
squatters were at first sceptical of the new firm, their eyes were at
once opened to the iniquitous prices of the Jews, who had hitherto
enjoyed a monopoly of their custom. The newcomers thus gained
experimental patronage, which they retained on their merits. After a
year they advanced a step in the mercantile scale of the Colony: they
set up a general store at a rising settlement on the Darling. The store
had not been opened six months when the senior partner's chequered life
in the Colonies was terminated in a manner utterly unforeseen. Word came
that he had inherited, through an accommodating series of deaths, money
and property in Ireland. It was no brilliant heritage, but it held out
advantages greater on the whole than back-block storekeeping could be
expected to afford. Withdrawing a temperate share of the profits, Mr.
John Flint kicked the dust of the Riverina from his long boots, and
finally disappeared from the face of the desert, and Edmonstone was left
sole proprietor of a most promising "concern."
The luck that had hitherto attended him was soon to be enhanced; for,
gold being discovered close to the little township on the Darling, a
"rush" from all parts of Australia followed. As in most similar cases of
late years, expectations were by no means realised on the new diggings.
Still, people came, and the storekeeper was a made man.
A colonist of less than three years' standing, he joined three congenial
spirits in the enterprise of stocking a station in the new Kimberley
district of Western Australia. Here a huge success seemed certain in
process of time; when, in the full tide of prosperity, with all he
touched turning to gold beneath his fingers, with the lust of wealth
upon him, there came a sudden revulsion of feeling. He realised that he
had already amassed a fortune--small enough as fortunes go, but beyond
his wildest hopes when quitting England. He saw that to go farther was
to pursue wealth for wealth's sake--which was a rather lofty view of it;
and that luck might not last for ever--which was shrewd; and that, with
the sufficiency he had won, a rather better kind of existence was within
reach. In short, he sickened of money-grubbing in a single night, and
turned desperately home-sick instead; and, as it was not a game of
cards, he was able, without incurring anything worse than compassion, to
rise a winner. He determined to go home, invest his "pile," live on the
interest, and--devote himself to art! He journeyed forthwith to
Melbourne, and there succeeded in disposing of his share in the
Kimberley station for a sum little short of five figures.
Dick Edmonstone was opposed to sensational methods, or he would have
taken the first mail-steamer and dropped like a thunderbolt among his
people in England, with his money in his pocket. Besides, an exceptional
amount of experience crammed into four years had robbed him, among other
things, of nearly (though not quite) all his boyish impetuosity. So he
merely wrote two letters by the first mail to his mother and to a
certain Colonel Bristo. Thereafter he took his passage by the clipper
_Hesper_, then loading at Williamstown, and prepared for a period of
reflection, anticipation, and well-earned rest.
Dick Edmonstone had altered a good deal during his four years in
Australia. In the first place, the big boy had become a man, and a man
who held up his head among other men; a man who had made his way by his
own indomitable perseverance, and who thereby commanded your respect; a
man of all-round ability in the opinion of his friends (and they were
right); a man of the world in his own (and he was wrong). And all at
twenty-five! The old tremendous enthusiasm had given place to a
thoroughly sanguine temperament of lusty, reliant manhood. He was cooler
now, no doubt, but his heart was still warm and his head still hot.
Strangers took him for thirty. His manner was always independent, could
be authoritative, and was in danger of becoming arrogant. This much,
successful money-hunting had naturally brought about. But a generous
disposition had saved him from downright selfishness through it all, and
the talisman of a loyal, honest, ardent love had led him blameless
through a wild and worldly life. And he was still young--young in many
ways. His hopes and beliefs were still boundless; they had all come true
so far. He had not found the world a fraud yet. On the contrary, he
liked the world, which was natural; and thought he knew it, which did
not follow because he happened to know some rough corners of it.
One curious characteristic of young Edmonstone as a public schoolman and
a modern young Englishman was the entire absence in him of false pride.
Though transported pretty directly from Cambridge to Australia, he had
taken to retail trade (of a humble kind at that) with philosophical
sang-froid. On leaving England he had asked himself, What was his chief
object in going out? And he had answered, To make money and return. Did
it matter how he made it, once out there? No. No manual toil need
degrade him, no honest business put him to shame. In England it is
different; but in her democratic Colonies her younger sons--whether from
Poplar or from Eton--must take the work that offers, as they covet
success. Dick Edmonstone jumped at his first opening; that it chanced to
be in the licensed hawking line cost him hardly a pang.
Indeed, he looked back lovingly in his success on those early days,
when all he possessed in the world was invested in that daring venture.
