RGL e-Book Cover 2018©
RGL e-Book Cover 2018©
The Australian authoress Mary Helena Fortune (ca. 1833-1911) was one of the first women to write detective fiction, and probably the first to write it from the viewpoint of the detective. Her opus includes several novels and over 500 stories, many of which feature a detective by the name of Mark Sinclair. She wrote under the pseudonyms "Waif Wander" and "W.W."
THE scene around the farm homestead at "The Ranges" would have delighted the heart of any true farmer, for it was nearing Christmas, and the thrashing of an abundant harvest was just over. Around the great stacks of wheaten and oaten straw the workmen attached to the thrashing-machine were sprawling or lolling idly in the sun, awaiting their pay and the last meal they would, on this occasion, eat at The Ranges. From the great kitchen chimney a dense smoke arose into the still air, and busy women were going to and fro from one to another of the outbuildings, all pleased at heart that at last the great work of the year was over, at least for them.
The house was a plain erection of slabs, with a roof of box bark, but it was large and solid enough to stand a siege if necessary, and promised an endurance of substantial years with proper care. Its broad verandah, around which the grape-vines wreathed strong stems and broad green leaves, afforded a lovely view of the Ranges, from which the farm had been named, and the green cultivated flat, through which a clear but narrow river wandered gently. On a pleasant afternoon, such as the one I write about, the verandah at The Ranges was the pleasantest place in the premises, and on it were standing or seated three persons—a lady and two young men.
The lady was Miss Belinda Fox, the paternal aunt of the young gentleman who sat in a garden chair at her side, and she was a stiff, upright, maiden lady of some forty-five years. Nor did Miss Fox by any false or adventitious aid try to remove the traces of her mature years. She was a strong-minded woman, and wore just such attire as she felt to be comfortable or believed to be suitable to her means and age. Her figure was angular, her movements, as well as her words, quick and active, and it would be indeed a fearless person who would plainly contradict to Miss Fox's face any one of her dogmatically expressed opinions. She sat bolt upright in her chair, with a light fleecy shawl folded about her, and her sharp black eyes glancing hither and thither over the stack-yards and well-stocked bins, visible to the left from where she sat.
The young man who sat beside her lazily had certainly inherited none of Miss Fox's vivacity or lively intelligence. He was of a delicate-looking build, and had blue eyes, and fair soft hair, and a pale blonde moustache, of which he was inordinately proud. His face was good-looking, but marred by a look so expressionless as to approach vacuity; indeed, his male friends had called Charlie Fox "a good-natured, soft fool" for a good many of his twenty-six years, and his friends had, as a wonder for friends, spoken the plain truth for once.
The third person on the verandah that December afternoon was Barry Hatfield, the owner of "The Ranges," a man of thirty, with the figure of an athlete, and a brown complexion; eyes so dark and deep and piercing as to be unpleasant to meet were overhung with heavy black brows, and strong dark hair hung low over a full, broad forehead. He was not a handsome man by any means, or an attractive one, but you could not look in his face and fail to see a strength of mind and will and purpose that had in it a future of great good or great evil. As I introduce him, he was leaning against the verandah post nearest the end that best commanded the view to the eastward, and he was gazing at it silently, and, it may be sorrowfully, when Miss Fox spoke:
"You part with your farm, yet you seem to regret it, Mr. Hatfield. How is that?"
"One must in a kind of way regret any spot they have lived on so long. I have been here twelve years; but no, I do not regret it. Do I gather from your words that you have decided on closing our bargain, Miss Fox?"
"You forget, my dear sir, I am not the purchaser. You must ask my nephew that question," Miss Fox answered, with great stateliness. "As you are aware, I am sole trustee of the fortune left to Charles by his much-lamented father, and he naturally sets some store by the advice of his paternal aunt."
"I should think so, Aunt Belt," cried the young gent alluded to; "I'm sure I don't know what I'd do without your opinion, for you know I can't think out things for myself somehow. But see here, aunt, you know I've set my heart on The Ranges, and I know you think it's a good investment; now don't you?"
The speaker's face expressed an almost ludicrous anxiety, combined, as it was, by such an apparent want of confidence as to give his good-looking features an almost childish look as he bent his person eagerly forward to look in his relative's face.
"I confess to you, Charles, that when you expressed to me your anxiety to try farming in the neighborhood of Ulinka, I was much surprised," the lady replied, as she drew herself up with a becoming air of importance, "for I had had so much experience of your want of interest in, and application to, any calling, that it surprised me to hear you express a wish to commence a practical experience in the life of a farmer, which must, under the most favourable circumstances, be one of activity and self-denial. I thought, too, that it was only a temporary idea inspired by your visit to our friend, Mr. Hatfield, and that it would die the natural death of all your other fancies."
"But it hasn't, you see, Aunt Bell. I'm more in earnest than ever, and I'll not have one happy moment until the business is concluded with Charlie."
"Fortunately, I know a good deal of farming myself," the lady went on, in her stately way, "and am quite competent to form an opinion on the nature and value of land and improvements. I had the inestimable privilege of being brought up by a parent of sound common sense, who made it the object of his life to make me a practical woman."
"Need I say, Miss Fox, that he thoroughly succeeded."
These words were uttered by the yet owner of The Ranges, and with the accompaniment of a profound bow to the lady. If there was a gleam of sarcastic amusement in his dark eyes, no one interested was conscious of it.
"I trust he has, sir. Well, Charles, I have examined the land, improvements, agricultural implements, etc.; I have gone over Mr. Hatfield's books, and satisfied myself of the thorough soundness of all, and I am conscientiously justified in recommending the purchase of The Ranges as a perfectly sound investment of your money."
"Hurray!" shouted Charlie, much to the apparent disapproval of his relative. "I knew you'd see it in that light, Aunt Bell, for you're so clever and all that. Hurrah!"
Barry Hatfield smiled grimly, for he guessed the reason Charlie was so anxious to settle at The Ranges, but Miss Fox went on with her usual air of dogmatic self-approval.
"It is fortunate that I shall be with you to oversee matters, for I am afraid that you will never settle down to steady duties, Charlie; and it is fortunate, Mr. Hatfield, that I had appointed tomorrow for the visit of my lawyer; we can have all signed and arranged at once."
"And I shall give up possession, and leave for town on the early morning of the day following, for I am determined to sail in the Cairngorm, if possible," Hatfield said, as he lifted his shoulder from the pillar of the verandah, and stretched himself with an air of relief. "Indeed, I should have gone tomorrow, only that I want to say good-bye to many old friends, and I cannot have a better opportunity than at Mr. Northcott's Harvest Home, which takes the form of a farmer's ball and supper, tomorrow night, and to which both Charlie and you, madam, are invited, as well as myself."
"Oh, I do wish you would go, Aunt Bell! It's such fun. I was at two barn balls when I was at The Ranges in the winter, and it was delicious! No stuck-up nonsense, and the girls so pretty and jolly. I don't think anything can equal a barn ball."
"I shall certainly deny myself the great pleasure of attending one, Charlie. If I am deprived of such society as I have been accustomed to, I at least need not descend to that which I might find at a barn ball," Miss Fox said, with an elevation of her sharp chin.
"But there are some really beautiful and refined girls among our neighbors' daughters, Miss Fox," Barry Hatfield said, with a mischievous look at his friend Charlie; "and you must look forward, in the natural course of things, to seeing your nephew bring a wife home to The Ranges. What is more likely than that he should select one from among the pretty girls whom we will meet to-morrow evening?"
"If I thought such a thing possible, the purchase of this property should never, with my consent, be concluded," was the haughty observation of Miss Fox as she rose, drew her light drapery more closely around her thin shoulders, and moved with great stateliness into the house.
