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."
IT is a strange story, and the scene is at or around Camberoona, that lies so near the Murray River as to command a not very distant view of the sluggish stream, with its snagged course, and its green, leafy banks. A truly Australian scene, with hazy hills in the distance, a long, little travelled "track" winding through the miles of quiet "bush," and across grassy, but lonely "plains," and catching up here and there scattered homes and scarcely-formed "townships."
I was a mounted man at the time I heard the tale, and was going up to Camberoona on duty, into which I need not enter, as it is not at all connected with the tragedy I am about to relate. The man stationed at Camberoona met me at the Murray, which I had crossed in the punt, and we were riding toward the police camp together.
We had reached a part of the road from which could be seen a substantial stone house, situated, with outbuildings, etc., on a gentle slope of hill, and embowered in abundance of well-foliaged trees.
"That's a snug-looking property," I said. "What is it called?"
"Greenstone Station," he replied.
"What an odd name."
"Yes, and that reminds me: there's a sad story connected with it," my companion returned, "and if we turn off the track here, for a quarter of a mile, I can show you a sad memento of the story."
I followed his leading until we had passed the house, when he turned sharp to the right and rode up a little hill, in a nook of which was a solitary growth of trees that were certainly not indigenous. I recognized, even at a distance, the cypress and the yew and many green shrubs whose seed had come long ago from countries that knew not Australia.
"Dismount here," he said, "the place of graves ought to be respected, no matter what dead lie within them."
We dismounted and entered the circle of somber guarding trees. In the centre of that circle was a space covered with green. English grasses, studded with red and white clover, and in the centre of the grasses a grave. At one glance you could not doubt that within the black-painted iron railing was a grave, for a headstone of grey marble was visible as soon as we passed the trees.
I was not, however, prepared for what I saw as I bent over the railing. The place it enclosed was large and there were two green mounds within it. Not a flower, save the clover, grew there, there was only the headstone, which was placed at the head of neither grave, but in the middle, as it were, between the two heads.
I went close to and examined it. As I have already said it was of grey marble, a plain slab without sepulchral ornament of any kind, save a large lump of malachite, as it seemed to me, inset into the upper part of the slab; under the "Greenstone" was cut in the marble:
FOR THIS WE DIED
Only those four words, in plain Roman letters, no names, no date, no
more.
I did not speak until my companion and I had remounted, and resumed our way; then I said: "The story must be indeed a strange one if connected with that singular headstone without inscription, names, or date. It is the saddest place of burial I ever looked upon."
"I told you the story was a sad one, and the graves and headstone were its finale; but I will tell you all about it this evening after supper."
And he did tell me, but I give it to you related in my own fashion.
To say that Mr. James Hazel, of Greenstone Station, was a general favourite, would be to say what was not true, for he appreciated himself too much; yet he was not a bad sort of man at all, but he was so inordinately proud of the means he had acquired by what he was fond of calling "the sweat of his brow," that he bored every unhappy person who came in contact with him by recounting his doings in gulches and gullies, on sea and on land, on the road and in the mine, until they were fain to fly from him as though he had the plague. He was a stout, brown-skinned man of sixty, with a loud voice, and a quantity of well grizzled hair and beard; there was rather a pleasant expression in the eyes under his shaggy brows; in short, James Hazel, Esq., was a happy, self-satisfied man.
He had married twice, so it was understood, for the son and daughter were but step-sister and brother. Holt, the elder, was about twenty-five, and Maud, the younger, nearly nineteen.
Let the story describe the young people, for it is time that I entered upon it.
The "parlour," as Mr. Hazel would have the ordinary sitting-room called—for he was a man who despised any pretensions but his own—was occupied one morning in spring, no matter in what year, by father, son and daughter, and they were at the breakfast table, though the meal was nearly over. Mr. Hazel had a newspaper a week old in his one hand, while, with the other, he was following down a column of "mining news." His son—a low-browed, stout young man, with a skin far darker than even his father, eyes black as sloes, and curly, black hair—was shifting uneasily in his chair, and furtively watching his father. Maud was silently collecting the silver, which was her especial charge; her slender and graceful figure moving noiselessly; her calm, pure-looking face, with the thoughtful, grey eyes, like still lakes in a quiet land, illuminating the room as though an angel had left the shadow of peace in it; and her glossy, plainly-banded hair gleaming like gold in the morning light.
"I knew no good would come of it," Mr. Hazel said. "The shares are going down like one o'clock."
"What mine are you speaking of, father?" asked Holt.
"The old one," was the short reply. Something had evidently put the old man out.
"I hope you have no interest in it, sir," At the unwonted respect, Mr. Hazel looked at the young man over his spectacles, and then removed them from his eyes.
"If I had been in the habit of telling my business to everybody you would not have been in Greenstone homestead this morning."
"Surely you do not call your son everybody," the young man said, trying hard to keep a very bad temper under control, and he partially succeeded, for he had an object to gain, and I should like to know who does not try to keep the devil down when there is an advantage to be gained by it.
"No indeed!" exclaimed Mr. Hazel, his good humour entirely restored, as he laughed heartily, "so far from thinking you everybody, I know you to be nobody!"
The son stared at his father in dark wonder. Maud's naturally pale and grave countenance grew a shade paler and graver, but neither spoke.
"Come now, Holt, let us have no more of this, but open your mouth like a man," Mr. Hazel said, as he threw himself back in his chair, and, pushing back his loose coat, placed his thumbs in the armholes of his vest. "There is no one knows you better than I do. You want something, what is it? I detest shy ways, and there is nothing better than being straightforward; speak out."
"I want a horse to ride, then," replied the rather abashed Holt.
"A horse to ride! Why you've got two."
"Neither is good enough for your son to ride, father."
With a jolly "ha, ha, ha!" Mr. Hazel met this attempt at flattery. "Why did you not say, son and heir, Holt?"
Holt's face flushed hotly. "I hope I am not calculating on your demise, father."
"You'd be a fool if you did. I've told you dozen's of times that the Greenstone is all you'll inherit from me."
"I wish you wouldn't jest so often about that," the young man said with rising anger.
"I do not jest, as you will see if you outlive me. But about this horse; what has put it into your head to want another? There are not two finer animals than those you have within fifty miles of Greenstone."
