🔎✨ Nouveaux mystères et aventures | Arthur Conan Doyle 📖🕵️

🔎✨ Nouveaux mystères et aventures | Arthur Conan Doyle 📖🕵️

Let’s dive together into the fascinating world of Arthur Conan Doyle with New Mysteries and Adventures. In this collection, the author takes us through a series of captivating stories that combine suspense, investigation, and the unexpected. Doyle, the undisputed master of mystery, not only creates detective stories, but also explores the complexity of the human soul and the power of imagination. Each story is a gateway to the unknown, where the reader is invited to question, analyze, and be surprised by brilliant and unexpected twists. Chapter 1. My life has been a bumpy one, and destiny has brought many unusual adventures into it. But among these incidents, there is one of such strangeness that, when I review my life, all the others become insignificant. This one rises above the mists of old with a sonorous and fantastic aspect, casting its shadow over the uneventful years that preceded and followed it. This story I have not often told. Very few are the number who have heard it from my own lips, and they were people who knew me well. From time to time they have asked me to give this account before a gathering of friends, but I have constantly refused, for I do not aspire to the reputation of an amateur Munchausen for the monk of the world. However, I have deferred to their wish to a certain extent by putting in writing this statement of the facts connected with my visit to Dunkelthwaite. This is the first letter that John Thurston wrote to me. It is dated April 1862. I take it from my study and copy it verbatim: My dear Lawrence. If you knew how lonely and bored I am, I am sure you would take pity on me and come and share my isolation. You have often vaguely promised to visit Dunkelthwaite and take a look at the Yorkshire moors. What better time than today for your journey? I know you are overwhelmed with work, but as you have no classes to attend at the moment, you would be just as comfortable studying as you are in Baker Street. Pack up your books, then, like the good fellow you are, and come along. We have a comfortable little room with a desk and armchair , just enough for your work. Let me know when we can expect you. When I say I am alone, I do not mean that there is no one at home. On the contrary, we are quite a large household . First, of course, let’s count my poor uncle Jeremiah, a chatterbox and a person with mental health problems, who goes about in selvedge slippers and, as is his wont, composes endless bad verses. I think I made you aware of this last trait of his character the last time we saw each other. It has reached such a point that he has a secretary whose job is reduced to copying and preserving these effusions. This individual, whose name is Copperthorne, has become as indispensable to the old man as his hobby horse or his Universal Dictionary of Rhymes. I won’t go so far as to say that I worry about him, but I have always shared Caesar’s prejudice against people of all body types, and yet, if we are to believe the medals, little Jules obviously fell into this category. Besides, we have our uncle Samuel’s two children, who were adopted by Jeremy—there were three, but one of them went the way of all flesh—and a governess, a distinguished-looking brunette , who has Hindu blood in her veins. Besides these people, there are three maids and the old bellboy. You see from this that we form a little universe in our out-of-the-way corner. Which does not prevent, my dear Hugh, my dying desire to see a sympathetic face and to have a pleasant companion. As I am giving my all in chemistry, I will not disturb you in your studies. Answer by return mail to your lonely friend. John H. Thurston. At the time I received this letter, I was living in London and working hard for the final examination which was to give me the right to practice medicine. Thurston and I had been intimate friends at Cambridge, before I had begun the study of medicine, and I had a great desire to see him again. On the other hand, I was a little afraid that, despite his assertions, my studies would suffer from this removal. I pictured to myself the old man reverting to childhood, the secretary people of all kinds, the genteel housekeeper, the two children, probably spoiled and boisterous children, and I came to the conclusion that when all these and I were stuck together in a house in the country, there would be very little time left for quiet study. After two days of reflection, I had almost decided to decline the invitation, when I received from Yorkshire another letter even more urgent than the first: “We expect news of you at every post,” said my friend, ” and every time there is a knock I expect a