"Confound it, Barry, you've been and gone and done it now," cried young Fox, starting to his feet as his aunt left. "Whatever possessed you to put such a notion in her head? I wouldn't wonder if she cried off buying the farm now."
Hatfield looked at the speaker with a contempt he did not try to conceal.
"It's a pity you weren't a girl, Fox," he said, "for there's not the makings of half a man in you. Do you think I'm blind? Why, every one within ten miles knows you're shook after pretty Cally Dean, and you're hoping with all your heart to marry her. How are you to do it, tied to Aunt Bell's apron-strings, and bowing to her nod? Is your own money your own, or is it not? Rouse yourself, Charlie, for your own sake, for, believe me, Cally Dean is not the girl to marry a fool who has no mind of his own."
"I believe you are right, Barry," returned poor Charlie, with a crestfallen look, "and I've guessed it before; but Aunt Bell saves me such a lot of bother and thinking, you know. Well, I'll have The Ranges and Cally, too, if she'll have me, even if I had to throw poor old Aunt Bell over altogether, though, indeed, I shouldn't like to do that."
"There is one thing I have not hitherto mentioned in connection with my sale of the farm," Hatfield observed, with a strange sort of hesitation as he keenly watched every expression on young Fox's countenance. "To tell you the truth, I did not think your aunt would decide so quickly, or, indeed, perhaps decide at all, in favour of purchasing from me; but now that all is nearly settled I must mention that Ralph Stowbrooke goes with the property."
"What do you mean, Hatfield?"
"I mean that Stowbrooke must retain his position as manager on the place under you, as he has under me. He has claims on me, and such is his wish."
"What a misfortune," cried Charlie. "Now the applecart is totally upset. Aunt Bell has taken an awful down on that man, and I know she'll never consent to retaining him; she'll want to be manager herself, you see," he concluded, with a shrewdness remarkable in one of his soft, not to say silly, nature.
"I can't help that; but if Stowbrooke does not remain, I do not sell The Ranges. You must acquaint Miss Fox of the fact, but if you are going to let her manage you still, she'll manage you out of Cally Dean, or I'm no prophet."
Let us follow Miss Belinda Fox as she left the verandah in a fit of such temper as her well-regulated feelings permitted to entertain. Her host, for the time being, had suggested the probability of Charlie's marriage, an entirely new idea to her, and it was an extremely unpleasant one. Her great want, through later years, had been an opportunity of managing on a large scale, and here was one actually almost within her grasp, but why put out her hand to secure it if there was a possibility of her nephew bringing a wife home to oust her? A country wife, too! A girl with a coarse face and red hands, with a loud voice and a cultivated talent for milking cows and feeding calves! Faugh! The idea was unendurable, and it should never be realized while she was Charlie's aunt and Charlie was Charlie.
With such determination, Miss Fox took her way to her own comfortable room, where awaited her, the only being in the world who had the slightest influence with the elderly lady. I allude to her maid, known by the plain surname of Simpson.
Mrs. Simpson, as her fellow-servants called her by an unappreciated courtesy, was about the same age as her mistress, and also an old maid. Simpson had not, however, the common sense and poor opinion of the other sex which her mistress both expressed and displayed in her avoidance of anything like an attempt to improve her appearance by the aid of the toilet, for the maid devoted the utmost care and art to drop ten of her too visible years, though not with the slightest success. Nature had not been kind to Simpson, for her face was very ordinary, and her figure as angular as that of a pair of old-fashioned tongs; while the extravagance she indulged herself with in the way of bright colours and furbelows only threw her want of personal charms into greater prominence. But she had not given up hope of a settlement in life for all that, and she knew her great influence with Miss Fox, and used it to her own advantage as her wisdom dictated.
This woman was arranging, or pretending to be arranging, the toilet table as Miss Fox entered with her stately mien and deposited herself on a couch which commanded a good view from the window of the best part of the Ranges and its bright, flowing river.
"Simpson, what sort of management is there in the kitchen here?" she asked in a consequential manner.
"Management, ma'am! There's none at all. I never did see such an upsettin' place in all my life; that's to say inside, for everything out-a-doors is just like clockwork through Mr. Ralph, that is sort of boss over everything I think.
"A man I can't bear the sight of," Miss Fox said, very decidedly—"a person who doesn't know his place, and wants keeping in it. I shall see that he gets a month's notice tomorrow."
"Notice, ma'am! Why, the servants do say that he is a partner with Mr. Hatfield."
"Absurd! If such had been the case we should have been told of it. I may as well tell you that my nephew has purchased this property, and that I shall in future make it my home, so you may at once begin to look round you a bit and give me a hint as to what changes it will be necessary to make among the dependents."
Simpson heard what Miss Fox said with such an air of surprise, not to say terror, that it attracted the notice of her mistress.
"What is the matter?" she asked, sharply. "You are such a young and attractive creature that I presume you feel a disinclination to bury your charms in the country. If such is the case, no more need be said; I shall suit myself with another attendant."
"It is not that, Miss Fox. If I was anxious for company, I would not have been with you for seven years, ma'am; but it's the stories I have heard about the place that frightens me."
"What stories?" the elder lady asked, sharply.
"They do say the place is haunted, Miss Fox, and I'm not ashamed to say that I'm afraid of spirits that walk."
"You ought to be, then. Did ever anyone hear such nonsense! A woman of your years, too! Haunted, indeed! Is it possible that you believe in such trash, Simpson?"
"It is then, Miss Fox," Simpson retorted, so stoutly that her mistress quailed, for she dreaded a scene, which the attendant was quite able to get up at a moment's notice; "and I have good reason to believe in ghosts, for my own father appeared to my mother the day before I was born and told her I would be a girl."
"Tut-tut! What do these silly people say? I mean, what style of spirit walks at The Ranges?"
"It is out about the wine cellars some way," the woman returned; "and the cook herself heard such awful groans there one night that she had to go out for the keys that Mr. Hatfield had forgotten in the door. Mr. Stowbrooke (that's Mr. Ralph, ma'am) says that Mr. Hatfield is afraid himself, for that one night he saw the spirit itself, in the form of an old man, with a face like a corpse, walking in the cellar. They say that a murder must have been done, ma'am, and that the spirit will not rest until justice is done."
And so on went the woman's tongue volubly, until Miss Fox rose and silenced her.
"If Mr. Ralph helps to circulate such ridiculous stories," she said, "it is another reason why he should not remain. I shall see that he has a month's notice tomorrow."
While this conversation was taking place in the lady's apartment, a middle-sized man of forty years, with light hair and whiskers, and a cruel, cold eye, and a perpetual sneer half hidden by his moustache, was fidgeting about the haunted wine cellars impatiently, when he was joined by Barry Hatfield, who had just left his dupe, Charlie Fox. The man who waited and complained was he of whom both Miss Fox and Simpson, as well as her nephew and Hatfield, had just been talking, vis., Ralph Stowbrooke, the so-called manager at The Ranges.
"A pretty time you've kept me cooling my heels," he said, shortly, and with the air of a man who knew himself to be master of the position. "Well, have they come to any conclusion?"
"Yes, I think so. But come out of this; I cannot speak here. I seem to smell death."
"You're a coward and a fool," was the complimentary retort, as the speaker moved from the brick walls of the cellar. "If you had blood on your hands you couldn't show the white feather more."
"If my hands are clean, my conscience is red. I am not yet entirely hardened."
"No," sneered Stowbrooke. "You can only plan. You are too cowardly to strike a blow, though you can dip your hands in the blood of a victim when it is thickened with gold."
"Stowbrooke, one word more of such sneers and I give it up! One syllable more and my tongue shall speak, though my life be the forfeit! I have endured a misery that no tongue could tell. I will endure it no longer if your eyes and your lips turn such devilish sneers upon me!"