"You have not seen young Melton's, father? He was riding a bit of blood yesterday that positively made me ashamed to be seen in the township after him; the mare's beauty was the talk of every man, woman, and child in Camberoona."
"Well, well, I suppose your wish is only the natural result of a boy's jealousy; you can have your horse, Holt. When you have chosen her, come to me for a cheque, but never hope to look so well on any horse's back as Harry Melton does—you can never rival him in either looks or horsemanship."
Holt hated the young gentleman in question, but he was too cunning to say so at that time, so he thanked his father, in his best fashion, and left the room hastily, in order, no doubt, to see about his coveted purchase.
All this time Maud had been apparently engaged with her silver but when her brother left, she turned her lovely, placid face toward Mr. Hazel.
"Harry Melton was here yesterday, father; he wished to see you."
"Ah! Why did you not tell me before, Maud?"
"I have scarcely had the opportunity, and besides, he said he would come again this afternoon."
"I can guess the young rascal's errand, Maud; he wants to take my daughter from me," Mr. Hazel said, with a merry twinkle in the eyes he fixed on his daughter's grave face; "that is what he wants, eh, Maud?"
"Yes, father," was the calm reply.
"And my girl wants to leave me?"
"I should not be far away, father."
"And are you not afraid that I shall say no, Maud?"
"No, for I know you love me, father, and Harry is worthy of being your son."
"And Maud loves him?"
"Yes, father."
"Kiss me, my darling, I will not say no; but what an unfortunate parent I am! On the very same morning my son must ask me for a valuable horse, and my daughter for a husband. Never mind, Maud, it is all right—it is but fair that the young should know the pleasures that the old have known before them."
Maud clasped her arms around Mr. Hazel's neck, and kissed him fondly. "You will come and live with us, and let Holt have Greenstone," she whispered, "and we shall be as happy as the day is long."
The idea seemed to tickle Mr. Hazel, for be laughed loud and long. "Yes, Holt will get the Greenstone, my dear, I have often told you that, but he will never get Greenstone Station."
"I do not like to hear you harp so on that nonsense, dear father. Holt is your son."
"Yes, he is my son, Maudie; don't look so frightened, child. With the Greenstone, Holt will have a fortune worth half-a-dozen stations. I will confide a secret to you, Maud, for I know you will not betray me. Do you know why I will not let that lump of malachite be touched? Because if anyone attempted to lift it the weight would betray my secret—the stone is hollow and full of gold!"
Maud's astonishment may be conceived, but, alas, Mr. Hazel's fatal secret was already betrayed. On the verandah outside the open French window, while the secret was being told, a Mulatto woman was standing. She had great silver earrings in her ears, a red Madras handkerchief around her head, a white apron over her dark dress, and a bunch of herbs in one hand; it was "Susan" the dark-skinned cook, that Mr. Hazel had brought with him from foreign parts, and she had been to the garden to gather sweet herbs for her dinner.
When Susan was about to pass the window on her way to her own premises, a word caught her ear, and that word was Holt's name, and it arrested her steps. If no one else in the whole world loved Holt Hazel, Susan, the Mulatto, did. It was for him she had left home and country; it was for him she had crossed oceans, and for him alone she had buried herself in the heart of what was to her a wild land. She had nursed him in infancy, and, when a boy, he had amply returned the affection of his dark-skinned "mammy." Holt cared for her no more than he did for any one of the decayed logs in the bush beyond him; but that was nothing; Susan's love for him was unchanged still.
Thus it was that the sound of her idol's name made Susan, the Mulatto, listen and hear the secret of the malachite. When she had heard it she hastened back to the garden, and returned to her kitchen by another way. The dinner was not in its usual state of perfection on that day, for the cook's thoughts were not entirely concentrated in its preparation; but on what subject they wandered it is yet too early in my story to tell you.
After the exchanged confidences between the father and daughter, Mr. Hazel went out to the verandah to indulge himself with his usual morning smoke. He knew nothing of the love of nature for the sake of her own beauties, yet he loved to scan the view he enjoyed from his favourite verandah. The plain stretching to the left; the forest skirting the bush track, that wound like a snake to the Murray; and the green, far-stretching slopes on the right were all his own, earned unaided by the "sweat of his brow." Well, the pride was an honest one, and the good man's only fault was in that he was too fond of telling everyone how clever he had been.
He was looking and admiring in his own way, when he noticed a black speck on the bush track. Travelers of any kind were a rarity near Greenstone, and Mr. Hazel watched that black speck with a strange interest. The black speck was a man, and but little dreamed the watcher that he was bringing death and desolation to Greenstone Station.
And as little dreamed the traveler—a ragged, dusty, tired man, with grey hair and grey tangled beard, and a poor swag strapped over his aching shoulders. He came nearer and nearer, and was evidently coming to the house, but at the home fence he paused, not knowing the best way to approach the premises. He had dropped the swag, drawn a weary breath, and was wiping the sweat from his face with the worn and dirty cuff of his old coat, when Mr. Hazel approached him, pipe in hand.
"You are very tired, my man," Mr. Hazel said, as he leaned his arms on his own fence, and looked at the swagsman; "where are you bound for?"
"Anywhere I can earn a mouthful of victuals, sir. I was going up to the house to ask if I could get anything to do on the station. Are you the master, sir?"
"I am."
"Then I ask you, sir, for the love of the mother that bore you, to give me some work. I don't ask for wages, I will gladly work for food and shelter."
A strange feeling of pity grew in the squatter's breast, as he looked in the weary man's face; it was not a good face, the eyes were restless and furtive, the mouth treacherous and cruel, yet Mr. Hazel pitied him—ah, if he had only known, if he had only known!
"Go round the fence to the kitchen," he said. "I will return to the house, and see that you get food. When you have eaten and drank, I will see you again. Do you smoke?"
"When I can, sir."
"Have you any tobacco?"
"Oh no, sir!"
"Well, take this, and go where I told you;" and the kind-hearted man took some out tobacco from his tobacco-pouch, and placed it in the swagman's hand.
"You will be blessed for your goodness to a wretched man, sir."
"Blessed? Ah, not by you, the receiver of a good man's bounty; ah, not by you!"
