Guy Boothby's Last and Best Story.
by Guy Boothby.
Originally published in The Novel Magazine (C. Arthur Pearson, Ltd.) vol.2 #11 (Feb 1906).
A pathetic interest attaches to this story, for it is the last ever penned by the well-known novelist, Guy Boothby, whose death some eighteen months ago, at the early age of thirty-seven, was so generally deplored. Though resident in England latterly, Mr. Boothby was an Australian by birth, having been born at Adelaide in 1867. In 1891 he crossed the Australian continent from north to south, and the local colour of "My Bush Honeymoon" is absolutely true to life. Mr. Boothby was the creator of that weird character, Dr. Nikola, the book in which he was introduced to the public being, perhaps, the late author's best known work.
She was out and away the prettiest girl in all the district, as every man who knew her was prepared to admit. For my part, I said as much within five minutes of setting eyes on her.
To put the case in a few words, you might have searched Australia through from Cape Cook to—well, shall we say the Leuwin—without discovering her equal either as a beauty, a rider, or—what counts perhaps for more than anything in the Bush—a house keeper.
As a matter of fact, I can point to at least ten men at this very moment who would be willing to admit that they proposed to her within the first three months of their residence in the township. And small blame to them, I say, if they did. At least, they knew what they were doing, and if they individually had a little higher opinion of themselves than was admissible, well, perhaps they were not altogether to blame. They had talked with her, you see, and the result was as we have seen.
For myself, I may as well confess, once and for all, since my family, with the exception of my dear mother, would assure you of the fact could you meet them, that I was a ne'er-do-well. It is true my 'Varsity career had proved a terrible failure—but I must do myself the justice to say that I never thought it would be otherwise.
I had tried the Bar with equal unsuccess, and, as a result, one very cold and rainy morning found me on Sydney's Circular Quay, with some fifteen pounds ten shillings in my pocket, a fair equipment so far as outfit was concerned, and, what is more or less important, the vaguest possible notion as to how I was to live when my capital should be exhausted. We have the assurance that the wind is tempered to the shorn lamb. I trust it may have been so, for no lamb could have been closer clipped than I was then.
Of course I starved. Why should I be ashamed of telling you that, seeing that thousands have done the same before me? We, the class I represent, begin with great hotels and end our metropolitan careers in third-rate lodging-houses. We discard by, degrees repeating-rifles, Smith and Wesson revolvers, cameras, violins, and, a little later, dress suits, and articles of bijouterie as necessity arises. Doubtless it was their destiny to be made in one hemisphere in order that they might vanish in another.
For a month or more I hung about Sydney looking for something to do and not finding it. With every nightfall I found myself entertaining a poorer opinion of myself and of my capabilities. At last, in sheer despair, I wandered into the Bush, as so many better men have done before me.
A change had come over me. I no longer offered myself for employment—I begged for it. Over and over again I was turned away with scorn, for, strange though it may appear, while I could ride after a fashion, I could not milk a cow, shear a sheep, repair a fence, or even make a decent damper, that simplest article of all Bush cooking.
It is true that I could, at a pinch, have translated more or less correctly a page or two of Thucydides or Sophocles; I had a smattering of Roman Law, while to make the list and the sarcasm complete, I had also a fair knowledge of the banjo. But these accomplishments I soon discovered stood me in no sort of stead.
Time, however, brings experience, and after a while I learnt to "go ahead"—with the result that, five years from the day of my landing in Australia, I found myself on the Warrego River in Southern Queensland, with three hundred pounds to my credit in the bank, and part owner of a two thousand acre block, possessing an excellent frontage on the river.
My partner was an Australian—a man named Graham, who hailed from the Sydney side, and who had a lifelong experience of the Bush. When I first met him he struck me as being a very decent sort of fellow, a little too fond of his grog, perhaps, and inclined to be quarrelsome when under its influence, but otherwise a good all-round man, particularly with stock. Everything considered, we got on well together, and doubtless should have continued to do so but for one circumstance. You shall hear what that circumstance was.