Ralph Stowbrooke stared at the speaker in genuine surprise. It was the first time during their long career together that he had seen anything of what he would call pluck in his partner, and he admired it.
"By Jove, you've got it in you after all, Barry!" he cried; "and you'd make a stunning hand if you weren't so awfully broken-hearted at the sight of a red stain. Come mate, we've been old friends, and we will not quarrel now."
"Friends!" Hatfield repeated, bitterly; "but no matter for mere word, you want to know the decision. They are to sign and seal tomorrow at our own figure, and I am to deliver, with the proviso that you retain your position as manager."
"They are bound to give me notice, at all events, and that time will be enough. If it wasn't for your chicken heart it might have been all over long ago."
"For God's sake, Stowbrooke, don't break your promise! It is bad enough to eat, and drink, and sleep, and know that—that—oh, heavens!—that it should come to this!"
"To what? To have a fortune to enjoy in the society of the woman you are fool enough to fancy? To buy her, as it were, with a dead man's gold away from kin and country, and make an angel or a slave of her, as you will. Do you call such a position 'coming to this?' Bah! I have no patience with you," and the speaker cast his hard eyes upon the ground, and spat upon it viciously.
"You cannot understand," Barry said, wearily; "you cannot feel as I do."
"Thank the gods, no, I cannot; one such melancholy, love-smitten, ghost-haunted man is enough to ruin the best plot that wits ever laid. I'll be as glad to get this one over as ever you can be."
"Listen, Ralph! Don't you hear something?" and Barry's face grew white as dead ashes. "Heavens above, was that a groan?"
"Go out of this," cried the man we have called Ralph, as he pushed Hatfield toward the homestead; "for any sake clear out of this before you bring the whole house down on us to catch the ghost. Oh, Lord, if I was like you I'd damned well get away, that is all. I'll see you later on, but not near the cellar again."
Barry shuddered as he walked away, the most wretched of human beings, and Miss Fox saw him from her window, and wondered at the awful pallor of his rigid face.
"There is a ghost somewhere," she murmured to herself shrewdly, "but it's the ghost of evil doings, I think. I wonder where he and that detestable Ralph have been—talking over the way they have taken us in about the price of the property I suppose," and, with a more confirmed determination than before that Mr. Ralph should have his notice to quit as soon as ever the deeds were transferred, the strong-minded lady composed herself for her afternoon siesta.
Once more I lead my readers to the familiar police station, where I feel considerably more at home than I shall ever do in a lady's chamber. Senior-constable Denby, in charge of the station at Ulinka, had been utilizing one of his spare afternoons by pulling up his clerical work, but the pen had dropped from his fingers, and his chin to his breast, for it was a hot, drowsy afternoon, and the constable slept, not long though, for to the open door came an old man, dressed in a dark and not over clean flannel shirt, a pair of moleskin trousers, and an old felt hat. He had an honest-looking face, half covered with a scrubby, grey beard, and he carried an axe in his hand. His step aroused Denby, who made a great show of arranging the papers before him as he turned round to see who was there.
"Hallo, is this you, Daddy? Come in and sit down; you'll be glad of a rest I know, for it's a blazing hot day, and, besides, there's a taste in the bottle here yet."
The man he had called Daddy obeyed him, and smiled as he seated himself. "You're always good to me, constable," he said, "and I don't know why. I suppose it's because I'm old."
"I am good to you, as you call it, because you are good to yourself, Daddy. If everyone in Ulinka was as steady and saving and hard-working as you are, I'd have blessed little to do here. Drink that, old man; it will do you good."
Old Daddy drank the spirits, and with it many sincere wishes for his patron's health and happiness, and, as he set the glass down, the constable questioned:
"And what brought you over today, Daddy? Oh, about the renewal of your license! I'll make that all right for you, never fear. How is business with you now?"
"I've got enough for the old horse to do, Mr. Denby, but I'm never idle, for I like to have a stock of wood cut for the winter. You know my customers burn more in the township, and when the roads are bad I get a better price for the firewood. Oh, thank you, constable; God is good, and I keep the pot a-boilin'. It doesn't take much to feed an old man and an old dog and an old horse."
"By the way, where is Brindle today, Daddy? He is generally at your heels."
"He's watching the cart, Mr. Denby; I left it at the blacksmith's for a new bolt."
Just as the old man had made this explanation, a horseman dismounted at the fence that railed in the constable's bit of flower garden, of which he was justly proud, and in a moment the gate was pushed open, and a tall, gentlemanly-looking man entered and walked briskly to the door of the office. At the sight of the stranger's face old Daddy bent his brows and gazed on it strangely, but he got up as if to go as the constable rose and the gentleman entered the room.
"If you are leaving on my account, my good friend, I beg that you will remain," he said, turning to the woodcutter; "the more publicity is given to the business on which I have come the better. You are the constable in charge at this station!"
"I am, sir. Sit down, Daddy," and Denby handed the gentleman his own chair.
"Thank you. I have a letter from your superintendent in my pocket, but I think I should prefer stating my business to you myself. Yes, I will sit down."
"Maybe I had as well go, Mr. Denby," old Daddy said, hesitatingly, and still gazing fixedly at the stranger.
"No, do not go; you will oblige me by remaining. I have already said that it will be of service to me that you and everyone in the neighborhood should know my business here. A gentleman is lost—an elderly gentleman. With great difficulty I have traced him to a roadside inn that you doubtless know; it is on the Narrawan road, and is called the Spotted Eagle. He was inquiring the way to Myers' Station, which is, I understand, not many miles from where I sit."
"Eight," returned Denby. "It is a large and well-known property."
"And in the market, I am told."
"Yes, I have seen it advertised for sale for some months."
"So I am told. Well, that fact accounts for the lost gentleman inquiring his way there, for he wanted to purchase an estate, and had a large sum of money on him."
"Ah!" Denby uttered, with a growing interest; "it is always imprudent to carry money in this country."
"He was a stranger, and odd and eccentric in his ways."
"How long has he been missing?" Denby inquired.
"Nearly two months."
"So long! That's bad. Daddy, your hut is not far off the Narrawan road; did you see anything of a strange gentleman about at that time? Perhaps you would give us a description of the missing gentleman, who was, I presume, a friend of yours."
"He was indeed my best friend; he was my father," the stranger said, in a voice tremulous with emotion.
"Ha! I thought so!" cried the old woodcutter. "I guessed it the minute I set eyes on you, sir, for you are the living picture of the gentleman I saw eight weeks ago yesterday."
"You saw him! Where? When? Oh, if I could hope that he is not dead I could breathe; as it is, every breath seems to half suffocate me."
"Tell us all about it, Daddy," Denby said; "you see how anxious the gentleman is."
"I was piling up a stack of wood at the back of my hut one evening about half-past seven o'clock, when a gentleman on horseback pulled up at my door and got down. He was about sixty years old, and as like this gentleman here as he could be, being twice as old, and with his hair and great moustache quite grey. He said he had mistaken the road he had been directed that morning, and that he must have been riding in a circle most of the day. He asked if he might rest a bit, and I gave him some warm tea and a snack while he was asking the direct way to Myers' Station. I told him how far he had got off the regular track, and how unsafe it would be for a stranger unused to the bush to try and cross it in the dusk, especially as, from his open acknowledgment to me, he had money on him. However, nothing that I could urge had any effect; he started after insisting that I should take five shillings for the rest and refreshment he said he had enjoyed."
"And you saw him no more?"
"I saw him again not an hour after. I went down to Burnett's for the loan of a shingling knife, and I took the short cut past the back fence of The Ranges."
"Mr. Hatfield's place?" the policeman asked.
"Yes; and I saw the strange gentleman going in the gate in company with the manager, Ralph Stowbrooke. Ralph was talking and laughing at the gentleman losing his way, and from what I heard the gentleman was going to stop all night at The Ranges."