The man lifted his swag to his shoulder again and went the way he had been told; and Mr. Hazel returned to the verandah and re-lit his pipe; then he paced up and down, with the aroma of "honey dew" floating around him. His thoughts were unusually confused, and no wonder. Maud's lover coming to claim his sanction to remove her from a loving father's home, and Holt's present character and future career, of which he was growing more doubtful every day, whirled in his brain in a strange tangle with the wretched being he had just relieved.
There is no accounting for the vagaries of thought and memory; we do not understand them, and never shall. If anyone had asked Mr. Hazel to account for his thoughts of children and home being mingled with those of a man who had been to him but a black speck on the road half-an-hour ago, could he have given an answer? No; yet there was a reason, which is one of Nature's secrets—the same blood ran in their veins! In an hour the stranger joined Mr. Hazel, at his summons, and mumbled a few words of thanks and hope.
"You are welcome. I hope you have eaten and drank well?"
"Oh, sir, it is so long since I have had a full meal."
"Will you tell me where you came from, and what causes have reduced you to this state of destitution?"
"I am from South Australia last, sir. I was on a station there, but, meeting with an accident, was laid up in the hospital for months. I left weak and penniless, and have wandered since, getting an odd job now and then, to find myself as you see me, sir."
The explanation was given with downcast eyes and restless feet, but Mr. Hazel saw neither; he was looking over the speaker's head to the very slope on which I saw lately the sad graves and the nameless headstone. After a second's silence, however, the gentleman spoke.
"I have been thinking that I might find you work about the stables. Do you know anything about horses?"
"I know everything about them, air," was the eager reply, and Mr. Hazel smiled.
"Well," he said, "I think we may try it at all events. We are going to have a fresh horse in the stables, and there will be more work. Go round to the yard. I will look out some old clothes until you can supply yourself from your wages, and see about a sleeping place for you."
"Oh, how good you are, sir!" and I daresay he thought so then, but not the less was he the ruin of that happy home—he and another.
"I am sorry for you and all unsuccessful working men. Every acre of land, and every sovereign of gold I made by the sweat of my brow," and now the good man had got on his hobby, and was off like steam. "There is scarcely any honest labour these hands have not performed. I am a self-made man, and I glory in it."
"You have been lucky, sir! There are men with whom everything prospers."
"I don't believe in luck, I believe in honest, hard-working perseverance; but I suppose some men are born with more energy than others, and with more brains. Yon may go, my man, I will presently see about your affairs."
"Curse his impudence!" muttered the new hand, as he obeyed. "More brains, indeed! I could walk round him and leave him a mile behind if I liked. Honest hard work! This child will never work while there are fools in the world."
And that was the tramp's gratitude for the outstretched hand of a pitying, good man.
As the hour for her lover's visit approached, Maud s cheeks gathered a faint rose tinge, and she became restless, for one of her calm nature. Not for the world would she have watched for Harry Melton's approach, or shown the anxiety she felt, even to her own father, but she listened to every sound with hearing sharpened by love. At last Maud was rewarded, she heard the sound of horse's feet, and she knew he had come.
Let us look at him as he dismounts. A decidedly handsome man of not far from thirty. Tall and strongly, yet lithely built. Brown hair, of wavy gloss, and eyes so blue and frank and smiling that you could not meet them without recognizing the uncurtained windows of an honest soul. The very grasp of hand with which he met Mr. Hazel's hearty welcome had a story in its pressure, and in the story there was not a line of hypocrisy.
"Glad to see you again, Melton, heartily glad. And that is the mare that has nearly broken Holt's heart with envy? Well, I don't wonder, she's a beauty, and Holt will never be able to equal her."
"Is Holt going to rival me, Mr. Hazel?" Harry asked, with one of his bright smiles.
"That he is. He coaxed me into the promise of a cheque this morning, and he's been off on a horse quest all day."
"Well, I hope he will get a good one, for I know what a pleasure a young man takes in riding a good horse. Yes, I am proud of Brown Bess," and he patted the glossy shoulder of the beautiful creature.
As a groom took possession of the mare to lead her to the stables, Mr. Hazel led the way to the drawing-room, the favourite place with the good man for receiving visitors, for it was there that, in great state, rested the wonderful "Greenstone."
It may be as well that I describe its appearance and position to you here. The stone was a curious specimen of malachite, of very irregular shape, and it stood conspicuously in the centre of a small table, on which there was no other object; it rested on a pedestal of ebony, and was covered by a large glass shade. It was the first object to attract the eye on entering the room, and Harry Melton's first glance was toward it, with a smile, as he knew, if the seriousness of his business did not fully occupy his host's mind, what a prose about the Greenstone, etc., he was in for!
"Sit down, my dear fellow, sit down. I have heard that you wish to speak to me, particularly and privately, and I have some slight idea of what you wish to speak about."
"I am glad of that, Mr. Hazel, for it saves me some awkward moments."
"I dare say," interrupted the squatter. "When a man wants to ask you for his greatest treasure as a free gift, he must naturally feel awkward, to say the least of it, if he be at all an honourable man."
"A treasure indeed, sir, but one that you should not all lose, and which I should value as the greatest Heaven could bestow on me. Will you give me Maud, Mr. Hazel?"
"I like straightforward people, and plain speaking, but you ask me a great sacrifice," the father said, as he looked straight into the young wooer's anxious eyes; "my Maud is everything to me."
"She would not be faraway, Mr. Hazel," Harry said, pleadingly, "and you are not alone; you have your son."
Mr. Hazel waved his hand, and, rising from his chair, paced to and fro, his kindly face so agitated that Harry Melton could not bear to watch it. After a few turns the squatter stopped, and sat down again.
"You speak of my son," he said. "I was a good son, and my father turned me penniless into the world, because I wanted to marry the girl I loved. Had I been a bad son, who had deceived an innocent lass and refused to wed her, what would have been my fate?"
Melton bent his eyes to the carpet, but made no reply, for he knew that Mr. Hazel was alluding to Holt's conduct, and to a dishonourable act of which the neighborhood was beginning to talk.
"I love my girl as my life, and better," Mr. Hazel went on, "but she loves you, Harry, and I give her to you. Yon are in every way the man I should have chosen for her, and I can trust in you as I trust in Maud."
Harry would have uttered many rapturous words of gratitude, but the old gentleman lifted his hand and checked him.