telegram telling me your train. Your room is quite ready, and I hope you will find it comfortable. Uncle Jeremy asks me to tell you how happy he will be to see you. He would have written, but he is absorbed in the composition of a great epic poem of five thousand lines or thereabouts. He spends all day running from one room to another, always having Copperthorne at his heels, who, like Frankenstein’s monster, follows him with measured steps, notebook and pencil in hand, noting down the learned words that fall from his lips. By the way, I think I have told you about the dark-haired housekeeper so full of chic. I could use her as bait to attract you, if you have retained your taste for the studies of ethnology. She is the daughter of a Hindu chief, who had married an Englishwoman. He was killed during the Insurrection fighting against us; his estates having been confiscated by the Government, his daughter, then aged fifteen , was left almost without resources. A charitable German merchant from Calcutta adopted her, it seems, and brought her to Europe with his own daughter. The latter died and then Miss Warrender—we call her that, after her mother—answered an advertisement placed by my uncle, and that is how we came to know her. Now, old fellow, don’t wait to be ordered to come, come at once. There were other passages in the second letter which forbid me from reproducing it in full. It was impossible to hold out any longer in the face of my old friend’s insistence. So, cursing inwardly, I hastened to pack up my books, telegraphed that same evening, and the first thing I did the next morning was to start for Yorkshire. I remember very well that it was a weary day, and that the journey seemed interminable, huddled as I was in the corner of a draughty carriage, where I occupied myself mentally turning over and over many questions of surgery and medicine. I had been informed that the little station at Ingleton, about fifteen miles from Tarnforth, was the nearest to my destination. I disembarked there at the very moment that John Thurston arrived at a trot in a high dog-cart along the country road. He waved his whip triumphantly when he saw me, spurred his horse sharply, jumped out of the carriage, and from there onto the quay. “My dear Hugh,” he cried, “I am delighted to see you. How kind of you to come!” And he shook my hand, which I felt up to the shoulder. “I am afraid you will find me an unpleasant companion now that I am here,” I replied. “I am up to my eyes in my work. ” “That is natural, quite natural,” he said with his usual good nature. “I have taken that into account, but we shall still have time to shoot one or two rabbits. We have quite a walk to make, and you must be frozen stiff, so we’ll be off home at once . And they began to drive along the dusty road. I think you’ll like your room, my friend remarked. You ‘ll soon find yourself quite at home. You know, I rarely stay at Dunkelthwaite, and I’m only just beginning to settle down and organize my laboratory. I’ve been here for about two weeks. It’s a well-known secret that I hold a prominent place in old Uncle Jeremy’s will. So my father thought it a basic duty for me to come and be polite. Under the circumstances, I can hardly avoid showing off a little from time to time. “Oh, certainly,” I said. “Besides, he’s an excellent old fellow. It will amuse you to see our household.” A princess as governess, that sounds good, doesn’t it? I fancy our imperturbable secretary has ventured somewhat in that direction. Turn up the collar of your overcoat, for the wind is bitterly cold. The road crosses a series of low, bare hills, devoid of all vegetation, except for a few clumps of brambles, and a thin carpet of tough, fibrous marijuana, where a thick flock of gaunt, hungry-looking sheep were foraging. We descended and ascended alternately into a hollow, and sometimes to the top of a height, from which we could see the windings of the road, like a thin white thread passing from one hill to another more distant. Here and there, the monotony of the landscape was diversified by jagged escarpments , formed by rough projections of the gray granite. It was as if the ground had suffered a frightful wound where the fractured bones had pierced their covering. In the distance rose a range of mountains, dominated by a solitary peak rising among them, coquettishly draped in a garland of clouds, in which the red tint of the sunset was reflected. “That is Ingleborough,” said my companion, pointing to the mountain with his whip, “and this is the Yorkshire Moors. Nowhere in England will you find a wilder, more desolate region. It produces a good race of men. The inexperienced militia who defeated the Scottish chivalry at Standard Day came from this part of the country. Now