"Where is The Ranges?" asked Mr. Corneal, for that was the name of the man who had listened eagerly to every word from old Daddy's lips.
"It is a large farm about two miles from this," Denby said, thoughtfully, "and it is also for sale, if it is not already sold. The man Ralph Stowbrooke, who is known as the manager, is a suspicious character, and for reasons of my own I have had my eye on his movements for some time. Do you think he saw you that night, Daddy?"
"I'm sure he didn't, sir, he seemed so engaged with the gentleman, as if he had known him all his life, and I was in the shadow of the trees when they passed in."
"Well, sir, under the circumstances, my advice to you would be that you should go to The Ranges and inquire if Ralph Stowbrooke or Mr. Barry Hatfield, the proprietor, has seen or heard anything of your missing father, but without letting them know that he was seen going into the place with Stowbrooke. If he should deny any knowledge of the gentleman, the case will fall into my hands, and I have serious suspicions of Ralph Stowbrooke, as he calls himself. Daddy, have you any acquaintance with anyone at The Ranges?"
"Why, I have always carted their wood, Mr. Denby."
"That's lucky. Couldn't you step down there tomorrow on some excuse or other, say at noon, when I and this gentleman might be glad of your evidence should they deny knowing anything of—"
"George Corneal," interrupted the stranger; "that was my father's name, and it is mine."
When old Daddy had received his instructions and left the station, Denby received the fullest particulars of his loss from Mr. Corneal. He had traced the missing man step by step from Melbourne, and had heard from him for the last time from Murchison. The horse he had ridden to and from the Spotted Eagle Inn had been purchased by the old gentleman at Murchison, and was described as a dark bay, with white star on forehead and one white foot. Mr. George was furnished with the brands, too, and it was on the discovery of this horse that Denby, the policeman, seemed most bent.
"For hardly anyone would kill so valuable an animal," he argued, "and the sale of it must have left some traces. I wish we could find that horse."
I am going now to take you into more pleasant society than that I have hitherto in this story indulged in.
At Cherry Tree Farm, as Mr. Dean's place was called, there was a great bustle of preparation for the barn ball, an affair at Cherry Tree in honour of the ingathered harvest. Cally, the only child of honest and hard-working Daniel Dean, was in the rosiest and happiest excitement as she exhibited to her proud parent the result of her floral decoration of the swept and garnished barn, that was to be the scene of rural Terpsichorean rivalry. Cally was a pretty, plump, little blonde of eighteen, so full of a rosy vitality that life seemed as yet but one long scene of enjoyment and festivity. To wear pretty dresses and bright ribbons, and to skip to and fro in a fussy pretense at housekeeping, of which her good and indulgent mother was head and chief, or to gallop among the country roads on the back of her pet pony, on visits to her numerous girl friends, were pretty Cally's innocent enjoyments, until poor Charley Fox appeared on the scene as a visitor to Barry Hatfield.
Now Cally Dean, being a woman with all of a woman's contradictory nature, might never have felt her heart go pit-a-pat for Charlie's sake had it not been for her jolly father taking it into his head to make a regular butt of poor sheepish Charlie. "There's a specimen of manly English aristocracy for you," he would exclaim. "By the lord Harry, he asked me today what a bullock-yoke was! Don't you be letting him throw sheep's eyes at you, Cally, my girl, for I'd rather see you Ben Sharp's wife than his," and Cally, feeling deeply indignant at the possibility of being named in one breath with her father's ploughman, immediately began to encourage Charlie Fox into throwing as many sheep's eyes at her as he dared, which were not many when old Daniel was about.
With Cally in the barn, on the occasion I am writing of, was a young lady who was in every respect the perfect antithesis of herself. A young lady of three-and-twenty, with a tall, well-developed figure, dark hair and eyes, and a complexion like a cream-coloured rose. Marion Northcott was an orphan who had battled alone with the world for ten years of her short life, and now, being naturally of a strong and self-reliant character, had been developed by adversity into a cautious and thoughtful woman. She had come originally to Cherry Tree Farm as instructress to Cally Dean, but that young lady's tastes did not incline toward a high standard of education, and Marion's place was almost a sinecure. Marion's manner was quiet and full of repose, and hard contact with the world had taught her a reticence unusual in one of her years, and, as Cally volubly explained her decorations and arrangements to her father. Miss Northcott stood by in almost silence.
But when Mr. Dean had left, and Cally commenced to tell Marlon in strict confidence that she had promised ever so many dances to Charlie Fox, and that she expected "dad would be wild," Miss Northcott turned to her with fresh interest.
"When did you see Mr. Fox last, Cally?" she enquired.
"Mr. Fox! The idea of calling Charlie Fox "mister" It seems absurd; such a little fellow, too. Just fancy people calling me Miss Dean!" Cally observed with a laugh that showed that white teeth to great advantage.
"Well, many people do call you Miss Dean, Cally, but you have not answered my question yet."
"When did I see him, eh? On last evening, but mind you don't tell, Marion, and he told me that he is going to buy The Ranges if his aunt (odious old thing) will let him."
"And settle down at The Ranges and wed pretty Cally Dean, eh?" Marion added with a smile.
"He hasn't asked me yet, Marion," Cally acknowledged, with a bright blush.
"But if he does?"
"If he does, and I am sure he will when he can pluck up courage, poor fellow, I shall marry him," Cally replied with a defiant toss of her wavy head.
"But papa and mamma, Cally?"
"Oh, papa talks a great deal, but Charlie is ever so rich, and when it comes to the push you'll see," Cally said, with a wonderful knowledge of things as they are, for one so young in years. "I'm not one bit afraid of either pa or ma when Charlie is owner of The Ranges."
"Well, my dear Cally, it was about that very thing I asked you when you had last seen Mr. Fox; as it was yesterday, it is news for you to know that he has got The Ranges."
"Oh, I'm so glad! But who told you, dear? I am certain that dad doesn't know, or he would have let it out."
"Mr. Hatfield told me himself," and as Marion replied her eyes dropped under the gaze of willful Cally. The blue eyes opened wider and wider as an idea seemed to be developing itself.
"Why, Marion, and until this instant I never guessed it. What a little bat I am. But you are so quiet, and so is Mr. Hatfield, and oh, Marion, you will be leaving us."
"You have guessed my purpose, Cally. I wanted to hint to you that the sale of The Ranges is likely to change my life, as well as your own. I thought I should like to tell you before I spoke to Mrs. Dean."
"Oh, Marion, I am sorry, but I suppose you know best. I could never be happy with Mr. Hatfield, who is so gloomy and like a man that has something to hide, but then I am such a rattle-pate, it would not do for every one to be so silly as Charlie and I are. I wish you every happiness, my dear Marion," and the affectionate, impulsive Cally kissed Miss Northcott heartily.
"It is fortunate that you will have Aunt Fox to take care of both you and your Charlie," Marion said with a smile, when she had been released from her late pupil's embrace. "Oh, the odious thing," exclaimed the young girl. "Not that I have ever seen her, you know, but she must be odious to treat Charlie so like a child, and with his own money too. Well, she wouldn't master me, that I know—now would she, Marion dear?"
"I don't think she would, at least where Charlie was concerned, Cally," was the satisfactory reply of Miss Northcott.
At about eleven o'clock in the morning of the day following Mr. George Corneal's visit to the police station at Ulinka, Mrs. Simpson entered Miss Fox's presence with an air of importance that betokened news.
"There's a gentleman just arrived, ma'am, inquiring for Mr. Hatfield, and as Mr. Hatfield was not at home he asked if he could see the manager, Ralph Stowbrooke. Mr. Stowbrooke, it seems, has gone somewhere, too, and the gentleman seeming anxious I thought you might like to see him yourself."