"I have something more to say, Harry. You are now to be my son, and it is but right that you should know that you will be my only, only one, for I have no other. Holt is not my son."
The young man was too much astonished to speak, only his fine eyes dilated as they were fixed on Mr. Hazel.
"No, he is not my son. I have treated him as one, but there is no tie of blood between us. I took him from his dying mother's arms, and promised to be to him as a father, and I have kept my word. I fear I have done wrong in keeping the truth from Holt, but I thought it would be time enough for him to know when I was gone. Now, Harry Melton, your hand, and go; I can bear no more just now. You will find Maud, I have no doubt." Harry wrung the offered hand in silence and left the room. Mr. Hazel turned toward the precious Greenstone, and gazed at it in silence for some moments; then his lips moved, and he spoke—and he spoke softly.
"It was to be Holt's, but he has forfeited it. Yet let him have a chance. He will not benefit by it; but let no man have to say or think that I turned a youth adrift as I was turned. Yes, let him have one chance," and the speaker resumed his seat once more, and, with a hand on either knee, and his eyes fixed on the floor, thought out his own sad thoughts.
The explanation of this great change in Mr. Hazel is a simple one. About two hours before young Melton's arrival, a grey-headed farmer, who was well known, and as well respected in the neighborhood, came to him with the sad story of an only child's disgrace. The father asked that Mr. Hazel would compel his son to do justice—he asked no more. His girl should claim nothing, not even a name, but hide herself in her father's home till the end came.
Mr. Hazel could speak but few words, for he was out to the heart; but the old farmer was so far satisfied that he went away knowing well his cause was in good hands. Mr. Hazel shut himself up in his room to do battle with his sorrow and anger alone. But he must not spoil the happiness of his darling Maud, and he had, with a hard struggle, regained his composure in time to meet young Melton on his arrival.
He had decided, as he then thought, on the course of action he would pursue. He would keep Holt's evil doings secret, and speak to him quietly in private; but the poor man's mind was like the restless bosom of the sea—at one moment smooth, with the swell of a rising wave that, in the next curls, its crest into a boiling foam which sweeps all before it. Yet, even as Mr. Hazel left the drawing-room, Holt's fate was not all sealed had not another of his ill deeds come to light.
A happy two hours had the lovers passed in each other's society ere they stood with Mr. Hazel on the verandah, waiting to see Harry off on his way home. Brown Bess had not yet been brought round when Holt made his appearance, in company with a sinister-looking man, who was riding one horse and leading another. Holt seemed in a great state of excitement, and, without taking the least notice of Maud or Harry, addressed his supposed father.
"Look, sir! Have I not done well? I don't think there is a finer animal in the country! Dirt cheap, I call her, too. Only one hundred and twenty, and thoroughbred to the backbone!"
"You have not spared money, at all events," Mr. Hazel replied, coldly, "and you have been imposed on; the animal is not worth the price."
The eyes of the horse-dealer flashed angrily.
"The young gentleman is mistaken, sir," he said, sharply.
"Mistaken in what?" and Holt turned on the man a look of warning and rage.
"Oh, you needn't look that way at me," was the impudent reply. "I was willing to do you a good turn, but now, as I see how things be, I must look to myself. The price of the horse is seventy-five, sir, but the young gent wanted to have a few pounds in his own pocket."
"You villain!" cried Holt, whose lips were drawn back from his white teeth, and whose hands were clenched in rage, "I'd tear you limb from limb where you stand if I was able!"
"I dare say!" the man sneered, for he saw his chance of a sale was over; "but you're not able, you see. I'm sorry, Mr. Hazel but a man must look to himself. I hope you'll consider my trouble and loss of time."
"You are an accessory; go!" and Mr. Hazel waved his hand toward the gate, to which, without another word, the disappointed dealer led his horses.
During this wretched scene Maud and her betrothed had drawn back, grieved and distressed, and no one had observed that Brown Bess had been brought round, and was within a dozen yards of the verandah, with a man at her head. The man was no other than the new helper, who had given his name as "Dick," and he had heard all.
Mr. Hazel had turned into the house, and Harry pressed Maud's hand as he whispered, "I must go, dear Maud; I can do no good. I will be with you tomorrow."
Maud could not reply, save with her sad eyes. All the calm of the sweet face was broken up. Her own happiness was clouded by the sorrows of those she loved, and she saw Harry depart in silence.
With muttered curses on his lips, Holt was going toward the back, when he observed Brown Bess as the new man led her to meet Harry, who had descended from the verandah. He stood until Melton rode away, and the man was about to pass, touching his hat.
"Stop!" Holt said "Who are you?"
"A new stable hand, sir. Mr. Hazel engaged me today."
"Your name?"
"Dick Smith, sir, at your service."
"I suppose you heard all that passed just now?"
"Every word, sir, and, though it's not my place, I must say that I'd like to have twisted that man's cowardly neck, and though I'm not a young man, I'm not so weak as you might think."
"You may do it yet," Holt said, as he put a half-sovereign in Dick's hand. "I will see you again."
Boiling with a fierce rage, born of the dark blood that ran in his veins, Holt locked himself in his own room to plot revenge against the whole world he fancied unjustly against him. Mr. Hazel gave him an hour, when he sent to summon him.
The distressed and angry owner of Greenstone was in a little room one might call his office, as he there kept his papers, etc., and paid his people. Holt entered with a face expressive of an anger far surpassing that of the squatter, and, without waiting to be addressed, burst out:
"Well, I hope you are satisfied, father! Have you disgraced me sufficiently? By god if I die for it I say it was a scurvy trick! You give me leave to buy a horse one hour, and the next, when I have bought one, you turn it from the door as if it had been stolen!"
Mr. Hazel had to pause ere replying, in order to gain a little self-control, but when he spoke, it was with a calmness that astonished his listener.
"Words would be wasted on you, for you have no sense of moral right or wrong," was what he said; "but I did not send for you to speak of your dealings about a horse. Farmer Smylie has been here today. You have ruined an innocent girl, will you marry her? If you do I will see that all is right with your future."
"Marry her! I'd see her and you to—" and the furious young man stopped short. "Why, surely you have taken leave of your senses to ask your only son to marry a fool that cannot write her own name, and that believes every lie the first man she sees tells her?"