jump down, old comrade, and open the gate.” We had come to a place where a long, moss-covered wall ran parallel to the road. It was interrupted by a half-dislocated iron carriage gate, flanked by two pillars, at the top of which sculptures, cut in stone, seemed to represent some heraldic animal, although the wind and rain had reduced them to the state of shapeless blocks. A ruined cottage, which had perhaps, long ago, served as a lodge, stood on one side. I pushed the gate open, and we traversed a long and winding avenue, encumbered with tall marijuana trees, with uneven ground, but bordered by magnificent oaks, whose branches, intertwining above us, formed a canopy so thick that the evening twilight suddenly gave way to complete darkness. “I fear our avenue will not impress you much,” said Thurston, laughing. “It is one of the old fellow’s ideas, to let nature have its way in everything.” At last, we are at Dunkelthwaite. As he spoke, we rounded a bend in the avenue marked by a patriarchal oak that towered far above all the others, and found ourselves in front of a large, square, whitewashed house with a lawn in front of it. The whole lower part of the building was in shadow, but at the top a row of windows, lit up with a blood-red glow, glittered in the setting sun. At the sound of the wheels, an old servant in livery came running to take the horse’s bridle as soon as we advanced. “You can bring him back to the stable, Elijah,” said my friend, “as soon as we had jumped down… Hugh, allow me to introduce you to my uncle Jeremy. “How are you? How are you?” said a quavering, cracked voice. And, looking up, I saw a little red-faced man standing in the porch waiting for us. He had a piece of cotton cloth rolled around his head, as in the portraits of Pope and other famous people of the eighteenth century. He was also distinguished by a pair of immense slippers. This made such a strange contrast with his spindly, spindle-like legs that he looked as if he were wearing skis, and the resemblance was all the more striking because he was obliged, in walking, to drag his feet along the ground, so that these cumbersome appendages would not abandon him on the way. “You must be tired, sir, and cold too, sir,” he said in a strange, jerky tone, as he shook my hand. “We must be hospitable to you, we certainly must. Hospitality is one of those old-world virtues we have preserved. Now, what are these lines: The Yorkshireman’s arm is light and strong, But oh, how warm is the Yorkshireman’s heart! That’s clear, to the point, sir. It’s from a poem of mine. What is that poem, Copperthorne? ” “The Pursuit of Borrodaile,” said a voice behind him, as a tall, long-faced man came and stood within the circle of light cast by the lamp hanging high in the porch. John introduced us, and I remember the touch of his hand feeling slimy and unpleasant. This ceremony accomplished, my friend led me to my room, making me pass through many passages and corridors connected to each other in the old-fashioned manner by uneven steps. As I went, I noticed the thickness of the walls, the strangeness and variety of the slopes of the roof, which suggested the existence of mysterious spaces in the attic. The room intended for me was, as John had told me, a charming little sanctuary, with a good fire crackling, and a shelf well stocked with books. And, as I put on my slippers, I reflected that I would probably have been wrong to refuse this invitation to come to Yorkshire. Chapter 2. When we went down to the dining-room, the rest of the household was already gathered for dinner. Old Jeremiah, still wearing his singular hair, occupied the upper end of the table. Beside him, and on the right, was a very dark-haired young lady with dark eyes, who was introduced to me as Miss Warrender. Beside her sat two pretty children, a boy and a girl, her pupils, evidently. I was placed opposite her, with Copperthorne on my left. As for John, he faced his uncle. I almost think I can still see the yellow glare of the large oil lamp which threw Rembrandt-like lights and shadows over this circle of figures, among whom some were destined to take such great interest to me. It was a pleasant meal, even apart from the excellence of the cooking and the appetite whetted by my long journey. Delighted to have found a new listener, Uncle Jeremy overflowed with anecdotes and quotations. As for Miss Warrender and Copperthorne, they did not talk much, but everything the latter said revealed the thoughtful and well-bred man. As for John, he had so many memories of school and subsequent events to recall that I fear he made people of all types of bodies flesh. When dessert was brought, Miss Warrender led the children away. Uncle Jeremy retired to the library, from where the muffled sound