He thought of the anxiety that consumed him at the time, and of Jack
Flint's cooling influence; and whenever he thought of those days one
episode rose paramount in his brain, obliterating other memories. That
episode was the "sticking-up" of the wagon on the first trip by Sundown
and his men, which must have meant his ruin but for the extraordinary
behaviour of the bushranger with regard to the pocket-book and its
contents. He did not forget that the bushranger had preserved his life
as well as restored his money. And that hundred pounds actually turned
out to be the nucleus of a fortune! Sundown--poor fellow--was captured;
perhaps by this time hanged, or imprisoned for life. Just before the
_Hesper_ sailed, word of the outlaw's arrest in a remote district of
Queensland was telegraphed from Brisbane. He had been heard of from time
to time during the preceding years, but on the whole his gang had done
less mischief and shed less blood than some of their predecessors. As
for Dick, when he read of the capture he was downright sorry. It may be
a passive order of kindness that refrains from robbing a man; yet Dick
was so peculiarly constituted as to feel in secret more than a passing
regret at the news.
But as the _Hesper_ drew towards the Channel he thought less and less of
the life he had left behind, and more and more of the life before him.
He longed all day to feel the springy turf of England under foot once
more; to have the scent of English flowers in his nostrils; to listen to
English larks carolling out of sight in the fleecy clouds of an English
sky. How green the fields would seem! How solid the houses, how
venerable the villages, how historic the rivers of the Old World! And
then how he longed to plunge into the trio he styled "his people"--his
mother the widow, his brother the City clerk, his sister the saint! Yet
what were these yearnings beside one other! What the dearest kin beside
her who must yet be nearer and dearer still!--the young girl from whom
he had fled to seek his fortune--for whom he had found it. In her his
honest yearning centred, in her his high hopes culminated. Of her he
thought all day, gazing out over the sun-spangled waves, and all night,
tossing in his berth. A thousand times he cursed his folly in choosing
canvas before steam; the time was so long--and seemed longer; the
brightest days were interminable ages; favouring gales were lighter than
zephyrs.
He allowed no doubts to interfere with the pleasures of anticipation; no
fears, no anxieties. If he thought of what might have happened at home
during the last four or five months since he had received news, the
catalogue of calamities was endless. He did not believe disappointment
possible through any sort of a calamity. If those he loved still
lived--as he knew they did five or six months ago--then he was sure of
his reception; he was sure of hearts and hands; he was sure of his
reception from every one--yes, from every one.
The future seemed so splendid and so near! Yet it was giving the future
hardly a fair chance to expect as much of it as young Edmonstone
expected during the last days of his homeward voyage.
IV
HOW DICK CAME HOME
A crowd of the usual dock order had gathered on the quay at Blackwall by
the time the _Hesper_ made her appearance, towed by two Channel tugs.
Some time, however, passed before the vessel swung near enough to the
quay for recognitions to begin; and by then the dingy line of dock
loafers and watermen was enhanced by a second rank of silk hats and a
slight leaven of bonnets. With intolerable sloth the big ship swung
closer and closer, broadside on; greetings were excitedly exchanged, and
at length the gangway was thrown across and held by a dozen eager hands.
Dick Edmonstone, at the break of the poop, bent forward to search among
the faces on the quay, apparently without finding any he knew. But
presently, as his eye glanced rapidly up and down the line, he became
conscious of one gaze fixed steadily upon him; twice he overlooked this
face; the third time, a mutual stare, a quick smile of delight, a bound
across the gangway, and Dick was grasping his brother's hand.
"Dick!"
"Maurice!"
Then they seemed to gasp in the same breath:
"Never should have known you!" "Nor I you--from Adam!"
And then they were silent for a whole minute, scrutinising one another
from head to heels; until Maurice said simply that he had got away from
the bank and needn't go back, and fell to asking about the voyage, and
the weather, and the passengers, and had the cabin been comfortable? and
what a stunning ship! To all of which Dick replied coherently; and for
five minutes they talked as though they had parted last week. Only for
such trifles could they find ready words; so much was inexpressible just
at first.
They went into Dick's cabin; and there their tongues loosened a little.
All were well at home, and happy, and comfortable; the news was good all
round, as Dick phrased it, with thankfulness in his heart. That was the
first delicious fact to be realised. After that, words flew with
marvellous rapidity; the brothers were soon like two competitive human
looms, turning them out one against the other. Fortunately the pace was
too quick to last; in ten minutes both were breathless. Then they
fastened upon stewards and Customs officials, and, by dint of some
bullying and a little bribing, managed finally to get clear of the ship
with Dick's luggage.
Dick was in tremendous spirits. He was back in old England at last, and
testified his appreciation of the fact every minute.
Between Blackwall and Fenchurch Street he made odious comparisons
touching Colonial travelling; in the four-wheeler across to Waterloo he
revelled in the rattle and roar of the traffic; along the loop-line his
eyes feasted on the verdant fields that had haunted his dreams in the
wilderness.