"You mistake, Holt," was the calm reply, "you are not my son."
Holt stared at Mr. Hazel with more of fear than wonder, for he was now firmly convinced that his father had gone mad.
"No, I am not raving," Mr. Hazel said, replying to the look. "You are not my son, Holt."
"In the name of all that's holy, then, what am I?"
"You are an orphan I adopted."
"It's a lie! You wouldn't have done for me as you have, if I had not been your son!"
"I have done my duty; if you had done yours you would not have known the truth until you had laid my head in the grave. Stop!" he added, for Holt was about to speak, "being a liar yourself, you believe no one else can tell the truth, but there is one in this house whose word you will believe. Go to Susan, the cook, and ask her. I give you until tomorrow to decide about this poor young girl. If you do not marry her, you leave my house penniless. Go."
Mr. Hazel's gesture was imperative, and Holt was stunned. He went out without another word in search of Susan, but he had not far to search—she was waiting for him not two steps from the door of the office from which he emerged. The Mulatto's love for her nursling was as profound as her hate for anyone who would injure him, and her faithful watch over his interests had assured her that a crisis was at band.
"Child," she whispered, "come with me."
"I was going to look for you," he returned, and followed Susan to her own special chamber near the kitchen.
"Holt, what has happened?" she asked, when she had locked the door. "Has that which I dreaded come to pass?"
"I don't know what you dreaded, but the man I have all my life called father has told me I am no son of his, and has told me to ask you if it is the truth."
"Hush, dear, do not speak so loud. Oh! My son, my Holt!"
"Your son! Surely to God I am not your son! If I am I will take my own life! By God I will!"
"Be at peace; you are not my son, Holt." But the woman's heart was hurt at the ingratitude she read in the thankless young man's words. "Ask me no more now, but tell me all that has happened, that I may try to help you."
Holt told her all, with many vicious words and threats against those who had deceived him.
The Mulatto thought deeply for a little, and then she spoke: "How far off is this Smylie's?"
"About three miles."
"I will go myself and see the girl; if I can get her to agree to my proposal, you are safe, if not, I have another plan."
"What proposal would you make to the fool, Susan?"
"One to which she will agree, if she is a fool. I will supply her with means, and try to let her to run away; then you can agree to marry her, for it will be impossible."
"It's not a bad idea."
"Of course she is fond of you, Holt?" Susan said, as she gazed proudly at the young man, who was walking restlessly up and down the room.
"That is a needless question," was the conceited reply; "she is a woman."
"Give me a line to say I come from you, and I will go at once. I can pretend I am going to the store for something I require." He took the pen she placed in his hand, and seating himself before the writing materials, penned these words:
"Darling Nell—<(p>
Bearer is Susan, my faithful nurse. I am in sore trouble. Do what she tells you, for the sake of your own Holt."
"It is good," Susan said, as she read the words, and, folding the paper,
placed it in her breast. "Now rest content until I return."
They left the room, and before long she was on her way to Smylie's farm, mounted on a quiet horse she had often previously ridden.
Susan had received all instructions from her darling, and recognized the farmhouse as soon as she saw it, half-hidden in orchard and vineyard, and looking so peaceful that no one might dream of the breaking hearts under its roof. The Mulatto cook dismounted at a distance from the house, and fastened her horse to the fence; then she stole to the end of a building that she could reach through the fence, and knocked on the weatherboards.
A moment's silence and the door was softly opened. The sun was now down, and it was grey dusk, but there was sufficient light for Susan to perceive a girl's form approach her.
"I come from Mr. Holt," she said, in a low voice. "I will wait for you below."
Holt had told her where he was in the habit of meeting the deluded girl; it was in the bush, not far from her home. Susan led her horse to the place, and waited.
Poor Nellie did not keep her long; in a very few minutes she came, with a large shawl over her head and covering her figure, so that the woman could form but little idea of her beauty, or the want of it; but what did Susan care for that? She had not come to see the girl, but to delude her into saving her darling boy.
"I have brought a note for you."
"Alas! I cannot read it; it is too dark."
"I came prepared for that," the cook said, as she took a bit of candle and some matches from her pocket. "Now read," she added, as she shaded the light with her hand.
Nellie read, and as she did, Susan had an opportunity of studying her face. It was a pretty face, but no more; it was the pretty face of an ignorant country girl. The prejudiced cook's lips curled as she thought—"A wife for my Holt? No, no, not so bad as that!"
"What is wrong with Holt? Oh, tell me; what does he want me to do?"
"Mr. Holt is in great trouble, and all about you. Your father was over today, and told Mr. Hazel, and Mr. Hazel says that if Holt marries you he will disown him, and turn him out of doors. Your lover is determined to be true to you, and wants you to go quietly to Melbourne so that no one may know where you are going, and as soon as he can make an excuse he will go to you, and you will be married. When it is all over Mr. Hazel will forgive him, for he loves his son."
"Go to Melbourne! How could I? If he would come, too; but alone, oh, how could I go?"
"Easily; you are well wrapped; go at once. Mount this horse, and cross the river in the punt; from that it is no distance to Echuca, and you will be in time for the night coach. See, Holt has sent you heaps of money; take it and go on your way to your lover and happiness. Remember that all Holt's happiness, as well as your own, depends now on you Nellie."
The girl wept as she listened, and still Susan held the purse toward her. The poor child was trembling like a leaf, but she took a step toward the horse as she murmured, "I will go—it is for Holt's sake," and Susan's heart beat hard in triumph, for her darling's cause was won.
Ah, how often disappointment meets us in the world, and how well it would be if it were only the evildoers who were disappointed! As Nellie was in the act of mounting, a form pushed between her and Susan, and a hand, seizing the girl, dragged her back—it was Farmer Smylie, Nellie's father.
"Foolish lass!" he said bitterly, "you have ruined your body, would you kill your soul likewise? I have heard everything; come home. As for you vile woman, go before I commit a murder!"
"Fool!" the Mulatto shrieked, "would you stand in the way of your girl being made an honest woman of?"
"May the curse of a wronged father fall on you and your master!" the poor old man cried as he drew his sobbing child away, and that curse fell, for it was a just one.