I have already said that she was out and away the prettiest girl in Australia, and I have brought evidence to prove my assertion. I will now go even further than that, and declare that she was not only the prettiest, but also the noblest girl I had ever, and have ever, set eyes on. Read this story and tell me if you don't think I'm right.
Her father, John Fraser, was the largest storekeeper in our township, eighteen miles away down the river. He was an Englishman, a gentleman in every sense of the word, and had come to the Colony in the early days. He was a fine figure of a man, and was famed far and wide for his generosity and also for his straightforwardness in business.
He was civil to everyone, but familiar with few, and the pride of his heart and the lodestar of his life was his motherless daughter, Margaret. Nothing was too good for her, and I remember him once telling me when, I suppose, having proved me, he admitted me to the small circle of his friends, that he often wondered if he had done right in allowing her to remain so long in the Bush, when she might have been enjoying so many advantages in one or other of the southern capitals.
I don't mind confessing to you that by this time I was madly in love with her (indeed, who could have helped being so?), and for this reason I did not know what answer to make him. The mere thought of her leaving the neighbourhood was too terrible for consideration. I told myself that if she went I should go, too, for life would be unendurable without her. While we were talking of it she entered the verandah and seated herself in a chair next to her father.
"You're looking very serious, daddy," she began, taking his hand in hers. "What is the matter? Has Pat"—his Irish factotum in the store—"been telling you again that he'll throw up his position and go home and be King of Ireland once more?"
Her father laughed, and suddenly became grave again.
"No, my lass," he said, "I was just saying to Mr. Willoughby that I often wonder whether I am justified in keeping you up here in this out of the way part of the world, when you might be down south, associating with the class to whom you are really akin. To say nothing of perfecting your education."
I glanced at her and thought her face paled a little—possibly, however, I may have been mistaken.
"My dear father," she said, with a gravity that was not usual to her, "you must not say such things. You know as well as I do that I am as happy here as it is possible for a girl to be. I love the Bush, and would not leave it for anything. As for my education, one does not go to school at nineteen. What more do you want me to learn? I can play the piano sufficiently well to please you, I can paint enough to please myself; poor dear old Monsieur le Page has taught me French, and Herr Schneider has grounded me in German: I have plenty of friends, and—well, the long and the short of it is I am not going. So there!"
From that time forward no more was, I believe, said on the subject, and if there was one man relieved in the district by the knowledge I was that one. Soon after that I made a momentous discovery. Why it should have come to me as a shock, or indeed even as a surprise, I cannot say—yet it did both shock and surprise me. Of that there can be no doubt.
It occurred on a very cold and wet Sunday night towards the end of winter. I had spent a lonely day, for my partner had gone off to the township early in the morning, and by reason of the rain I had been compelled to remain in the house, with no companions save my dogs, and no occupation save my books.
Towards eleven o'clock I finished my second volume (I am writing of many years ago when three volumes were the fashion) and was wondering whether I should begin the third or retire to bed in the hope that I might dream of Margaret Fraser, when suddenly the sound of a horse's hoofs caught my ear.
"Graham," I said to myself, and added: "Well, I don't envy him his ride."
I placed the kettle on the fire in order that he might make himself some hot grog, and awaited his coming. Presently he made his appearance, soaked to the skin, but evidently in the best of tempers.
"Not gone to roost yet, old fellow?" he cried. "By Jove, how good the fire looks. It's raining cats and dogs outside. We shall have the river a banker if this sort of thing continues."
He mixed himself a glass of grog, and then returned to the fireplace, where the water trickled from his clothes and formed a pool upon the floor. Having finished one glass he made himself another, and soon began to wax confidential.
"I've some news for you, old fellow," he said. "I don't know whether you'll like it or not. We've been very good friends, and I hope it won't make any difference to our future good relations."