of his voice reached us, while he dictated to his secretary. My old friend and I remained for some time before the fire, talking of the various adventures that had befallen us since our last meeting. “Well, what do you think of our household?” he asked me at last. smiling. I replied that I was very interested in what I had seen of him. “Your uncle is quite a fellow. I like him very much. ” “Yes, he has an excellent heart with all the peculiarities. Your arrival has quite cheered him up, for he has never been quite himself since little Ethel died. She was the youngest of Uncle Sam’s children. She came here with the others, but about two months ago she had a nervous attack or something in the bushes. That evening she was found dead there. It was a most violent blow to the old man. ” “It must have been very painful for Miss Warrender too,” I remarked. “Yes, she was very distressed. At that time she had only been here a week. That day she had driven to Kirby-Lonsdale to do some shopping.” “I was very interested,” I said, “in all you told me about her. So you weren’t joking, I suppose. ” “No, no, it’s all as true as the Gospel. Her father’s name was Achmet Genghis Khan. He was a semi-independent chief somewhere in the central provinces. He was almost a fanatical pagan, although he had married an Englishwoman. He became comrades with the Nana, and had some part in the Cawnpore affair, so that the government treated him with extreme severity. ” “She must have been quite a woman when she left her tribe,” I said. “What is her way of seeing things in matters of religion? Does she take her father’s side or her mother’s? ” “We never raise that question,” my friend replied. “Between ourselves, I don’t think she’s very orthodox. Her mother was doubtless a woman of merit. ” Besides having taught him English, she knows French literature quite well, and she plays remarkably well . Listen to her. As he spoke, the sound of a piano was heard in the next room, and we fell silent to listen. First, the musician plucked a few isolated keys, as if wondering whether to continue. Then came loud, discordant noises, and suddenly from this chaos came a powerful, strange, barbaric harmony, with trumpet sounds and cymbal clashes. And the playing, becoming more and more energetic, became a fiery melody, which finally faded and died away in a disorderly noise as at the beginning. Then we heard the piano close, and the music stopped. “She does it like that every night,” my friend remarked. “It’s some souvenir from India, I suppose. Picturesque, don’t you think ?” Now don’t linger here any longer than you like. Your room is ready, as soon as you want to get to work. I took my companion at his word, and left him with his uncle and Copperthorne, who had returned to the room. I went up to my room and studied medical legislation for two hours . I imagined that on that day I should see none of the inhabitants of Dunkelthwaite, but I was mistaken, for about ten o’clock Uncle Jeremy showed his little ruddy head into the room. “Are you comfortable?” he asked. “All is well, thank you,” I replied. ” Hold on. You will be sure to succeed,” he said in his skipping language. “Good night. ” “Good night,” I replied. “Good night,” said another voice from the corridor. I went forward to see, and saw the tall figure of the secretary gliding after the old man like a black and enormous shadow. I returned to my desk and worked for another hour. Then I went to bed, and was some time before falling asleep, thinking of the singular household of which I was about to become a member. Chapter 3. The next day I was up early and went out onto the lawn, where I found Miss Warrender busy picking primroses, which she was making a little bouquet to adorn the breakfast table. I was near her before she saw me and could not help admiring her beauty and suppleness as she stooped to pick the flowers. There was in her every movement a feline grace I did not remember seeing in any woman. I remembered Thurston’s words about the impression she had made on the secretary, and I was no longer surprised. Hearing my step, she straightened up and turned her beautiful, dark face towards me. “Good morning, Miss Warrender,” I said. “You are an early riser like me. ” “Yes,” she replied, “I have always been in the habit of rising with the day. ” “What a strange, wild picture!” I remarked, as I looked over the wide expanse of the moors. “I am a stranger like yourself in this country. How do you like it? ” “I don’t like it,” she said frankly. “I hate it. It is cold, dull, miserable. Look at that,” and she held up her bouquet of primroses, ” that’s what they call flowers. They don’t even have a scent.” “You have been accustomed to a more lively climate and tropical vegetation . ” “Oh! I