"Are you sure it is not the lawyer about the deeds, Simpson?"
"Quite sure, ma'am, for I asked him, and he said he had nothing to do with lawyers, and that his business entirely concerned himself."
"Is Mr. Charles nowhere to be seen?" and Simpson truthfully replied no, for indeed Charlie was speeding on the wings of love to Cherry Tree Farm, with the full determination to put the important question to Cally, if fate favoured him with an opportunity and courage to take advantage of it.
"I will go and see the gentleman," Miss Fox said, and gathering her shawl around her she made her stately way to the parlor to which the visitor was introduced.
Mr. Corneal, for it was that gentleman, rose from his seat as the lady entered, and introduced himself by name, with an apology for troubling Miss Fox, his anxiety being indeed to wait in hopes of either Mr. Hatfield or his manager's return.
"I am sorry that I cannot give you any information as to the whereabouts of Mr. Hatfield or Stowbrooke," Miss Fox replied, "but if you will permit me to order you some refreshment, I shall send round to the cellar to see if Stowbrooke may be there. I believe the man's duty takes him a good deal among the wines, for there is a very tolerable vineyard attached to The Ranges."
Miss Fox spoke with a suavity unusual to her, for her practiced eye detected the decided gentleman in every movement of the visitor. Mr. Corneal, however, declined the offered hospitality, and expressed an inclination to go to the cellars himself.
"As I only wish to ask one question, it would be a pity to disturb the manager," he explained, "and I shall not be sorry to avail myself of my first opportunity to see an Australian wine-cellar."
"In that case I shall myself be your guide to the cellar," said Miss Fox, politely, "It is but a few steps and the morning is pleasant," and so it was that the old lady went unconsciously to involve herself in the secret of the haunted cellar.
On their way the lady and the visitor passed by the gate of a yard inside which Mr. Corneal's quick eye observed old Daddy, the woodcutter, in conversation with a man apparently at work about the stable, as he had a dung-fork in his hand; but the old man made no sign that be recognized Mr. Corneal, and the open cellar door was before them. Miss Fox went down the steps of the stone building, followed by the gentleman, and immediately her sharp, incisive voice rang out in echoes among the long rows of trestled barrels in a call for Stowbrooke.
"Is the manager here? Is Mr. Stowbrooke in the cellars?" and almost immediately the figure of the person wanted presented itself between the hogsheads, as he wonderingly, yet with cool confidence, made his way among them to answer the call in person.
"I am here, Miss Fox, do you want me?"
"There is a gentleman here who wishes to see you," the lady explained, and then she stopped suddenly, for such an extraordinary change came over Ralph's face that the words were arrested on her lips.
Mr. Corneal had descended the few steps leading to the floor of the wine-cellar, and was standing in the full light that came through a shaded grating in the wail; and as the keen eyes of Stowbrooke rested on the face of the stranger he grew pallid as a dead leaf, even to the very trembling lips that his beard but half hid. The countenance that seemed to have frozen him into a rigid terror remained, however, impassive, and, with a fierce effort, Stowbrooke recovered himself. But not before Miss Fox had observed his strange emotion was he able to address Mr. Corneal, who had apparently remained quite unconscious of the effect he had produced.
"Now that Mr. Stowbrooke is here, I may leave you," the old lady said, stiffly, for she felt something was being hidden from her, and she did not like it, especially as neither of the men seemed to hear her observation, or observe her departure.
"Some more plotting of that Stowbrooke," she thought, indignantly. "His face turned positively ghastly as he saw this strange gentleman. I shall certainly see that he gets immediate notice, and now that I am here I shall take a look round the vicinity of this haunted cellar."
The building was a large one, and of solid stone, its thick walls sunk for several feet below the surface of the ground, and its south side covered with a strong growth of English ivy; it was along this south side that Miss Fox stepped in her unanticipating search for the spirit of the cellar, when all at once a long-drawn, sepulchral groan reached her ears and turned the maiden lady's blood cold in her veins.
She stopped and looked behind her, and on all sides of the walk she trod, in a vain attempt to locate the dreadful sound she had heard—but there was no visible object from which it could have proceeded. The groan actually seemed to pervade the air—but it was not repeated. Still Miss Fox lingered, half afraid yet anxious to discover, if possible, some clue to the origin of the unearthly sound she had heard. Pausing irresolutely, she was conscious of a sort of whispering sound, from under her very feet as it were, and murmurs as of a soul in the deepest despair, or torturing bodily pain. Miss Fox was a strong-minded, self-reliant woman, but the supernatural—though she professed an utter disbelief in its existence—had its terror for her, as well as for the weakest of her sex, and she left the vicinity of the cellar with an undisguised haste that she would have been sorry that Simpson had witnessed.
Meanwhile Ralph Stowbrooke having recovered from the sudden attack which the sight of the strange gentleman's face had occasioned him, made haste to put on his politest manner in addressing Mr. Corneal.
"What can I do for you, sir?" he asked, almost humbly. "My name is Stowbrooke, and I am manager for Mr. Hatfield; but I am sure your face is quite strange to me."
"Yes, I am an entire stranger in the neighborhood and, indeed, in the colony. My name is Corneal, and I have come to ask Mr. Hatfield if he could give me any intelligence on a matter most painful to me, but without the least interest to Mr. Hatfield's own affairs; as that gentleman is not at home, it was suggested to me that his manager might possibly be able to answer my questions as well, if not better, than Mr. Hatfield himself."
"Anything I can do to assist in any way you may depend on my doing, Mr. Corneal. Shall we go into the upper world—the air is chilly here, or will you honour me by accepting a glass of our chasselas? It is not unknown in the market."
"Thank you, no," replied the gentleman, as he turned to leave the cellar; "but I shall gladly go into the sunlight again."
Stowbrooke led the way toward the house as he heard Mr. Corneal describing the loss of his father and his, as yet, unsuccessful search for him.
"You have seen or heard nothing of such a person, Mr. Stowbrooke?" he asked, watching the manager's half-averted face keenly as he spoke.
"Me? No, why should you suppose that I, of all men in the district, should have fallen in with the lost gentleman?"
There grew an angry flush in the treacherous countenance that, however, died out as Mr. Corneal explained:
"Because I understand that this property was for sale at the time to which I have traced my father, and his object in coming to this part of the country was to purchase."
"Oh!" Stowbrooke said, in a tone of relief. "I am truly sorry that I cannot give you any information; and it would have been impossible for your father to have been at The Ranges without my being aware of it. Have you made inquiries in any other direction?"
As he asked the question they were passing the yard, where still remained old Daddy, the woodman, under the instructions he had received.
"Yes," replied Mr. Corneal "I have reported the matter to the police, and that old man, who is, I believe, a woodcutter, has given information that my father rested at his hut on his way to Myers' Station."
"And have you inquired at Myers'?"
"Yes; my father never reached it."
"I am sorry, and it is a sad affair; but I hope the police may get some traces for you."
"They have already done so," the gentleman replied. "They have discovered the horse my father rode, and a description of the man who sold it. Pray accept my apologies for taking up your time," and Mr. Corneal bowed as he mounted his horse, and rode away by the way he had come.
Stowbrooke stood where Mr. Corneal had left him, and gazed after his late visitor until he had disappeared from his view at a bend of the road, and, as he gazed, he was murmuring to himself words that Senior Constable Denby would have given something to have heard.
"The horse found, and the police on," he said; "and it is old Corneal, after all. Now I understand the likeness that so puzzled me. The cunning old villain, he might have recognized me, and changed his name to throw me off. Well, I have paid him back. Well, Barry, my friend, every man for himself, and I'm off without sound of drum as soon as I touch my share of that fool young Fox's cash," and here he all at once recalled what the gentleman had told him about old Daddy, and he turned back to the yard to question him, but the old man had disappeared so soon as Mr. Corneal left.
