goodness in the worst natures? of truth in the falsest? of generosity in
the most selfish?"
Jack Flint looked quaintly solemn; his face was in shadow, luckily.
"Yes," said Dick, gravely, "my mother is right; there was a good impulse
left in that poor fellow, and if you find gold in an outlaw and a thief,
you may look for it anywhere. But in my opinion there was more than a
remnant of good in that man. Think of it. He saved me from being knifed,
to begin with; well, it was to his own interest to do that. But after
that he took pity, and left us our money. That needed more than a good
impulse; it needed a force of character which few honest men have. Try
and realise his position--a price upon him, his hand against the world
and the world's hand against him, a villain by profession, not credited
with a single virtue except courage, not bound by a single law of God or
man; a man you would have thought incapable of compassion; and
yet--well, you know what he did."
There was a manly fervour in his voice which went straight to the hearts
of his mother and sister. They could not speak. Even Flint forgot to
look sceptical.
"If it had not meant so much to me, that hundred pounds," Dick
continued, as though arguing with himself, "it is possible that I might
think less of the fellow. I don't know, but I doubt it, for we had no
notion then what that hundred would turn to. As it is, I have thought of
it very often. You remember, Jack, how much more that hundred seemed to
me at that time than it really was, and how much less to you?"
"It was a hundred and thirty," said Flint; "I remember that you didn't
forget the odd thirty then."
"Dick," Fanny presently exclaimed, out of a brown study, "what do you
think you would do if--you ever met that bushranger again. I mean, if he
was at your mercy, you know?"
Flint sighed, and prepared his spirit for heroics.
"No use thinking," Dick answered. "By this time he's a life--if they
didn't hang him."
Flint became suddenly animated.
"What?" he cried, sharply.
"Why, the last I heard of him--the day I sailed from Melbourne--was,
that he was captured somewhere up in Queensland."
"If you had sailed a day later you would have heard more."
"What?" asked Dick, in his turn.
"He escaped."
"Escaped?"
"The same night. He got clean away from the police-barracks at Mount
Clarence--that was the little Queensland township. They never caught
him. They believe he managed to clear out of the country--to America,
probably."
"By Jove, I'm not sorry!" exclaimed Dick.
"Here are some newspaper cuttings about him," continued Flint, taking
the scraps from his pocketbook and handing them to Dick. "Read them
afterwards; they will interest you. He was taken along with another
fellow, but the other fellow was taken dead--shot through the heart.
That must have been the one he called Ben; for the big brute who tried
to knife you had disappeared some time before. When they were taken they
were known to have a lot of gold somewhere--I mean, Sundown was--for
they had just stuck up the Mount Clarence bank."
"Yes, I heard that when I heard of the capture."
"Well, it was believed that Sundown feared an attack from the police,
and planted the swag, went back to it after his escape, and got clear
away with the lot. But nothing is known; for neither Sundown nor the
gold was ever seen again."
"Mamma, aren't you glad he escaped," cried Fanny, with glowing cheeks.
"It may be wicked, but I know I am! Now, what would you do, Dick?"
"What's the good of talking about it?" said Dick.
"Then I'll tell you what I'd do; I'd hide this poor Sundown from
justice; I'd give him a chance of trying honesty, for a change--that's
what I should do! And if I were you, I should long and long and long to
do it!"
Flint could not help smiling. Dick's sentiment on the subject was
sufficiently exaggerated; but this young lady! Did this absurd
romanticism run in the family? If so, was it the father, or the
grandfather, or the great-grandfather that died in a madhouse?
But Dick gazed earnestly at his sister. Her eyes shone like living coals
in the twilight of the shaded room. She was imaginative; and the story
of Dick and the bushranger appealed at once to her sensibilities and her
sympathy. She could see the night attack in the silent forest, and a
face of wild, picturesque beauty--the ideal highwayman--was painted in
vivid colour on the canvas of her brain.
"Fanny, I half think I might be tempted to do something like that," said
Dick gently. "I have precious few maxims, but one is that he who does me
a good turn gets paid with interest--though I have a parallel one for
the man who works me a mischief."