see, Master Thurston has told you about me,” she said with a smile. “Yes, I have been accustomed to better than that.” We were standing close together when a shadow appeared between us. Turning around, I saw Copperthorne standing behind us. He held out his white hand with a forced smile. “It seems you are already in a condition to find your own way,” he said, looking alternately from my face to Miss Warrender’s. “Let me hold these flowers for you, Miss. ” “No, thank you,” she said coldly. “I have picked enough, and I will go in. ” She passed quickly by him and crossed the lawn to return to the house. Copperthorne followed her with his eyes, frowning. “You are a medical student, Master Lawrence,” he said, turning towards me and stamping one foot with a jerky, nervous movement as he spoke. “Yes, I am. ” “Oh! we have heard of you medical students, ” he said, raising his voice with a short, cracked laugh. “You are terrible fellows, aren’t you? We have heard of you. It is no use trying to stand up to you. ” “Sir,” I replied, “a medical student is usually a gentleman. ” “That is quite true,” he said, changing his tone. “Of course, I only meant to joke. Nevertheless, I could not help noticing that during the whole of luncheon he kept his eyes fixed on me while Miss Warrender spoke, and if I ventured a remark, his gaze immediately fell on her. It was as if he were trying to guess from our countenances what we thought of each other. He was evidently more than reasonably interested in the beautiful governess, and it was no less evident that his feelings were unrequited . That morning we had a visible proof of the natural simplicity of these good, primitive Yorkshire people. It seems that the maid and the cook, who slept in the same room, were alarmed during the night by something which their superstitious minds transformed into an apparition. After breakfast, I was keeping company with Uncle Jeremy, who, with the constant help of his prompter, was uttering in a subdued stream of quotations from Scottish border poetry, when there was a knock at the door. The maid entered. She was closely followed by the cook, a plump but timid person. They encouraged and pushed each other. They delivered their story in stanza and antistrophe, like a Greek chorus, Jeanne speaking until she was out of breath, and then leaving the conversation to the cook, who in turn was interrupted. Much of what they said remained almost unintelligible to me, due to the extraordinary dialect they used, but I was able to grasp the general flow of their story. It seems that during the early hours of the day, the cook had was awakened by something touching her face. Waking up completely, she saw a vague shadow standing near her bed, and this shadow slipped noiselessly out of the room. The maid awoke at the cook’s cry and frankly affirmed having seen the apparition. No matter how many questions were asked and reasoned with them, nothing could shake them, and they concluded by giving their eight days, convincing proof of their good faith and their terror. They seemed extremely indignant at our skepticism and this ended in their noisy exit, which produced anger in Uncle Jeremy, disdain in dear Copperthorne, and amused me greatly. I spent almost the whole of my second day of visiting in my room, and I made considerable progress in my work. In the evening, John and I went to the rabbit warren with our guns. On my way back, I told John about the absurd scene the servants had made that morning, but it didn’t seem to me that he grasped its grotesque side as much as I did. “It’s a fact,” he said, “that in very old houses like this, where the timbers are worm-eaten and deformed, one sometimes sees certain curious phenomena which predispose the mind to superstition. I have already heard, since I have been here, during the night, one or two things which might have frightened a nervous man, and still more an ignorant servant. Of course, all these stories of apparitions are pure nonsense, but once the imagination is excited, there is no restraining it. ” “What did you hear?” I asked, much interested. “Oh! nothing worth the trouble,” he replied. “Here are the children and Miss Warrender. You mustn’t talk about such things in her presence.” Otherwise she’ll give us the week too, and it would be a loss to the house. She was sitting on a little fence at the edge of the wood that surrounds Dunkelthwaite, the two children leaning on her on either side, their hands clasped around her arms, and their plump faces turned towards hers. It was a pretty picture. We stood for a moment to contemplate it. But she had heard us approaching. She jumped down and came to meet us, the two little ones trotting behind her. “You must help me with the weight of your authority,” she said to