Mr. Corneal rode on until he came to the bend of the road that hid him from view at The Ranges, and there he was joined by Constable Denby, who had just parted from the old woodcutter. The policeman, accustomed to read the expressions of faces during his long service in the force, saw at once that the gentleman was strangely moved.
"You have discovered something, sir," he said. "I can see it in your face."
"I have discovered a villain, and I fear the very worst as regards the fate of my poor father. The man you know as Ralph Stowbrooke is a wretch capable of any crime for the sake of gold. His real name is John Snelling, and he was sentenced four years ago, in London, to transportation for fifteen years for being leader in a burglary where a life was sacrificed. It so happened that I was staying at the house of the gentleman who was shot in defending his property, and it was my evidence that convicted this man Snelling.
"Ha! I have suspected him as an escaped convict now for some weeks!" exclaimed Denby; "and the whole thing is plain to me now. Patience, sir! I believe we will look in your father's face this very night."
"My father is dead if Snelling had anything to do with him," Mr. Corneal returned, despairingly. "He recognized me the instant he saw me."
"Did you let him know you recognized him?" Denby asked eagerly.
"No," was the reply. "I saw his face grow pale and his lips quiver, but I spoke to him as a stranger, and I am sure he is not aware that I knew him."
"That's good; and now let me tell you, sir, what I have been doing since we parted. I have found the man who sold the horse your father rode; he is a hawker, and the horse was entrusted to him for sale by Mr. Hatfield's manager."
"I told you," Mr. Corneal returned, despondingly, "my father is dead, and James Snelling has killed him for a double purpose—to revenge himself for my evidence that transported him, and to get the money my poor father had with him."
"Reassure yourself, sir, for I am certain Mr. Corneal still lives. Old Daddy, the woodcutter, has got some strange information in his conversation with a stableman at The Ranges this morning. It seems that such weird noises have been heard around the cellar of late, that the certainty of its being haunted has gained such ground among the servants as to occasion some of them to contemplate leaving. These noises are described as moans as of some one in deep distress or pain, and I am certain that your father is imprisoned somewhere about that cellar."
Mr. Corneal shook his head. "You do not know the villain as I do. I have no hope. If Snelling has had the opportunity, my father is murdered."
"It may not be so, for there is more than one reason that may have weighed in the man's mind against incurring such an awful risk. I have myself found one. The man you call Snelling is intending to leave the country; he has let slip so much himself, and what is more likely than that he should hide Mr. George Corneal until he himself is safe from pursuit?"
The gentleman was silent in thought for a few seconds, and at last he asked abruptly:
"What sort of a person is Mr. Hatfield, this man's presumed employer?"
"Ah, now you have touched it!" cried Denby. "I have my suspicions of complicity there, but just give me until tonight and I'll tell you all about it, and good news I hope it will be, too. This is the night of Mr. Dean's annual barn ball, and a grand chance for me, as they will all be sure to go from The Ranges. Until then Daddy has promised to keep close watch for me."
While these events were taking place at or near The Ranges, Charlie Fox was tempting his fate at Cherry Tree Farm. He left the Ranges mounted on an animal that cost money, and personally got up in the most killing style he could hit on, and all in hopes of favourably impressing pretty Cally Dean.
As he left home the consciousness of his own natty, not to say exquisite, get up, cheered his heart and raised his hopes, the one only thought troubling him being "what Aunt Bell would say" to his engagement. But as he neared Cherry Tree Farm he forgot all about Aunt Bell for the time being, and only recalled Cally's usual saucy treatment of him, and the, to him, patent fact that such an insignificant fellow as himself hadn't the ghost of a chance with such an altogether piece of lovely perfection as Miss Cally Dean.
As the poor fellow, quite oblivious of his own value in the matrimonial market as a rich young gentleman, who was, with the exception of Aunt Bell, entirely his own master, considered the perfections of pretty, irresistible Cally his very collar seemed to grow limp. The fair curls he had so carefully maccassared lay lanky in the nervous sweat that gathered on his flushed forehead. The very perfume appeared to have died out of the cambric he tried to wipe the moisture away with, and his heart sank so low that his patent leather boots grew dim in his eyes, as though the despondency of the fallen organ had in truth affected the gloss of those aristocratic boots; in short, he felt anything but like a man about to lead a forlorn hope, when at the very gate of the farm he met Cally herself, presenting such a most extraordinary appearance that poor Charlie pulled up and stared at her as if she had been something awful.
Cally had taken it into her head that the barn's floral decorations could be improved, and she was laden with lichens and flowering creeping plants that she had gathered up among the rocks on the big hill. Poor Cally, however, had come to grief through a briar whose crooked thorns had so entwined themselves with her abundant and glossy hair that she was in a sorry plight, and quite unable to open the gate for her own admittance; in her efforts to relieve her hair of the briar, she had got her sleeve caught in the same treacherous thorns, and there she stood with her hair tangled over her face, heaps of greenery and flow entangling her pretty figure, and her arm helplessly fixed in the abominable briar.
"Who's that?" she asked, sharply, as Charlie's steed was pulled up before her, and she peered between her disordered locks. "Oh, it's only you, Charlie Fox. What are you staring there like a great silly for? Why don't you come and help me?"
Help her! Good gracious! At the very idea of touching even the briar that tangled her lovely tresses, Charlie Fox's heart beat hard and fast, and mounted straight up again from his boots to his throat—like the mercury in a cook's thermometer that has been suddenly plunged into hot water. He got down from his horse in such a hurry that his "larrikin heel" got entangled in the stirrup, and made him perform some acrobatic evolutions before he could extricate it, while wicked Cally laughed consumedly.
"Oh, please don't laugh at me, Cally," he pleaded, as he gingerly tried to remove the briar from the bewildering hair.
"Don't laugh at you? Who on earth could help it? And Cally, indeed, how dare you presume to call me Cally?"
"Oh, dear, I'm sorry, what am I to call you, then?"
"My christened name, sir, is Calliope, though what the mischief they meant by hanging such an absurd name on to a poor girl for, I'm sure I can't imagine. Call me Miss Dean, of course, sir, and do stop pulling my hair in that manner, you're such a silly! Why don't you undo my sleeve first? Thank you, now I can manage the rest myself. And pray where are you going to, dressed to death in that absurd fashion! Surely you didn't think the barn ball had already commenced, Mr. Fox?"
"Oh, please don't call me Mr. Fox, Cal—Miss Dean."
"Well to be sure, Mr. Goose would suit you a great deal better, when one comes to think of it, but Fox is your name, you see. But you didn't tell me where you were going yet."
"I was going to see you," Charlie replied, very sheepishly, for his eyes had fallen down to his varnished boots, and they were beginning to look uncommonly dim again.
"Going to see me, well I never! What could you want to see me for Mr. Fox? But, at all events, here I am, you see me, well, state your business then."
"It—it wasn't exactly business," stammered poor badgered Charlie; "that is it was—oh, dear, what shall I do!"
There was a tone of genuine distress in the exclamation, but Miss Cally would not see it or hear it, rather, and she feigned to be majestically annoyed.
"If your business was to ask me, oh, dear, what shall you do, I decline to advise you, Mr. Fox, yet stay, I might offer you one little bit of advice—pray go home to your Aunty Bell, I think she can manage you better than anyone in this world."
"I suppose so," replied the now utterly despondent Charlie, as he seized his horse by the bridle and prepared to remount. "I know I'm a fool, but she understands me, and makes allowances. Good-bye, Miss Dean, I am sorry for troubling you, and indeed I might have known you would have nothing to do with the likes of me."
Cally had not bargained for this prompt compliance with her advice, and she had no time for consideration, for Charlie's horse was moving, so she put out her little hand with an imperious gesture, and arrested him.