"So it is a good turn not to rob a man whom you've already assaulted!"
observed Flint ironically.
"It is a good turn to save a man's life."
"True; but you seem to think more of your money than your life!"
"I believe I did four years ago," said Dick, smiling, but he checked his
smile when Flint looked at his watch and hastily rose.
Dick expostulated, almost to the extent of bluster, but quite in vain;
Flint was already shaking hands with the ladies.
"My dear fellow," said he, "I leave these shores to-night; it's my
annual holiday. I'm going to forget my peasants for a few weeks in Paris
and Italy. If I lose this train I lose to-night's boat--I found out that
before I came; so good-bye, my--"
"No, I'm coming to the station," said Dick; "at least I stickle for that
last office."
Mrs. Edmonstone hoped that Mr. Flint--her boy's best friend, as she was
assured--would see his way to calling on his way home and staying a day
or two. Mr. Flint promised; then he and Dick left the house.
They were scarcely in the road before Flint stopped, turned, laid a hand
on each of Dick's shoulders, and quickly delivered his mind:
"There's something wrong. I saw it at once. Tell me."
Dick lowered his eyes before his friend's searching gaze.
"Oh, Jack," he answered, sadly, "it is all wrong!"
And before they reached the station Flint knew all that there was to
know--an abridged but unvarnished version--of the withering and dying of
Dick's high hopes.
They talked softly together until the train steamed into the station;
and then it was Dick who at the last moment returned to a matter just
touched in passing:
"As to this dance to-night--you say I must go?"
"Of course you must go. It would never do to stay away. For one thing,
your friend, the Colonel might be hurt and bothered, and he is now your
best friend, mind. Then you must put a plucky face on it; she mustn't
see you cave in after the first facer. I half think it isn't all up yet;
you can't tell."
Dick shook his head.
"I would rather not go; it will be wormwood to me; you know what it will
be: the two together. And I know it's all up. You don't understand
women, Jack."
"Do you?" asked the other, keenly.
"She couldn't deny that--that--I can't say it, Jack."
"Ah, but you enraged her first! Anyway, you ought to go to-night for
your people's sake. Your sister's looking forward to it tremendously;
never been to a ball with you before; she told me so. By Jove! I wished
I was going myself."
"I wish you were, instead of me."
"Nonsense! I say, stand clear. Good-bye!"
Away went the train and Jack Flint. And Dick stood alone on the
platform--all the more alone because his hand still tingled from the
pressure of that honest grip; because cheering tones still rang in his
ears, while his heart turned sick, and very lonely.
XI
DRESSING, DANCING, LOOKING ON
The Bristos dined early that evening, and dressed afterwards; but only
the Colonel and Miles sat down. Mrs. Parish was far too busy, adding
everywhere finishing touches from her own deft hand; while as for Alice,
she took tea only, in her room.
When Mr. Miles went up-stairs to dress, the red sunlight still streamed
in slanting rays through the open window. His room was large and
pleasant, and faced the drive.
Mr. Miles appeared to be in excellent spirits. He whistled softly to
himself--one of Alice's songs; a quiet smile lurked about the corners of
his mouth; but since his yellow moustache was long and heavy, this smile
was more apparent in the expression of the eyes. He moved about very
softly for such a heavy man--almost noiselessly, in fact; but this
practice was habitual with him.
His dress-clothes were already laid out on the bed; they seemed never to
have been worn. His portmanteau, which stood in one corner, also
appeared to have seen little service: it would have been hard to find a
scratch on the leather, and the glossy surface bore but one porter's
label. But, naturally enough, Miles's belongings were new: a fresh
outfit from head to heel is no slight temptation to the Australian in
London.
The first step towards dressing for a ball is to undress; the first step
towards undressing is to empty one's pockets. With Miles this evening
this was rather an interesting operation. It necessitated several
niceties of manipulation, and occupied some little time. Miles carefully
drew down the blinds as a preliminary, and bolted the door.
He then crossed to the mantel-piece, lit the gas, and felt in his
breast-pocket.