I asked what his news might be—but I'm afraid without any great interest. "Well," he continued, spreading himself before the fire as he spoke, "the fact of the matter is I've made up my mind to get married." Then, becoming argumentative, he continued: "I'm able to keep a wife, and I don't see why I shouldn't."
"Is it permissible to ask the name of the lady you intend to honour with your preference?" I inquired. "She should esteem herself fortunate."
He either did not notice my gibe, or was resolved to pay no attention to it, for he answered:
"You ought to know her, for you've been to the house often enough. Margaret Fraser is the girl I mean. I've spent the best part of to-day there, and she's been uncommonly civil. Everybody says the old man's worth a pot of money, and though it's not quite the kind of match my people down south would care about, I'm perfectly willing to take it on."
I must leave you to imagine my feelings, for I can assure you they can be better imagined than described. Though it was not the sort of match his family would approve, he was quite willing to marry the sweetest and cleverest girl in the district, and for this reason, mark you, that her father was supposed to be a wealthy man. I need say no more!
Six months went by, and before the end of that time he had discovered that I, among others, was his rival. From that moment forward he hated me as only men of his stamp can hate, that is to say, unostentatiously, but none the less bitterly. We worked together, and to those who did not know the facts of the case, we might have appeared to be the best of friends. In reality, however, though we never said as much, we were the direst enemies. It was not long before the end came, and I must admit I welcomed it—for the strain was becoming unendurable.
One day I told Graham at breakfast that it was my intention to go into the township.
"All right," said he, with the now customary sneer upon his face, "though there is any amount of work to be done you must, of course, please yourself. By the way, while you are there, you might look in at the store and see if that wire has arrived: I wonder if you remember the fact that it should have been here a week ago?"
It was nearly eleven o'clock when I reached the township, and as hot a morning as any Australian could have wished to know. The main street was inches deep in dust, and the cicadas were chirruping in the trees by the schoolhouse as if they thought the world was coming to an end, and it therefore behoved them to make as much noise as possible before the actual catastrophe occurred.
According to custom I stabled my horse at "The Bushman's Rest," passed the time of day with the stout old landlady, and then made my way down the main street to Fraser's Store. The man who has never been in love will not, of course, be able to understand my feelings as I strode along that extremely hot and dusty path. Personally I pity him, for his experiences have been limited.
Margaret was like Martha of Biblical fame, inasmuch as she was at that moment cumbered with much serving. As a matter of fact, she was making pancakes. Her hands were fresh from the flour tub when I chanced upon her. I give you my word, it was worth an eighteen-mile ride to see such arms.
"Good morning, Mr. Willoughby." said she through the window, over which the crimson passion-flower bloomed in all its tropical beauty. Then, after a momentary pause, she added: "Father will be so glad to see you."
Being a man I lied as to my errand and said that I had come in to see him on business.
"Father has a clerk now," she said, and, being a woman, added with apparent irrelevance: "Perhaps you would like to consult him? You will find him in the office. His name is Ferguson—and he's a Scotchman."
As she spoke she looked down into the bowl in which she was mixing the elements of the pancake. I proceeded in search of Ferguson, but I had not gone many yards before she stopped me.
"Mr. Willoughby," she said, "you will come in to dinner, won't you?" (Luncheon, by the way, was in those days a term unknown to the Bush.) Needless to say, I accepted her invitation with alacrity, and to such as have an understanding of the cleverer sex, it will be unnecessary for me to add that she gave no sign of being pleased.
I saw her father, the astute Mr. Ferguson, Mr. Patrick Maloney, the rightful King of Ireland, and then returned to the house. This time Miss Margaret received me in the verandah. The flour had disappeared from her hands, just as the immaculate apron had done, from her dress. She was no longer the cook, but my hostess, and the most charming hostess in all the world. I believe Fraser was glad to see me, and I hoped that she was, too, but for reasons already mentioned I could not, of course, tell.
After dinner the old man and I smoked in the verandah. Later on, when he was called away by a customer, I found myself alone with Miss Margaret. I cannot recall what we talked about, but I can at least remember that I made up my mind that I loved her even more than I had done before.