"Stop!" she cried, "explain instantly, what you mean by saying that, you goose. Who said I wouldn't have anything to do with you? One would think you ought to know better, haven't I promised to dance, I don't know how often, with you tonight?"
"Oh, a dance," Charlie groaned. "A dance is nothing."
"Nothing? What! Of all the impudence ever heard of! So Mr. Fox does not value the privilege of dancing with a humble farmer's daughter like me, eh? Let me tell you, sir, that there are plenty of others who will only he too glad to take your place."
"For God's sake don't badger me that way!" cried the now desperate youth, "you know very well that I want more than a dance from you, Cally, and you are breaking my heart. It is ungenerous to trample on a poor fellow in that way. I know I am a simpleton, but I can feel for all that" and poor Charlie's voice broke into an audible sob.
"I beg your pardon Charlie," the softened girl said humbly, while her rosy cheeks grew rosier, and her mischievous eyes fell beneath Charlie's, "I wouldn't like to hurt your feelings Charlie, and I'm sure I don't know what you mean by trampling on you. I have never refused you anything you asked me, have I? But certainly you never asked me for anything but those dances—what else do you want?"
"You know," he replied with something like a re-awakening of hope, "and oh, Cally I am afraid to say it, lest you should say no!"
"I will not say no," she nearly whispered, and Charlie was off his horse and at her feet, just as a hearty laugh was heard at the other side of the hedge, and jolly Farmer Dean himself appeared at the gate.
"Well done, Miss Cally!" he shouted, "who says the girls are not going ahead now-a-days? Oh dear, if ever I thought I should live to hear a daughter of mine make a proposal of marriage to a rich young man, may I be shot!"
"Proposal of marriage? Did Cally make a proposal of marriage to me?" exclaimed poor bewildered Charles, as he stared from the farmer's rubicund, laughing countenance, to the blushing girl before him.
"Of course she did, why don't you accept her? Didn't you hear her say she wouldn't say no? Oh Lord!" and in another explosion of laughter, Mr. Dean staggered on his stout limbs.
"Oh Cally, did you? Oh dear, darling Cally, may I? Will you have me really? Oh, don't say no!" were some of Charlie's blundering attempts at setting matters straight, as Cally herself tried to cover her confusion by an attack on her convulsive parent.
"Oh, you deceitful old dad, to go and watch and listen behind a hedge! I never did, never! Don't mind him Charlie dear, it was you that asked me, wasn't it now? Oh you treacherous old humbug of a dad! Shake hands now with Charlie this instant, and tell him you'll have him for a son-in-law," and dropping her flowers etc., the blushing girl made her escape through the gate, and ran toward the house like a deer.
"Yes, let us shake hands Charlie my lad," said Mr. Dean, "and I'm not at all sorry my little girl has chosen such an honest unpresuming young chap."
"But are you quite sure she means it?" questioned, anxiously, the doubtful wooer.
"Why, everyone in the neighborhood has seen that she was spoony on you for months," was the outspoken reply; "and it was plain to the world that you were over head and ears in love with her; but you've been so bashful, and afraid to speak, you see, that it is a wonder you didn't lose her after all—indeed, I believe you would have, if I hadn't just come up in the nick of time."
"And you will really give me Cally for a wife, Mr. Dean?"
"Really, and with all my heart, my boy; and all the sooner because you are going to settle at the Ranges. One thing I may tell you plainly, though; you will have to part with Miss Fox, for my little girl must be mistress of her own house, and that your aunt would never let her be."
This allusion to his intended purchase reminded the young man that they were very probably awaiting him at that moment to sign the papers concerning the transfer, and he tried to explain so much to Mr. Dean; but poor Charlie so muddled the fact up with self-congratulations and messages to his darling Cally that the farmer was glad to see him get on his horse and ride away.
"He's a good-natured, soft chap," was the farmer's comment on his son-in-law that was to be; "but Cally will make a man of him, for he will do just as she tells him, and the girl has enough brains for two.
Charlie rode home like a man in a dream of Elysium, the only bitter drop in his overflowing cup of happiness being the fact that Aunt Bell must be told that she was to be dismissed from her self-imposed office of governess and mentor.
"I expect she'll be wild," he thought, disconsolately, "but I can't help it; and dear Cally is worth three hundred and ninety Aunt Bells." Highly satisfactory to the said lady, could she only have heard the opinion.
Charlie's surmise was so far correct that the lawyer had arrived with the documents, and that Miss Fox was most impatiently awaiting him in the sitting-room appropriated to her special use. She was stalking to and fro on the carpet when he entered, and turned on him with angry dignity as he placed his hat on the table and wiped his heated brow with his perfumed cambric.
"You are getting worse and worse, nephew; and I am sure I do not know how you could manage without me to see after you and your affairs."
Charlie thought he knew very well, with such a most delightful view in the future of Cally in that very room Miss Fox was addressing him so upbraidingly in.
"I presume you entirely forgot that Mr. Sharp was coming today? It would be so like you."
"Indeed I did forget it Aunt, until Mr. Dean—ah"—and Charlie stopped short.
"Mr. Dean! What may he have to do with it? Oh, the person who gives some kind of Harvest Home tonight? I am sorry you should have had anything to do with such a person, the more especially as you will have nothing to do with these people in the future."
"Nothing to do with them in the future! Pray what do you mean, Aunt Bell? But we can talk afterwards, for I am told that Mr. Hatfield and Mr. Sharp are waiting for us in the dining room."
"That is precisely what I wish to speak to you about Charlie, for I have entirely changed my mind about the purchase of this property. I suppose we shall have to sacrifice something for breach of contract or something, but that is nothing—it would be impossible for us to reside on this property."
"What!"
The utter amazement, not to say consternation, depicted on her nephew's not over-expressive countenance astonished Miss Fox mightily, but she little guessed what a counteracting force to her own was at work within the breast of the hitherto docile Charlie.
"Why are you so very much surprised?" she questioned. "One would think you felt disappointed at my change of opinion."
"Not exactly disappointed, Aunt Bell, for my mind is made up to purchase the Ranges—nothing can change that fact," Charlie said, stoutly, for a pretty, rosy face was before him instead of Aunt Bell's wrinkled visage. "But, may I ask, what has turned you against the Ranges so very suddenly!"
"Your mind made up! I didn't know you had one, Charlie Fox," she said, with an angry flush in her sallow cheeks. "Pray, who has made you imagine yourself capable of forming an opinion on such a momentous question as an investment of such magnitude as the purchase of this extensive property?"
For once in his life poor good-hearted Charles's temper came to the surface, and his honest face flushed hotly. "You treat me like a boy, Aunt Bell, and you forget that I am twenty-six years of age. It is true that I have thought very little about my own affairs, as I have always had you to think for me, but I am going to turn over a new leaf, Aunt Bell, and I shall purchase the Ranges."
"You have taken leave of what modicum of senses your Maker has thought fit to grant you, and you are no more fit to look after your own interests than you were twenty years ago, but take my word for it you may stand alone if you buy this place, for I will not live on haunted ground."
"Haunted!" cried Charlie.
"Yes, haunted, I have myself heard the most awful groans around the cellars, and all the servants are leaving."
"I do not believe in ghosts, Aunt Bell. Poof! Ghosts, what nonsense! At all events I shall buy the Ranges,"
"He is mad," his wondering aunt murmured, "mad as a march hare, or he would not take the reins in his own hands thus."
"No, I am not mad," retorted Charlie, who had caught the muttered epithet, "but I may as well explain at once that I am engaged to be married to Miss Cally Dean, and that ghosts or no ghosts, it will be necessary for you to arrange an establishment of your own, as my wife will wish to be mistress of her own house."