With a fierce anger and disappointment Susan rode back worse than she had gone, for doubtless the farmer would acquaint Mr. Hazel of her attempt, and she knew how determined as well as just her master was. Holt broke down entirely when she told him the fruitless result of her visit to Smylie's.
"I must go!" he cried. "I, who have been brought up as the only son and heir of a rich man, must go out into the world penniless."
"No, no, darling, not so bad as that; while I live to work for you, you shall live like a gentleman. But we have yet a card to play—we will go together, Master Holt; but we will not go empty-handed."
"What do you mean? For mercy sake do not keep me in suspense for I am nearly mad!"
"You know how often Mr. Hazel has told you that all your inheritance, when he died, would be the Greenstone? We thought it jest, but he was in earnest."
"I don't understand what you are driving at."
"Well, I overheard the truth the other day. Of course, not being his son, you had no chance of inheriting against Miss Maud, and in one of his crotchets the master provided for you in the Greenstone—he has left it to you in his will, and it is all hollow and full of gold."
"Are you dreaming, Susan? Can this be true?"
"As true as that my eyes are looking into your dear face."
"Well?"
"Well, take your own and go; tomorrow it will be too late, for master will alter his will. The stone is yours tonight, take it and go. I will soon follow."
"But are you sure—quite sure that there is gold in it?"
"Sure, for I have taken a chance to examine it; it is so heavy I could barely move it, and I could see the hole where the gold has been put in at the top, and a piece of the stone fitted in to hide it. The only trouble I see is that one cannot lift it."
"I think I can manage it, nurse," Holt cried, almost too loud for safety. "Oh, if it is true, what means it would give me for revenge!"
"Ay! It is your own, my darling, take it!"
After a few moments more of consultation, Holt went out in search of the new hand, "Dick," who was located in an empty stall, smoking, and awaiting his call to the men's hut for supper. As soon as he saw Holt he got up and saluted respectfully.
"I have a word to say to you, Dick. Are we quite by ourselves?"
The stable lantern gave but a dim light, and it was now quite dark outside.
"Every man is gone to the hut, sir, but if you speak low no one could hear you a yard off outside on account of the noise the horses make, and I'll swear there is no one inside."
"Well, I have a job to offer you sooner than I thought, Dick; that is to say, if you will do it. There is a twenty pound note for you hanging to it if you accept."
"It is worth earning, sir. Anything short of murder you may count on me for, but blood I have a horror of," and the speaker shuddered as he said the word.
"It has nothing to do with murder," Holt returned; "nothing whatever."
Alas! Unhappy man, had you only known.
"Then I'll earn the money, sir, and I don't care what the job is. Twenty pounds would be a fortune to me."
"The job is this. In the drawing-room there is a large, heavy stone I want taken away without anyone being the wiser. Yon may have heard of it. It is the stone this property was called after—the Greenstone. It has peculiar properties and Mr. Hazel sets the greatest store by it. Well, I want that stone for family reasons, and I will have it. One man could hardly manage it, but I think that if we had it in a bag, and I helped it on your back, you could carry it."
"It would have to be a monstrous stone if I could not, sir. When is this job to be done?"
"Tonight, or rather tomorrow morning. At two o'clock every soul will be asleep. I will come and call you. Where are you to sleep?"
"In the empty stable, for the present, sir."
"All right, I will come for you about two o'clock."
"But you had better give me more instructions, sir; what am I to do with the stone when I get it on my back?"
"My plan is this. I will unfasten the lock of the drawing-room window, and we will go in from the verandah. You will take the stone down the avenue and to the clump of trees on the rise to the right after you pass the gate. Wait for me there. The moon will be rising about that time, and you will see your way. When you are safely off, I will harness a horse and bring a spring cart to carry off the stone. You can come back to your bed, and no one can guess that you have so easily earned twenty guineas. In the meantime, there is one for you."
"Thank you, sir; you may depend on my share of the work being done."
And so they parted—Holt returning to Susan's room, where, under the circumstances, Mr. Hazel would not be surprised to hear he remained, after her communication to him; and Dick went to his supper in the men's hut.
"Where have you hidden yourself?" asked the man who did the cooking. "Supper's over, but there's plenty left, fall to;" and the new man paid such implicit attention to the invitation, that when he left the table the cook looked at it in the greatest wonder.
"Well, I'm blowed!" he exclaimed, as Dick left the hut. "If ever I saw a man stow away such a swag, I'll eat my hat! Poor devil, he must have been on short commons for a month."
Meanwhile "Dick" had got to his stable, and was supposed to have gone to bed, but no such idea was in the man's head. He took a bottle from his yet unfolded swag, and stealing out into the yard again, and creeping through the rails, struck a direct line for the main road, on which Mr. Hazel had seen him as a black speck only that morning.
It was very dark, but the wretched man was accustomed to darkness, being one of those who "love darkness rather than light, because their deeds are evil." He had well mapped the place in his mind as he went up to the house, and made no mistake in the return it was his intention to manage by hook or by crook.
Reaching the track he crossed it, and entered the bush. He listened, but no sound reached him save the weird sounds natural to the lonely forest at night, and he whistled shrilly twice. Then he sat down to be startled by a voice close to him.
"Why I'm here, Dick, just at your toe," and a man got up from the ground near the log on which Dick was sitting.
"What a start you gave me, Peter. What were you doing there?"
"What would a feller be a doin' of when his insides are as empty as a broken bellows but trying to have a nap to forget his troubles? Have ye got any tucker?"
"Plenty."
"Any baccy?"
"Plenty."
"But no licker, Dick. No licker, I know."
"I've got some of that too, Peter."
"Hurrah!" shouted Peter, and was going to repeat the exuberance of his delight, when Dick pulled him violently to the log.
"Are you mad! Do you want to bring the whole country around us? Confound you for a fool, stop you mouth with that," and he shoved a bottle into his mate's hands.
"No wonder as I was a bit cranky at the idea of a feed and a drink and a smoke, Dick; but there's no one about in this wild place."
"You never can tell whose about, or what's about anywhere—there's tucker, wire into it."
"Where did you manage all this mate? But you were allus a grand forager."
"I want to tell you a good deal, so I'll tell you while you feed. The tucker I cribbed from the hat as I was getting my own supper, and the tobacco and spirits I paid for. I had the money, so I managed to bribe one of the lads to go down to a shanty, that it seems is on the road about a mile off—that's how I got what you're enjoying."