If I were to try for a hundred years I could give you no idea how sweet she was. And to think that this was the girl whom my partner had declared his willingness to marry—even though his friends "down south" might not consider it a good enough match for him. Bah, the very thought of such impudence made my blood boil!
The moon was well above the roof tops before I said good-bye. In Australia, as in Africa, you come to understand what moonlight really means. I can see the scene as plainly at this minute as if it were but yesterday. I can even recall the peculiar acrid odour of the pepper trees growing beside the path—a man singing a few houses away, and the voice of Mr. Patrick Maloney discussing some political point with Mr. Ferguson, the clerk in the Store.
Can you not guess the rest? Given a moonlight night, a lovely girl, a young man madly in love, and what could anyone expect would happen?
I told her everything, and vowed that, while I was not worthy of her, I loved her better than life itself. Even before she had time to answer me I knew that my case was won. She was mine!. She had promised to be my wife. Small wonder, therefore, if I rode home with the world in my watch pocket, so to speak. In my pride I cried: "She is mine—no man can take her from me."
How Graham discovered my secret I cannot tell you, for I said nothing to him on the subject. That he did discover it, however, there can be no doubt, and a curious change it wrought in his behaviour towards me.
For some time past—in fact, almost since the day when he had told me of his intention to marry Margaret—he had been uncertain in his temper; now he became more friendly than I had ever known him. He would scarcely let me out of his sight: I was too happy to be suspicious, and very probably I should not have paid much attention to it even if I had suspected anything. There is no man so blind as he who is in love.
Two days after my acceptance by Margaret I went into the township and had an interview with old Mr. Fraser. It was eminently satisfactory, and when I rode home again I believe I was the happiest man in the whole world. For once in my life I was not a failure—in point of fact, I was on my way to becoming a rich man, for Mr. Fraser had confided to me the fact that he was part owner of several large stations, his interest in which would in due course descend to his daughter.
"I suppose I must congratulate you, my dear fellow," said Graham, when I told him my news. "But you've hit me pretty hard. There, I suppose I shall get over it. You'll be no end of a swell now—I wish I had your luck. Old Fraser, they say, is worth a mint of money."
The money, you see, was still uppermost in his mind.
Another month went by, and it was arranged that we should be married in November—it was then the beginning of September—spend our honeymoon in Brisbane, and return to the township in time for Christmas. Good gracious, how I worked in the meantime! From morning till night I did not allow myself to be idle for a moment. I had arranged to buy Graham out, you see, and it behoved me to do all I possibly could to put matters on a proper basis. Mr. Fraser had offered to help me, but I would not accept his assistance. I wanted to be independent, and to show him that I was not the failure my folk in England had declared me to be.
One day I reached the township towards the middle of the afternoon. I put my horse up at "The Bushman's Rest," so usual, and went down the street towards the store. Margaret received me in the verandah in her own loving way, and later on her father joined us.
Of course, you know as well as I do how quickly it is possible for one to tell when there is something amiss. What was the matter I could not say, but there was something in Mr. Fraser's manner towards me which gave me the idea that he was not so well-disposed towards me as usual. He seemed nervous and ill at ease, as if he were anxious to put a question to me, and yet did not like to do so.
It could not be that he doubted my love for Margaret—such a thing would not have been possible. Yet that there was something wrong somewhere I felt morally certain. I tried to put the thought away from me, but it would not be dispelled. It was not until after supper, and I was preparing to say good-bye, that he gave me an inkling of what was in his mind. That it cost him something to speak I could plainly see.
"George," he began, when we were alone together, "I think it is only fair that I should be plain with you. I have received some letters concerning you lately, and, though I despise the man who is afraid to put his name to any accusation he has to bring, I cannot afford for my girl's sake to treat the matter as of no importance. Here are the letters. Read them for yourself, and tell me what you think about them."