If the spirit of the cellars had appeared visibly to Miss Fox there in her sitting-room she might have been alarmed, but she certainly would not have experienced the profound astonishment that her nephew's self-assertion occasioned her. She stared at him with flashing eyes, and, wonderful to relate, Charlie's eyes did not fall beneath hers! Wondrous power of happy love! Let me here extol thee, as exhibited in the sudden courage of Charlie Fox.
"Going to be married! Surely my ears deceive me, it is not possible that I have nourished a viper in my bosom!" she exclaimed.
"I don't know what you have nourished in your bosom," said Charlie, desperately; "but I know that I'm going to marry Cally Dean. And now, Aunt Bell, there's no use talking any more about it since all is said, and I'm off to Mr. Sharp to see about signing those papers."
But to make you understand Charlie's surprise on finding more persons with the lawyer than he had expected to see, I must go back to an earlier hour of the day, when Barry Hatfield, too, was riding in the direction of Cherry Tree Farm, though not exactly on the direct road leading to it. Barry's face had been originally a handsome one, but evil and indulged passions with their destroying consequences of unrest and suffering to the not entirely hardened heart had left their marring traces on his countenance, and on this particular day he was pale as ashes, and a despairing determination lay set and cold in his dark eyes.
At the boundary fence of Cherry Tree Farm the young man saw, as he approached, a female figure awaiting him, and, although he had expected to see her there, the sight of his betrothed, Marion Northcott, made him feel doubly the pain he was about to give one he loved deeply; but Barry's will was strong, and his deep love only made his determination the firmer, for it was all for her sake he must do what he was about to do.
"My dear Marion," he said, as he alighted at her side, and yet retained the bridle over his arm, "it is good of you to come, but I knew you would, although I am ashamed to look in your face—thank God that I can yet feel shame! Oh, my Marion, how can I say farewell for ever, and yet I am here only for that." Marion's face was pale as Barry's own, but it was composed, yet as determined as his own. She looked at him keenly, and the tears came into her eyes when she recognized the marks of suffering stamped there.
"You are mistaken, Barry," she said, as she laid her hand in his; "you are not going to say farewell to me at all; you have only come to hear me say that, since your honest confession, I love you more than I loved you before."
"Marion! Oh, Marion! But it cannot be; I am a criminal in the sight of the law, and a branded name will be mine before all men. Do you remember that, Marion? Have you read all of my unhappy letter? Do you realize what you are saying? Oh, my love, my love, do not mock me!"
"As if I would! Do not fear Barry, go and do what you have determined to do in the right way, and come what will, count on Marion's sympathy, and Marion's love."
"God bless you darling, and help me as I prove worthy of your trust in the future. I have no time to lose, and will go at once to the Police Station at Ulinka. Ralph is a bad man, and I have permitted myself too long to be a tool in his hands, so now that I am determined to face the worst, I must have Denby to back me up."
With the usual repetitions of a lover's vocabulary, they parted, expecting to meet again in the evening, and Barry rode towards Ulinka. As we are aware Denby was not at the station, but on his return, he encountered both him and Mr. Corneal on their way back from the Ranges.
You may imagine his surprise on discovering the errand which had taken them there, and the delight of the gentleman on receiving the intelligence Barry was able to give them. The horses heads were immediately turned again to the Ranges, and in company with Denby, and Mr. Corneal, Barry Hatfield rode to encounter and do battle with his enemy the manager.
The man hitherto known as Ralph Stowbrooke was crossing the yard on his way to the cellars when his keen quick glance caught the sheen of a policeman's helmet among the branches of some shrubbery at the gate. Perhaps the simple fact of Denby's visit might not have aroused any suspicions of his own safety, but when he saw that the constable rode in company with Barry Hatfield, and the gentleman he had so lately lied to about his lost father, he shivered to the marrow of his bones. It was not too late yet, if he could only get a horse out of the stable ere they reached the house he could escape, and he ran to the door of the stable, to find it banged in his face, and the strong bolts drawn on the inside.
To shout for admittance was only to attract attention to his whereabouts, so there was nothing for it but to run. He might hide among the vines until he saw how things were working about the house, at all events he was prepared for the worst, and as he ran he clutched a revolver that was hidden at his breast.
Past the stables, through the shrubberies that hid them from the house, around the cellar, and he was safe for the time; but Denby's sharp eye had seen his flight as he entered the yard, and turning his horse among the vines he headed off the desperate man.
"Surrender in the Queen's name, James Snelling!" he shouted, "I have a warrant for your arrest as an escaped convict, surrender or I fire!"
Snelling took no heed; another moment, and he would have gained the crown of the slope and be hidden in the heart of the vineyard, where no horse could safely go, but that minute was not to be afforded him. Denby's revolver was aimed steadily at the flying man, and he fell heavily to the ground.
Again he rose, and again he ran, only for a few paces, however, when he fell again and swooned, only to regain his senses to find the constable and Mr. Corneal bending over him, and Barry Hatfield supporting his head on one arm, while he tried to staunch the blood that was flowing from a wound in his shoulder. The white face of the convict was more like that of a wild animal in its expression of ferocity than that of a human being, as he raised himself and struck Barry in the face with his clenched fist.
"Cowardly informer!" he shouted, "May you die like a dog!"
This scene had occurred at the Ranges before Charlie's return from Cherry Tree Farm, and by the orders of Barry no intimation of the manager's arrest had been given to any of the servants. A horse was harnessed to a conveyance, and the late manager, whose wound proved but trifling, after all, was lifted into it and driven to the lock-up at Ulinka by Daddy, the woodcutter, while Denby took care of his prisoner, all this being after the release of another prisoner, to whom I am at last about to introduce you.
When Charlie opened the door of the dining room he saw Mr. Sharp seated at the table, on which were spread several parchment documents, but the lawyer's spectacles were pushed up on his forehead, and he was looking at an interesting group gathered at a short distance from him. An old gentleman who bore a strong resemblance to Mr. Corneal, was half reeling on that gentleman's shoulder, while one hand of the stranger's was clasped in that of Barry Hatfield.
"I am unworthy of your forgiveness," the latter was saying; "and I must have been mad to have permitted your suffering so long."
"You forget that I have to thank you for life," the old gentleman said; "if it had not been for you that villain would have murdered me to get rid of me at once. I overheard what passed between you the night he inveigled me into the cellar, and I know he was bent on putting all traces of me out of the way."
"He was, indeed; but that is no excuse for my crime of concealment. It was the money, sir. I had been gambling, and there was a mortgage about to be foreclosed on this property; your money helped to pay it off, and once I had used it, Stowbrooke had me in his power. I am thankful now that the sale I am about to conclude will repay you, and as you have so kindly and generously forgiven me, I can go and work for an honest living with the hope of Heaven's blessing on my work."
I do think that Charlie Fox was the most exuberantly happy individual at the Barn Ball that night. He had paid for the Ranges, given Aunt Bell notice to quit, and was going to marry Cally Dean in a month. His good heart, too, delighted in the evident happiness of Barry and Miss Northcott as they stood apart while he explained all to her, and gained her consent to an early union and to his closing with an offer of a manager's place made by the generous man he had wronged, and altogether that Barn Ball was long remembered at the Ranges.
Miss Fox took herself and Simpson off in a huff. But she thought better of it, and got into the way of paying Mr. and Mrs. Charlie an annual visit, during which she tried to worry poor Cally's life out about trifles; but one joyous summer that ungrateful Simpson went and married a fat old farmer at Ulinka, and Miss Fox was too much disgusted to ever revisit the neighborhood again.
In gratitude for his kindness and escape, Mr. George Corneal settled a little income on old Daddy, and while the murderer, James Snelling, was ending his days in a long imprisonment the contented old man lived happily within sound of rustling leaves and the free song of bush birds rejoicing his thankful ears.