The first thing to be removed from this pocket was an envelope--an
envelope considerably thickened by its contents, which crackled between
the fingers. Miles dropped the envelope into the fender after
withdrawing the contents. These he smoothed out upon the mantel-piece;
he fairly beamed upon them; they were ten Bank of England ten-pound
notes. Then he counted them, folded them into small compass, and
transferred them to the trousers-pocket of his evening dress. In doing
this his smile became so broad that his whistling ended rather abruptly.
It was a pleasant smile.
The next incumbrance of which he relieved himself came from that same
breast-pocket; but it was less easily placed elsewhere--so much less
that the whistling was dropped altogether, and, instead of smiling, Mr.
Miles frowned. Nay, a discovery that his dress-coat had no breast-pocket
was followed by quite a volley of oaths. Swearing, however, is a common
failing of the most estimable bushmen; so that, coming from a man like
Miles, the words meant simply nothing. Miles then tried the
trousers-pocket which did not contain the bank-notes; but though the
article was--of its kind--remarkably small, it was obviously too large
for such a pocket, and for the tail-pockets it was too heavy. Mr. Miles
looked seriously put out. His face wore just that expression which might
be produced by the rupture of a habit or rule of life that has become
second nature. In despair and disgust he dropped the thing into his
travelling bag, which he was careful to lock at once, and placed the key
in the pocket with the notes: the thing was a small revolver.
There followed, from the waistcoat, penknife, pencilcase, watch and
chain, and, lastly, something that created a strange and instant change
in the expression of Mr. Miles; and this, though it was the veriest
trifle, lying in a twisted scrap of printed paper. He spread and
smoothed out the paper just as he had done with the notes, and something
was displayed on its surface: something--to judge by the greedy gaze
that devoured it--of greater value than the bank-notes, and to be parted
with less willingly than the revolver. It was a lock of light-coloured
hair.
Mr. Miles again unlocked his travelling bag, and took from it a packet
of oiled-silk, a pair of scissors, tape, a needle and thread. It is a
habit of many travellers to have such things always about them. Miles,
for one, was very handy in the use of them, so that in about ten minutes
he produced a very neat little bag, shaped like an arc, and hung upon a
piece of tape with ends sewn to the ends of the chord. Holding this bag
in his left hand, he now took very carefully, between the thumb and
finger of his right hand, the lock of light-coloured hair. He let it
roll in his palm, he placed his finger tips in the mouth of the little
bag, then paused, as if unwilling to let the hair escape his hand, and,
as he paused, his face bent down until his beard touched his wrist. Had
not the notion been wildly absurd, one who witnessed the action might
have expected Mr. Miles to press his lips to the soft tress that nestled
in his palm; but, indeed, he did nothing of the kind. He jerked up his
head suddenly, slipped the tress into its little case, and began at once
to stitch up the opening. As he did this, however, he might have been
closing the tomb upon all he loved--his face was so sad. When the thread
was secured and broken, he loosed his collar and shirt-band and hung the
oiled-silk bag around his neck.
At that moment a clock on the landing, chiming the three-quarters after
eight, bade him make haste. There was good reason, it seemed, why he
should be downstairs before the guests began to arrive.
In the drawing-room he found Colonel Bristo and Mrs. Parish. In face
benevolent rather than strong, there was little in Colonel Bristo to
suggest at any time the Crimean hero; he might have been mistaken for a
prosperous stockbroker, but for a certain shyness of manner incompatible
with the part. To-night, indeed, the military aspect belonged rather to
the lady housekeeper; for rustling impatiently in her handsome black
silk gown, springing up repeatedly at the sound of imaginary wheels,
Mrs. Parish resembled nothing so much as an old war horse scenting
battle. She welcomed the entrance of Miles with effusion, but Miles paid
her little attention, and as little to his host. He glanced quickly
round the room, and bit his lip with vexation; Miss Bristo was as yet
invisible. He crossed the hall by a kind of instinct, and looked into
the ballroom, and there he found her. She had flitted down that moment.