John. “These unruly little ones like the evening air, and won’t be persuaded to come in. ” “Don’t want to go in,” said the boy decisively. “Want to hear the rest of the story. ” “Yes, the story,” the little one lisped. “You’ll hear the rest of the story tomorrow, if you’re good. This is Mr. Lawrence, who’s a doctor.” He’ll tell you it’s no good for little boys and girls to stay out when the dew is falling. “So you were listening to a story?” asked John as we set off again. “Yes, a very fine story,” said the child enthusiastically. “Uncle Jeremy tells us stories, but they’re in poetry, and they ‘re not, oh no, not so pretty as Miss Warrender’s stories. There ‘s one with elephants. ” “And tigers, and gold,” continued the girl. “Yes, they do battle, they fight, and the King of Cigars… ” “Of Sepoys, my friend,” corrected the governess. “And the scattered tribes who recognize each other by signs, and the man who was killed in the forest. She knows some magnificent stories. Why don’t you ask her to tell you one, Cousin John?” “Really, Miss Warrender,” said my companion, “you have piqued our curiosity. You must tell us these marvels. ” “To you, they would seem rather silly,” she replied, laughing. “They are simply some recollections of my past life.” As we slowly followed the path that crosses the wood, we saw Copperthorne coming from the opposite direction. “I was looking for you all,” he said, awkwardly feigning a tone jovial, I wanted to inform you that it is time for dinner. “Our watches have already told us so,” replied John, in a voice that seemed rather gruff to me. “And you chased the rabbit together,” said the secretary, walking at a measured pace beside us. “Not together,” I replied, “we met Miss Warrender and the children on our way back. ” “Oh! Miss Warrender went to meet you when you were coming back, ” he said. This way of quickly turning the meaning of my words, and the mocking tone with which he put them, vexed me to the point that I would have replied with a sharp retort, had I not been detained by the presence of the young lady. At the same moment, I turned my eyes towards the housekeeper and saw a flash of anger in her eyes directed at the speaker, which proved to me that she shared my indignation. So I was very much surprised that same night when, about ten o’clock, having gone to my bedroom window, I saw them walking together in the moonlight and talking animatedly. I don’t know how it happened, but the sight agitated me to such an extent that, after some vain efforts to resume my studies, I put my books aside and gave up work for that evening. About eleven o’clock, I looked again, but they were no longer there. Soon after, I heard the shuffling of Uncle Jeremy and the firm, heavy tread of the secretary, as they ascended the stairs which led to their bedrooms, situated on the upper floor. Chapter 4. John Thurston was never a great observer, and I believe that I knew more than he did about what was happening at Dunkelthwaite, after three days spent under his uncle’s roof. My friend was passionately in love with chemistry and spent happy days surrounded by his test tubes and solutions, perfectly happy to have a sympathetic companion within reach, with whom he could share his discoveries. As for me, I always had a weakness for the study and analysis of human nature, and I found many interesting subjects in the microcosm in which I lived. In short, I became so absorbed in my observations that I feared that they had caused great harm to my studies. My first discovery was that the real master at Dunkelthwaite was, and there was no doubt about it, not Uncle Jeremiah, but Uncle Jeremiah’s secretary. My medical flair told me that the exclusive love of poetry, which would have been a harmless eccentricity when the old man was still young, had now become a veritable monomania that filled his mind, leaving no room for any other idea. Copperthorne, by flattering his master’s taste and directing him to this single object, to the point that it became indispensable to him, had succeeded in securing unlimited power in all other matters. It was he who looked after his uncle’s finances, who conducted the affairs of the house without being questioned or controlled. In fact, he had enough tact to exercise his power with a light hand, so as not to hurt his slave: so he encountered no resistance. My friend, entirely absorbed in his distillations, his analyses, never realized that he had become a zero in the house. I have already expressed my conviction that if Copperthorne felt a tender feeling towards the housekeeper, she did not give him the least encouragement. But after a few days I came to think that apart from this unrequited attachment, there existed some other bond between these two people. I have more than