He threw three letters on the table, and I picked them up. They were unsigned, and the writing was wholly unfamiliar to me. I read them carefully, and as I did so felt my face flushing crimson.
Whoever the scoundrel was who had written them, he at least knew something of my past life. But there was a difference between what was true and what was added to it, or, in other words, what was false. It was a fact that I left Oxford in disgrace, and with the reputation of a gambler, but it was not correct that there had ever been the least breath of a suspicion that my play had been anything but absolutely straightforward.
There had been some country gossip in connection with a daughter of one of my father's tenant farmers, but it had been nothing more than a harmless flirtation between a boy of scarcely twenty and a girl of seventeen. The assertion that I had wronged her under a promise of marriage was as vile a lie as was ever penned. As a matter of fact, it was the girl's father who put a stop to the whole affair, with dignity to himself and respect to me and her. I had run into debt in London, as many a thousand other young men have done before me, and will continue to do after I am gone, but every halfpenny I owed was paid before I left England, and doubtless my father holds the receipts to this day.
I gave Mr. Fraser back the letters and told him what I thought of them, and what he could believe and what he should disbelieve. He heard me out patiently, and, then gave me his hand.
"I trust you," he said: "Think no more about these wretched epistles, my lad. However foolish you may have been in the past, endeavour to make amends for it in the future."
It was all very well to tell me to forget about it, but that was impossible. As I rode home I turned it over and over in my mind, but could come to no understanding of it. Who my anonymous accuser might be I had not the least idea.
So far as I knew, I had not an enemy in Australia—unless I except my late partner, Graham. But as these letters were written and posted in Brisbane at a time when he was with me, I considered that theory was refuted. Besides, angry though he might be with me, I could not believe that he would have been guilty of such a cowardly action.
Another six weeks went by, and the work I had set myself to do on the bungalow was well-nigh completed. The wedding-day was fixed for the twelfth of the following month, so that there was every likelihood of my having put all shipshape some time before that momentous occasion.
I had added to the house a small drawing room, a spare bedroom, and a new kitchen, of which it stood very much in need. The creepers I had planted had grown well, and gave quite a different appearance to the little place. Margaret's own furniture, including her piano, was to be brought out while we were away en our honeymoon, and then I flattered myself we should possess as cosy a nest as any to be found in the length and breadth of Australia.
A fortnight before the eventful day I was making my way home from the township when I caught up a stranger who was riding slowly in the same direction as myself. The night was dark, and I could not see his face. But he seemed to know me, for he addressed me by name. I asked him where he hailed from, and he replied that he was on Goobooka, a station some thirty miles further up the river. Like all Bush men we fell to talking about sheep, cattle, and horses, the prospects of the season, and the likelihood of rain.
"You used to breed some decent horses up at your place," I said.
"Yes, the station has got some very tidy animals," he answered, "but I have got the clipper of all the countryside. A bay mare—stud bred. The sweetest thing in horseflesh you ever clapped eyes on. I bought her off a man from the Queensland side. She'd suit an Empress!"
Now, it so happened that I wanted to give my darling a saddle-horse as a wedding present, but up to that time had not been able to hear of one that suited me. I inquired his price and where and when I could see it.
"Well, if you really think of buying her I'll tell you what we could do. The day after to-morrow I am going over to Jimson's Flat to look at some rams. Do you know the Bingere Gate? It's about midway between our place and yours. I could meet you there, and if you like her you can give me your cheque and take her away with you."
"At what time?"
"Make it as early as you can, for I shall have all my work cut out if I want to get through with it and be home again by night."
"Very well, I'll be there. Say eleven o'clock; but I don't promise you that I'll buy the brute."
"Wait till you have seen her," he answered, with a laugh. "You'll change your tune then."
His prophecy proved correct, for the mare became my property, and a more beautiful animal I had never set eyes on. For the remainder of the time which was permitted me I schooled her to carry a lady, and when I had done with her I would have backed her to be ridden by a child of three. I could well imagine how Margaret's eyes would sparkle when she saw her.