Her dress was partly like a crystal fall, and partly like its silver
spray; it was all creamy satin and tulle. Or so, at least, it seemed to
her partners whose knowledge, of course, was not technical. One of them,
who did not catch her name on introduction--being a stranger, brought
under the wing of a lady with many daughters--described her on his card
simply as "elbow sleeves;" and this must have been a young gentleman of
observation, since the sleeves--an artful compromise between long and
short--were rather a striking feature to those who knew. Others
remembered her by her fan; but the callow ones saw nothing but her face,
and that haunted them--until the next ball.
Mr. Miles, however, was the favoured man who was granted the first
glimpse of this lovely apparition. He also looked only at her face. Was
she so very indignant with him? Would she speak to him? Would she refuse
him the dances he had set his heart on? If these questions were decided
against him he was prepared to humble himself at her feet; but he soon
found there was no necessity for that.
For, though Alice was deeply angry with Mr. Miles, she was ten times
angrier with herself, and ten times ten with Dick. Her manner was
certainly cold, but she seemed to have forgotten the gross liberty Miles
had taken in the afternoon; at any rate, she made no allusion to it.
She gave him dances--then and there--since he brought her a programme,
but in doing so her thoughts were not of Miles. She gave him literal
carte blanche, but not to gratify herself or him. There were too few
ways open to her to punish the insults she had received that day; but
here was one way--unless the object of her thoughts stayed away.
She hurried from the ballroom at the sound of wheels. In a few minutes
she was standing at her father's side shaking hands with the people. She
seemed jubilant. She had a sunny smile and a word or two for all. She
was like a tinkling brook at summer noon. Everyone spoke of her
prettiness, and her dress (the ladies whispered of this), and above all,
her splendid spirits. She found out, when it was over, that she had
shaken hands with the Edmonstones among the rest. She had done so
unconsciously, and Dick, like everybody else, had probably received a
charming welcome from her lips.
If that was the case he must have taken the greeting for what it was
worth, for he seized the first opportunity to escape from Fanny and
Maurice, who were bent upon enjoying themselves thoroughly in
unsentimental fashion. He saw one or two men whom he had known before he
went to Australia, staring hard at him, but he avoided them; he shrank
into a corner and called himself a fool for coming.
He wanted to be alone, yet was painfully conscious of the wretched
figure cut by a companionless man in a room full of people. If he talked
to nobody people would point at him. Thus perhaps: "The man who made a
fool of himself about Miss Bristo, don't you know; went to Australia,
made his fortune, and all the rest of it, and now she won't look at him,
poor dog!" He was growing morbid. He made a pretence of studying the
water-colours on the wall, and wished in his soul that he could make
himself invisible.
A slight rustle behind him caused him to turn round. His heart rose in
his throat; it was Alice.
"You must dance with me," she said coldly; and her voice was the voice
of command.
Dick was electrified; he gazed at her without speaking. Then a scornful
light waxed in his eyes, and his lips formed themselves into a sneer.
"You can hardly refuse," she continued cuttingly. "I do not wish to be
questioned about you; there has been a little too much of that.
Therefore, please to give me your arm. They have already begun."
That was so; the room in which they stood was almost empty. Without a
word Dick gave her his arm.
The crowd about the doorway of the ballroom made way for them to pass,
and a grim conceit which suggested itself to Dick nearly made him laugh
aloud.
As they began to waltz Alice looked up at him with flashing eyes.
"If you hate this," she whispered between her teeth, "imagine my
feelings!"
He knew that his touch must be like heated irons to her; he wanted her
to stop, but she would not let him. As the couples thinned after the
first few rounds she seemed the more eager to dance on. One moment,
indeed, they had the floor entirely to themselves. Thus everyone in the
room had an opportunity of noticing that Alice Bristo had given her
first dance to Dick Edmonstone.
The Colonel saw it, and was glad; but he said to himself, "The boy
doesn't look happy enough; and as for Alice--that's a strange expression
of hers; I'll tell her I don't admire it. Well, well, if they only get
their quarrels over first, it's all right, I suppose."