once seen Copperthorne assume towards the housekeeper an air which could only be described as authoritarian. Two or three times, too, I had seen them pacing the lawn in the early hours of the night, talking animatedly. I could not guess what sort of mutual understanding existed between them. This mystery piqued my curiosity. The ease with which one falls in love on holiday at the countryside, has become a proverb, but I have never been of a sentimental nature and my judgment was not clouded by any preference in favor of Miss Warrender. On the contrary, I set about studying her as an entomologist would a specimen, in a minute and very impartial manner. To achieve this end, I organized my work so as to be free when she took the children out for exercise. We walked together in this way many times, and this advanced my knowledge of her character more than I could have done by any other means. She had really read a great deal, knew several languages ​​superficially , and had a great natural aptitude for music. Underneath this veneer of culture, she nevertheless had a strong dose of natural wildness. In the course of her conversation, she occasionally uttered some sly remark which made me shudder at its primitive form of reasoning and its disdain for the conventions of civilization. I could scarcely be astonished at this, considering that she had become a woman before leaving the savage tribe which her father governed. I remember one circumstance which particularly struck me, for it suddenly revealed her wild and original habits. We were walking along the country road. We were talking of Germany, where she had spent some months, when suddenly she stopped and put her finger to her lips. “Lend me your cane,” she said in a low voice. I held it out to her, and immediately, to my great astonishment, she darted lightly and noiselessly through an opening in the hedge, her body bent down, and she crept nimbly, concealing herself behind a small rise. I was still following her with my eyes, quite astonished, when a rabbit suddenly stood up in front of her and left. She threw the cane at it and hit it, but the animal managed to escape, limping on one leg. She came back to me triumphant, out of breath: “I saw it moving in the marijuana,” she said, “I hit it. ” “Yes, you hit it, you broke its leg,” I told her somewhat coldly. “You hurt it,” cried the little boy in a pained tone. “Poor little thing!” she cried, suddenly changing her manner. “I am very sorry I hurt it.” She seemed quite disconcerted by this incident and said very little during the rest of our walk. For my part, I could hardly blame her. It was evidently an explosion of the old instinct which drives the savage towards prey, though it produced a rather disagreeable impression on the part of a young lady dressed in the latest fashion and on an English highway. One day when she was out, John Thurston made me take a look at the room she occupied. She had there a quantity of Hindu trinkets, which proved that she had come from her native country with an ample cargo. Her Oriental love of bright colors manifested itself in an amusing way. She had gone to the market town, bought there a great many sheets of red and blue paper, which she had fixed by means of pins to the dark-colored covering which until then had covered the wall. She had also some tinsel which she had distributed in the most conspicuous places , and yet there seemed to be something touching in this effort to reproduce the brightness of the tropics in this cold English dwelling. During the first few days I had spent at Dunkelthwaite, the singular rapport existing between Miss Warrender and the secretary had merely excited my curiosity, but after weeks, and when I had become more interested in the beautiful Anglo-Indian, a deeper and more personal feeling took possession of me.
I put my brain to torture to guess what was the connection which united them. How was it that while showing in the most obvious way that she did not want his company during the day, she walked alone with him at night? It was possible that the aversion she manifested towards him in front of third parties was a ruse to hide her true feelings. Such a supposition led one to attribute to him a depth of natural dissimulation which seemed to belied by the frankness of his gaze, the clarity and pride of his features. And yet what other hypothesis could explain the incontestable power he exercised over her! This influence showed through in many circumstances, but he used it in such a quiet, so dissimulated way that it required careful observation to perceive its reality. I surprised him giving her a look so imperious, even so threatening, it seemed to me, that the next moment I could hardly believe that this pale and expressionless