"You got the money!" exclaimed Peter, admiringly, and as well as he could with his mouth full of bread and meat.
"Yes, a young toff up there (the master's son, I believe) tipped me; he's got a sharp eye, Peter, and he wanted a job done. I happened to hear him getting into a row with his governor about a horse, and he spotted me to have his revenge. I think that's about how the land lies."
"How did you manage to stop there at all, Dick?"
"The boss took me on as a stable hand, and do you know, Peter, the queerest feeling came over me when he spoke so kindly."
"What kind of feeling?" asked Peter, as he deftly filled his black pipe.
"I couldn't describe it. I liked him, yet, I couldn't look in his face. It seemed to me as if he had a right to be ashamed of me, and I felt as if I would like to grip his hand and cry over it."
"The sun, mate, the sun; and we was hungry, we was. I know what it is. I could hear gals singing and men shouting all day today, though you left me the bit of bread we had."
"Maybe so, Peter; at all events, he's a good man, and he took me on."
"But the young chap? What's the job he wants done."
"To help him steal a big stone from the house, and plant it until he gets a trap to carry it off."
"A big specimen," said Peter; "white quartz full of gold."
"No, Peter, he says it's a lump of what copper miners sometimes call greenstone, but malachite is the right name; and the young chap says it's of no value but as a family talisman."
"What's that?"
"A talisman! A sort of lucky stone, Peter."
"That be hanged for a yarn! Who ever heard of a feller stealing a stone for luck! That be hanged for a yarn."
"Well, there must be something in it, for the station is called after it—this is Greenstone Station. I don't know what to think of it, mate, but I'm to go into the drawing-room at two o'clock this morning and take the stone away."
"Why don't he take it away hisself?" persisted doubtful Peter; "don't you get into no trap, mate."
"The young chap says the stone might be carried by a strong man, but that no one man could get it on his back himself. We are to put it in a bag, and he is to help it on my back. All I have to do then is to carry it a bit away, and wait for him and the trap; when it's in I am done, and he is to give me twenty pounds."
"Jupiter!" exclaimed Peter. "But that's no stone, Dick, it's a corpse as he's murdered he wants you to help him with. Don't yer do it, mate; don't yer do it. We're bad enough, but let we keep clear o' blood."
"No, no, pal; he wouldn't have a corpse in the drawing-room, and you know I wouldn't have anything to do with crooked jobs where there's blood spilled. I can't bear the thought of blood," and again that strange shudder shook the speaker, as it had shaken him before.
"Well, if it's only a common stone it must be a rock to be so heavy. However, you know your way about, Dick, and it's mighty little I can teach you. What are you going to do?"
"Meet the young chap when he calls me, and do what he tells me. If I am able I will carry it to the place he told me of, but I want you to be on hand to give me a lift, Peter. Besides, I should like to have a look at that stone privately, when there's nobody there but you and I."
"Ay, I should like to have a look at that queer stone," replied Peter, sagely. "There's more in it than's on the outside."
This was entirely a chance shot of Peter's, but the reader knows how nearly it hit the mark.
"Well, mate, I must go, I will leave you the grog, and you will meet me, without fail, at two o'clock near the big gates up yonder. You know all about the moon. Many a time you and I lay cold and hungry and watched her, Peter. She rises tonight about half-past one."
"You can trust me, Dick, and I can trust you, though it's not every two pals as can say that of each other. I'll not fail you.
And so they parted, to meet again once more. We must return to Susan, the Mulatto, where Holt had left her to see what arrangements he could make with the new hand about the abstraction of the Greenstone. No sooner had the young man gone out than she was summoned to the presence of her master.
Susan dreaded the interview, but for her darling's sake she summoned all her courage and went into the house. Mr. Hazel was in the drawing-room in a chair that stood near the Greenstone, that was to be the cause and the perpetuator of so much misery, and he was gazing at it, thinking such thoughts of it as no man should ever know. As Susan presented herself he sighed deeply, and bade her sit down.
"I can see that you have been crying, Susan," he began, "and by that know that Holt has asked you the question I told him to ask you."
"He has, sir."
"And you have answered him?"
"Partly, sir."
"Partly? What do you mean, nurse?"
"I told him that he was not your son, but only an adopted child, and I told him no more."
"He does not know that you are his aunt—that your sister was his mother?"
"Is it now in the depth of his disappointment that I should add to my boy's load the knowledge that he has black blood in his vein?" the Mulatto asked, bitterly.
"I think it would be better if you had told him the whole truth, Susan; and when I sent him to you I expected you would have done so. The greatest mistake I ever made was keeping the boy ignorant of his birth, the knowledge might have kept him humble, for Holt's is not the disposition to bear prosperity well. Oh, what a mistake I have made!" and poor Mr. Hazel bowed his head and sighed again.
"You are too hard on him, sir. Why cannot you remember that you were young yourself once?" the Mulatto asked, hotly.
"I do remember it, but I have no youth like Holt's to look back upon. What I wished principally was to know your opinion as to whether your nephew will or will not accept my terms." Susan was angry already, and Mr. Hazel's repudiation of her darling by the words "your nephew," raised the temperature of her tropical blood to boiling heat.
"If you mean about the girl, Holt will never marry her!" she cried.
"You may go, Susan," said Mr. Hazel, firmly, and the woman turned, without reply or curtsy, and went out.
The old gentleman looked the door behind her, and saw that the curtains hung well closed over the windows, then he turned once again to the stone of doom, and lifted the shade from over it. A chandelier, of which only one burner was lit, hung over the Greenstone, and Mr. Hazel had plenty of light for his work. Taking a large chamois leather bag from his pocket, he placed it to suit his purpose, and then drew towards him what seemed to be a small protection of the stone; the result was a stream of gold dust, propelled by its own weight, from the orifice into the bag.
At last the stream ceased, and the bag was heavy. The hole was closed, and another opened on the top. From under: the table Mr. Hazel lifted a bag of small shot, which he carefully poured into the Greenstone, and so filled again the space hitherto occupied by gold. Soon the work was done, the shade replaced, and the good man on his way to his safe with the bag of gold.
"It was the foolish, romantic notion of a boy," he said softly, "and not the wise thought of a man; it might have tempted to sin and crime."