With regard to our going away, it was arranged that we were to ride on the first day as far as the small township of Cairngorm—twenty miles distant; thence to Lukella—some fifty miles further on; next day into Rockville, the terminus of the railway, where we should leave our horses and take train for the capital, some hundreds of miles distant.
The great day at length arrived, and as soon as it was light I rode off, accompanied by a black boy mounted on my present for Margaret. The ceremony was to take place at twelve o'clock, and his instructions were that he was not to bring the mare to the house until after the wedding-breakfast was over.
To shorten a long story, we were married, and it was the proudest man in the world who swung his wife into the saddle amid the hearty good wishes of our friends. Margaret was delighted with my gift, and the picture horse and rider presented as they swung along the track in perfect unison was, though I say it, worth going a long way to see.
We reached Cairngorm quite easily, taking our own time, by six o'clock—the mare stepping out splendidly beneath her dainty load. Next morning we started early so that we might be able to camp during the great heat of the day. We found a shady spot, watered the horses, and having made a fire, put the quart pot on to boil. Margaret was a thorough Bush woman, and as such was ready for tea at all hours of the day.
The memory of that camp comes back to me now; I can see myself lying stretched out beneath a tree in which the cicadas are chirruping like castanets, my sweet wife seated beside me, the horses a few yards away swishing their tails, too lazy and too hot to feed. A big iguana makes his way leisurely out from behind a rock on important business and then evidently thinks better of it, for he trundles back again; while from the topmost branches of the trees above us a flock of cockatoos uttered unearthly screams.
Presently, round the corner of the track appeared two police troopers accompanied by a black tracker. They jogged slowly by and disappeared from view. An hour later I ran up the horses and saddled them, swung Margaret into her saddle, and when I had mounted to my own, we continued our journey as before.
By five o'clock we were within a few miles of our destination. As soon as we arrived we went to one of the only two decent caravanserais the place boasted, and while Margaret engaged a room for the night, I took the horses to the yard and saw them attended te. The troopers and the black tracker were there, and nodded to me civilly enough.
Next morning we were early astir again, meaning to finish our ride as soon as possible, for we were both anxious to reach the train and to find ourselves on the way to real civilisation, of which, after all, a Bush township is only the make-believe. We were climbing the hill which descends into Rockville, when the clatter of horses' hoofs behind us made us look round. Our friends the police were following us at a smart pace. Presently they came up with us, whereupon the Sergeant placed himself alongside me.
"George Willoughby," he said: "I have a warrant for your arrest on a charge of horse-stealing. I caution you that any thing you say may be used against you."
Had he accused me of murder I could not have been more dumfounded. I could only sit and stare at him in complete bewilderment. I heard Margaret give a little cry, and that woke me to action.
"Come, come, Sergeant," I said, "a joke is a joke, but for a moment I must confess you have given me a fright."
"This is no joke, Mr. Willoughby," he answered, and produced a paper from his pocket as he spoke: "Here is the warrant, signed by Mr. John Carruthers, J.P., of Hilkley Downs, by which I am authorised to arrest you on a charge of stealing that bay mare the lady is riding, and which is the property of Mr. Andrew Culford, of Tarneggie, on the Upper Macquarrie. I don't want to make things worse for you than I can help, so I take it you'll come along quietly and without any fuss—especially as you have the lady with you."
"Oh, George," cried my wife in an agonised voice, "what does it all mean? They won't take you away from me when you are quite innocent of this charge, will they?"
"Very likely your husband will be able to prove that he is innocent, madam," answered the Sergeant in a kindly voice. "You must keep your heart up and hope for the best. Now, please let us get on, for I must be in Rockville before it's dark to look after another case."
It was a sad little party that rode into the township a while later. My poor wife was nearly broken-hearted, while I did not know what to say to comfort her, save to continue to protest my innocence.