The Edmonstones lived in a plain little house in a road at Teddington,
in which all the houses were little, plain, and uniformly alike. They
called their house "The Pill Box"; but that was a mere nickname, since
all the houses in that plain little road were fearfully and wonderfully
christened, and theirs no exception to the rule. Its name--blazoned on
the little wooden gate--was Iris Lodge; and being sane people, and
sufficiently familiar with suburban ideas, the Edmonstones had never
attempted to discover the putative point of the appellation. They were
satisfied to dub the house "The Pill Box," with malicious candour, among
themselves. For the Edmonstones did not take kindly (much less at first)
to road or house. And naturally, since five years ago, before Mr.
Edmonstone's death, they had lived in a great, square, charming villa,
with a garden-wall running a quarter of a mile along the towing-path,
within sight of Kingston Bridge. But then Richard Edmonstone senior had
dropped dead, at the height of his reputed success on the Stock Exchange
and of his undoubted popularity in the clubs. To the surprise of all but
those who knew him most intimately, he had left next to nothing behind
him; the house by the river had been hurriedly sold, young Richard had
as promptly emigrated, and the rest of them had bundled into as small a
house as they could find in the neighbourhood.
But squat, snug, bourgeois as it was, Dick felt that the plain little
house was nevertheless home, as the cab rattled over the railway bridge
and along the road to the left, and so on towards "The Pill Box." It was
raining (that June was not an ideal month), and the vehicle was the
detestable kind of victoria so much affected by the honest cabmen of the
Thames valley; still, Dick insisted on having the hood down to sniff the
air of his native heath. Yet, though in sufficiently good spirits, his
heart was beating quickly within him. These homecomings are no small
things, unless the rover be old or loveless, and Dick was neither.
After all, the meeting was got over, as such meetings have been got over
before, with a few tears and fewer words and melting looks and warm
embraces. And so Dick Edmonstone was given back to the bosom of his
family.
When the first and worst of it was over, he could not rest in a chair
and talk to them, but must needs roam about the room, examining
everybody and everything as he answered their questions. How well his
mother was looking! and how her dark eyes beamed upon him!--the more
brightly, perhaps, from their slight moisture. Her hand was as smooth
and white as ever, and her hair whiter; how well it suited her to wear
no cap, and have the silver mass pushed back like that! He had declared
to himself he had never seen so pretty a woman over five-and-thirty--and
his mother was fifty, and looking every year of it. And Fanny--well,
she, perhaps, was as far from beauty as ever; but her wavy chestnut hair
was matchless still, and as for expression, had there ever been one so
sweet and gentle in the world before? It was Maurice who had all the
good looks, though. But Maurice was pale and slim and rather
round-shouldered; and instantly the image of the lad bending all day
over the desk rose in Dick's mind and made him sad. What a different
man the bush would make of Maurice! Then he looked round at the old
familiar objects; the Landseer engravings and Fanny's water-colour
sketches; the cottage piano, the writing-table, old pieces of odd ware
which he remembered from his cradle, the fancy ormolu clock, which he
had hated from his earliest days of discernment. He looked no further--a
telegram was stuck up in front of the clock, and flaunted in his face:
"Edmonstone, Iris Lodge, Teddington,--Ship _Hesper_ signalled Start
Point ten this morning.--Bone and Phillips."
He read it curiously.
"Why, that's three days old!" he said, laughing. "Do you mean to say you
have been staring at that bit of paper ever since--a sort of deputy-me,
eh?"
"It was the first we heard," said the mother simply; and a subtle
something brought back her tears. "I half think I'll frame it!" she
added, smiling at her own weakness.
"I found out your other signallings," said Maurice. "I was in Bone's
office half-a-dozen times yesterday."
Dick continued his survey of the room.
"Well, I think I recognise everything," he said presently; "but, I say,
Fanny, I've got a thing or two for you to arrange in your high-art
fashion; some odds and ends you haven't seen the like of before, I
expect."
"No!" said Fanny.
"Oh, but I have, though; and some of 'em expressly for you."
"No!--really?--then what?"
"Aha, you'll see," said Dick. "Maurice, we'll unpack them now--if that
brute of a Customs functionary has left a whole thing in the box." And
the two left the room.
"To think," said Fanny musingly, "that our Dick is back! Really back,
and never going out again; and been through all kinds of fearful
adventures; and sailed round the world, and been away four years and a
half--one can scarcely realise any of it. But above all, to think that
he has made his fortune!"
Mrs. Edmonstone started.
"Oh, Fanny," cried she, "I had forgotten that! He never once spoke of
it, and I didn't think of it. Oh, my boy, my boy!" She burst fairly into
sobs. Her joy had been too great to bear before she was reminded of this
overwhelming fact; it had brought the tears again and again to her eyes;
now it became akin to pain.