Alas, it had already done so!
Dick waited and listened; not a moment's sleep did he permit himself lest Holt should find him unprepared. At length, the faint glimmer of the rising moon crept through the tops of the bush-trees, and he knew the time had come.
"Are you there, Dick?" came the whisper of Holt.
"All ready, sir."
"Come on, then," and noiselessly the new man followed.
Holt ascended to the verandah, pushed open the French window, and they were in the drawing-room.
"I have been here before, and all is ready," Holt whispered. "We need no light. Put out your hand. That is the stone; lift it off the table if you can. I have the bag ready."
Dick felt around the Greenstone until he had some idea of its shape and size, and then he grasped it with both his hands.
"Can you do it?"
"Easily, sir; it is heavy, but any man could lift it."
Holt's heart thumped hard against his side until they were fairly outside, and the bag containing the stone safely on Dick's shoulders; then he spoke: "Go where I told you, and don't be afraid if I should not be able to join you immediately."
Dick went on, much surprised at the lightness of his burden, after what he had been told of its extraordinary weight. At the appointed spot Peter awaited him, and together they reached the cluster of trees on the green slope of the hill.
"And it's not heavy, after all, Dick?"
"Heavy, but nothing wonderful. Help it down, mate;" and the bag was laid on the grass.
"Take it out, and let's see it; I'm reglar curus," said Peter, as he lit a, small lantern, while Dick pulled the Greenstone partially from the bag.
"Why, some plug or other has come out, and there is shot running out of it in a stream! The stone is filled with shot, Peter!"
"For my sake come away, Dick!" cried cautious Peter. "Maybe there's powder, too, and we'll all be blown up! Come away!"
"You go back, Peter; I hear the cart. I'll go and meet the young chap, and ask him about it."
Dick was not mistaken, Holt was driving, or rather leading, the horse gently up the slope. The moon was now fairly over the tops of the trees, and a pale light made Dick's form visible to the young man.
"What's the matter?" he asked sharply? "What brings you out of cover? Where's the bag?"
"There in the shadow of the trees. I daren't stop near it, when I saw what was in it."
"What!"
"There's shot running out of the stone, sir, and where there's shot, there might be powder; for all I know, it might be an explosion!"
"Shot running out of it? You lie! Stand out of my way, you villain; if you've tricked me you shall pay for it with your life!" Dashing into the shadow, he pounced upon the bag, and dragged it out into the moonlight, and with the strength of unbridled rage, shook the stone out on the grass. As he did so, the loose shot rattled in showers on his feet, and he caught a handful to see what it was. Panting, and with all the dark blood of his Mulatto mother boiling in his veins, he seized a stone at hand and dashed in the top part of the malachite, where Susan had told him the orifice was, and then he saw that the space within was empty, for he could see through to the opening from which the shot had escaped and from which Mr. Hazel had drawn the gold.
"You see I have not lied, sir, the stone was full of shot."
"It was full of gold! You have robbed me, you villain! But by the God that made me, if you don't turn up that gold, I'll shoot you where you stand!"
In the moonlight Holt's dark face seemed ghastly, and the fire of madness gleamed in his eyes. The barrel of a revolver, too, glittered in the moonbeams, and the young man's rigid hand pointed the weapon at Dick's breast.
"I did not take your gold; there was none to take; and life for life, if you shoot me you shall not live!" and a bright knife flashed to the light.
"Will you give up the gold?"
"I have none to give up."
A sharp report and the stagger of a man wounded to the death; a bound forward and a gleam of steel ere the knife was buried in the heart of Holt, the Mulatto. Two men lying prone on the desecrated grass, one dead and the other dying! Mr. Hazel was restless that night; his kind heart was troubled for the boy he had reared as his own. Perceiving and acknowledging his folly, now that it was too late, he felt that the only chance of reformation was to let the young fellow try to walk unaided in life.
"If he shows any inclination to energy and self-control I can help him," the poor man thought, and then he heard the muffled sound of wheels going out the back entrance.
"It is Holt going without giving me a chance to wish him God speed," he said, as he started from his bed and dressed himself. "It must not be so."
He disturbed no one in letting himself out, and, taking a short way, soon came within view of the horse and trap and the forms of two men behind it. This was the moment that the shot was fired, and that two men fell to the ground.
With a stifled cry of horror, Mr. Hazel ran to find a stranger kneeling by one of the men, and the staring eyeballs of the dead Holt turned up to the heavens he had outraged.
"What has happened? In the name of the most merciful, what has happened?"
"Oh, he is dying, master, and he does not know me! Dick, Dick, speak to your old mate only once more! Years we have been together; Dick, will you leave me like this?"
Mr. Hazel had knelt by the side of dead Holt, and laid his hand over the heart from which the blood was yet gushing. The knife was no longer there, for as Dick fell, his clutch on the handle drew it from the wound it had made. What the unhappy man would have said or done it is impossible to say, for at the instant the wounded man began to murmur strangely familiar words, and Mr. Hazel approached him.
"I wonder what mother will say. We'll catch it, Jim, and it's all your fault, you would take me nutting to Copby Woods. But never mind brother, Jim, you're not half so bad as they say; do you remember the thrashing you saved me when I struck Tom Belmore with the ball?"
"Just Heaven, it is my brother Dick!" cried Mr. Hazel, as he knelt down and raised the dying man's head to his knee. "Oh Dick, I am your brother James! Look up my lad, oh, look up, we will save you yet. Run to the house and saddle a horse; go for a doctor at once, my brother must not die!"
"Too late, master, too late, he is going fast!" said Peter, who was fairly sobbing. "Oh, Dick, one last word for poor Peter!"
"Faithful mate!" was the faint murmur. "Don't take my hand, there is blood upon it."
"He never knew it was I," Mr. Hazel said, as he laid the quiet form gently down on the soft grass.
Peter told him all that had happened, and added, "I was a coward, master, and afraid of the powder, and I was too far off until I saw the pistol leveled, then I ran, but I was too late."
It was Mr. Hazel's wish that the two should be buried where they fell; it was he who arranged the stone and planted the trees. He now lives with his Maud and her husband, but a dark-faced woman in never-resigned mourning keeps the old home in order, and it is faithful Peter who attends the "Greenstone Graves."