We made our way direct to the police station, where the warrant was read to me, and I was formally charged with the crime. That done, the sergeant's wife was kind enough to say that, for the time being, at least, she could take Margaret into her own house, so that she need not be compelled to go alone to a hotel.
The next thing was to dispatch a messenger with a letter post haste to Mr. Fraser, telling him of the misfortune which had befallen me, and asking him to come to Margaret without delay. What a wretched night I spent, to be sure. I did not sleep a wink, and I knew that Margaret would not, poor little woman.
Next day I was brought before the local magistrate and remanded—bail being refused. At the adjourned sitting, when, by the way, Mr. Fraser was present, witnesses were brought forward who proved the identity of the mare beyond dispute, also the fact of her having been stolen some three months or so before she had come into my possession.
One of my own hands proved the date on which I had brought her home, and I hoped the difference in the time would tell in my favour; but when I asserted that I obtained her from a man named Curson who was an overseer at Goobooka, and it was stated that there was no such person employed on that property, nor had ever been, I began to see the nature of the net that was closing round me.
The very admission that I met this mysterious individual and took the animal from him at Bingere Gate, was held to be corroborative evidence of my guilt, while the mere production of the counterfoil of my cheque which I had given in exchange for her, fell on barren soil, since the cheque itself had not yet been presented.
The only circumstance that appeared to be in my favour was the fact that I had given the mare to my wife, in a public way, which was hardly the action of a criminal. I could have proved an alibi with ease, but who was to say that I had not employed another man to steal her for me and to hide her until I wanted her? At any rate she was found in my possession.
As the case proceeded my heart sank lower and lower, in spite of the well-meant and kindly efforts of my wife and father-in law to console me. That they believed in my innocence was at least one thing, and I believe the only one that comforted me. The magistrate's decision was soon arrived at: "Committed for trial at the next assizes," which, fortunately for me, were to commence the following week. Again bail was refused, though offered by Mr. Fraser in a heavy amount.
On the day before the trial Mr. Fraser and Margaret came to see me.
"Who do you think is in town?" the former asked, when we had talked of other matters for a time. I could not guess.
"Why, your old partner, Mr. Graham," said my wife. "I don't like that man, George, and, what's more, I don't trust him."
I did not either, but I could not see that he had had any share in this wretched business, so he did not interest me. I said as much.
"Don't you be too sure," continued Mr. Fraser. "He hated you because you won my girl, and I happen to know of two or three very shabby things he has done during his time in Queensland. Oh, if only we could find the man from whom you bought the mare! We might then be able to do something tangible."
"To attempt to find him would, I fear, be like looking for a needle in a bundle of hay," I answered: "For all we know, he may be out of Australia by this time." Then the conversation turned into another channel.
Next day the trial commenced. There is no need, however, for me to tell you in detail how it progressed, for, with the exception that a most learned judge sat upon the bench, and equally learned counsels took the places of the lawyers, it followed very much the same lines as when the case was before the magistrates.
My counsel worked hard for me in a very up-hill fight. Nothing could have been more masterly than his cross-examination of the various witnesses, and more than once he made telling and unexpected points in my favour. But there was always the one missing link that stopped us—the lack of the man from whom I bought the horse.
From time to time I glanced at Graham, who, you may be sure, was in court, and on the first occasion he had the impudence to nod encouragingly to me. The look I gave him in return changed his smile into a sneer, and from that moment forward he scrupulously avoided my eyes.
The long day wore slowly on until it came near to time for the court to adjourn. The various officials were already commencing to collect their papers, and the judge was wiping his spectacles preparatory to putting them in his pocket, when a telegraph-boy entered the court, pushed his way through the crowd at the back, and handed an envelope to a policeman, who passed it on to my lawyer and counsel, who in turn handed it to Margaret and her father. Eventually it reached me. It was from the detective Mr. Fraser had employed, was dated from Brisbane, and ran as follows:
"Have got man. Will do as desired."
The man could only be the missing link. From that moment I began to entertain some hope of being saved.