Fanny noted it with delight. The one bar to her complete happiness for
the rest of the evening was now removed. The best of dancers herself,
she was sought out by the best. To her a ball was a thing of intrinsic
delight, in no way connected with sentiment or nonsense.
Mrs. Parish also saw it, but from a very different point of view. She
bustled over to Mr. Miles, who was standing near the piano, and asked
him confidentially if he had not secured some dances with Alice? He
showed her his card, and the old schemer returned triumphant to her
niche among the dowagers.
He followed her, and wrote his name on her empty card opposite the first
square dance; a subtle man, this Mr. Miles.
At the end of the waltz Miss Bristo thanked her partner coldly, observed
below her breath that she should not trouble him again, bowed--and left
him.
Dick was done with dancing; he had not wished to dance at all; but this
one waltz was more than enough for him--being with her. Love is
responsible for strange paradoxes.
He found two men to talk to: men who gloried in dancing, without greater
aptitude for the art (for it is one) than elephants shod with lead.
Being notorious, these men never got partners, save occasional ladies
from remote districts, spending seasons with suburban relatives. These
men now greeted Dick more than civilly, though they were accustomed to
cut his brother, the bank-clerk, every morning of their lives. They
remembered him from his infancy; they heard he had done awfully well
abroad, and congratulated him floridly. They were anxious to hear all
about Australia. Dick corrected one or two notions entertained by them
respecting that country. He assured them that the natives were
frequently as white as they were. He informed them, in reply to a
question, that lions and tigers did not prowl around people's premises
in the majority of Australian towns; nor, indeed, were those animals to
be found in the Colonies, except in cages. He set them right on the
usual points of elementary geography. He explained the comprehensive
meaning of the term, "the bush."
As Dick could at a pinch be fluent--when Australia was the subject--and
as his mood to-night was sufficiently bitter, his intelligent
questioners shortly sheered off. They left him at least better-informed
men. Thereupon Dick returned to the ballroom with some slight access of
briskness, and buried himself in a little knot of wall-flowers of both
sexes.
A dance had just begun--scarcely necessary to add, a waltz. Every man
blessed with a partner hastened to fling his unit and hers into the
whirling throng. After a round or two, half the couples would pause, and
probably look on for the rest of the time; but it seems to be a point of
honour to begin with the music. As Dick stood watching, his sister
passed quite close to him; she happened to be dancing with Maurice, her
very creditable pupil, but neither of them saw Dick. Close behind them
came a pair of even better dancers, who threaded the moving maze without
a pause or a jar or a single false step; they steered so faultlessly
that a little path seemed always to open before them; human teetotums,
obstacles to every one else, seemed mysteriously to melt at the graceful
approach of these two. But, in fact, it was impossible to follow any
other pair at the same time, so great were the ease, and beauty, and
harmony of this pair. They seemed to need no rest; they seemed to yield
themselves completely--no, not to each other--but to the sweet influence
of the dreamy waltz.
Dick watched the pair whose exquisite dancing attracted so much
attention; his face was blank, but the iron was in his soul. The other
wallflowers also watched them, and commented in whispers. Dick overheard
part of a conversation between a young lady whose hair was red (but
elaborately arranged), and a still younger lady with hair (of the same
warm tint) hanging in a plait, who was presumably a sister, not yet
thoroughly "out." Here is as much of it as he listened to:
"Oh, how beautifully they dance!"
"Nonsense, child! No better than many others."
"Well, of course, I don't know much about it. But I thought they danced
better than anyone in the room. Who are they?"
"Don't speak so loud. You know very well that is Miss Bristo herself;
the man is--must be--Mr. Edmonstone."
"Are they engaged?"
"Well, I believe they used to be. He went out to Australia because he
couldn't afford to marry (his family were left as poor as mice!), but
now he has come back with a fortune, and of course it will be on again
now. I used to know him--to bow to--when they lived on the river; I
never saw anyone so much altered, but still, that must be he."
"Oh, it must! See how sweet they----"
"Hush, child! You will be heard. But you are quite right; didn't you see
how----"