The court opened in due form next morning, and the case for the prosecution was continued. My counsel seized every opportunity to cross-examine at inordinate length, being anxious to gain time for the train from the capital to arrive. As it happened, it was nearly an hour late, and I can safely say that never before or since have I spent such an anxious half-day: What if the train should be in, and he not have come by it? What should we do then Why, in all probability, I should have to go to penal servitude until it could be proved that a miscarriage of justice had taken place.
The court adjourned for luncheon, and afterwards returned to business. The look of satisfaction I perceived on my counsel's face, as well as on that of the lawyer, when they took their seats, told me that the individual had put in an appearance at last.
At half-past three the prosecution concluded their case and my man rose to his feet to enter upon his defence. With a deliberation that to me was positive torture, he pointed out the gravity of the charge which had been brought against a man of my position, adding much more to the same effect.
After speaking for some ten minutes or so he turned to the usher and bade him call "Ernest Winters." In reply a tall, sprightly young man, more like an English footman than a Bushman, stepped into the box. As he did so my instinct made me glance across the court at Graham; his face was ashen in its pallor. He rose as if to go out—but checked himself and sat down again. Put in plain words this was the story the new-comer told:
On his arrival in Australia from the Mother Country, he had made the acquaintance of my late partner, with whom, being a simple youth, he shared a considerable sum of money he had brought out with him. Graham was practically penniless at the time. They tried their luck on various goldfields, but without success.
Eventually, hearing of two good things some hundreds of miles apart, they separated, one going to each, but on the explicit understanding that, should either prove successful, the other was at once to communicate the fact to a certain address. He, Ernest Winters was unlucky, but Graham, on the other hand, discovered a rich claim, out of which he pocketed a very large sum, at the same time writing to his old comrade that he had lost everything and was going to New Zealand to try his fortune there.
But this worthy, Mr. Graham, did not go to New Zealand after all, he probably changed his mind, and went into Queensland, where he purchased the property of which I in my turn became the owner. When he sold out he went to Brisbane, where, his unlucky star being in the ascendant, he chanced to meet the man whom he had swindled.
Winters had gone down in the world, and Graham, posing as an old friend, helped him. In return the latter asked him to assist him in an innocent scheme he had on hand. He had loved a girl in Queensland, and his bosom friend had stepped in and cut him out. They were to be married at once, and, in memory of old days, he desired to make her a present of a horse of rare beauty. The only way to do it was to sell it to the prospective husband at a ridiculously low figure, for he knew that if he gave it to the bride himself it would not be accepted.
To carry out his plan, he wanted his old mate to go down to the Warrego district, where he would find the horse carefully hidden away, get to know the man in question, and sell him the beautiful animal for whatever the other cared to give for it. Winters was to have fifty pounds for his trouble in any case, and a hundred if he succeeded in planting it on me without my knowing whence it came. He had no idea where Graham had procured the horse, nor did he trouble himself to inquire. He realised now the risk he had run.
When Winters returned to Brisbane, having successfully carried out his errand, it was to find that his friend had left the city and that no one seemed to know quite where he had gone.
These little discoveries often run in couples. The same evening, and by accident, he learnt the story of Graham's treachery in the matter of the mine, from a man who had held an adjoining claim. He registered a vow to punish that gentleman severely the next time he should come in contact with him.
Then the famous horse-stealing case began to attract the attention of the public. Just as he had realised what he had done, Mr. Fraser's emissary found him out, and he at once offered to come forward to endeavour to repair the wrong he had unconsciously done me, and also to be even, if possible, with the man who had treated him so treacherously. The murder was out! I was free! Free to join my own dear love again, and to forget, if possible, that I had spent the best part of my honeymoon in a prison cell. Winters is now my overseer, and a better man I could not wish to have.
As for Mr. Graham, I believe his term of imprisonment expired a year or fourteen months ago. Let us trust he is now, if not a sadder, at least a wiser, man!