face was capable of assuming such a marked one. When he looked at her like that, she struggled, she shuddered as if she had experienced physical pain. Decidedly, I said to myself, it is fear and not love that produces such effects. This question interested me so much that I spoke about it to my friend John. He was, at that moment, in his little laboratory, absorbed in a series of manipulations, distillations which were to result in the production of a fetid gas, and make us cough by catching us in the throat. I took advantage of the circumstance which obliged us to breathe the fresh air, to question him on some points on which I wished to be informed. “How long have you been saying that Miss Warrender has been at your uncle’s?” I asked. John gave me a mocking look and wagged his acid-stained finger. “It seems to me that you are very singularly interested in the daughter of the late and lamented Achmet Genghis,” he said. “How can I help it?” I answered frankly. “I find her one of the most romantic types I have ever met. ” “Beware of such studies, my boy,” said John in a fatherly tone. ” It is an occupation that is worthless on the eve of an examination. ” “Don’t be a fool,” I replied. “Anyone who comes along might think I am in love with Miss Warrender, to hear you talk like that. I regard her as an interesting problem of psychology, that is all . ” “That’s right, an interesting problem of psychology, that is all. ” It seemed to me that John must still have some vapors of that gas around him , for his manner was really irritating. “To return to my first question,” I said, “how long has she been here?” “About ten weeks. ” “And Copperthorne? ” “More than two years.” “Do you have any idea they ever knew each other? ” “It’s impossible,” John declared clearly. “It came from Germany. I saw the letter in which the old merchant gave details of his past life. Copperthorne always remained in Yorkshire, apart from his two years at Cambridge. He must have left the University under unfavorable circumstances. ” “In what sense? ” “I don’t know,” replied John. “The matter has been kept under lock and key. I imagine Uncle Jeremy knows. He has a hobby of picking up outcasts and starting what he calls a new life for them. One of these days he’ll have some mishap with a fellow of that sort. ” “So Copperthorne and Miss Warrender were absolute strangers to each other a few weeks ago?” “Absolutely. Now I think I’d better go home and analyze the precipitate. ” “Leave your precipitate there,” I cried, holding it back. There are other things I have to tell you. If they have only known each other for a few weeks, how did he acquire the power he has over her? John looked at me in astonishment. “His power?” he said. “Yes, the influence he has over her. ” “My dear Hugh,” my friend said bravely, “I am not in the habit of quoting Scripture in this way, but there is one text that comes to mind imperiously to the mind, and here it is: Too much science has made no one mentally ill. You will have over-studyed. “Do you mean by that,” I cried, “that you have never noticed the secret understanding that seems to exist between the housekeeper and your uncle’s secretary ? ” “Try potassium bromide,” said John. “It is a very effective sedative in a dose of twenty grains. ” “Try a pair of spectacles,” I replied. “You certainly need them badly.” And after having fired this Parthian arrow, I turned on my heels and walked away in a very bad mood. I had not taken twenty steps on the gravel of the garden when I saw the couple we had just been talking about. They were some distance away, she leaning against the sundial, he standing in front of her. He was speaking to her briskly, and sometimes with abrupt gestures. Towering over her with his tall, lanky figure, and with the movements he made with his long arms, he looked like an enormous bat hovering over its victim. I remember that this comparison was the very one that presented itself to my thoughts, and that it took on a clearer meaning as I saw horror and dread outlined in the smallest details of the beautiful figure . This little picture served so well as an illustration of the text on which I had just preached that I was tempted to return to the laboratory and bring the incredulous John to have him contemplate it. But before I had time to make up my mind, Copperthorne had caught a glimpse of me. He turned around and walked slowly in the opposite direction, which led towards the flowerbeds, closely followed by his companion, who was clipping the flowers with her parasol as she walked. After this little episode, I returned to my room, determined to resume my studies, but, whatever I did, my mind wandered far from my books, and began to speculate on this mystery. I had learned from John that Copperthorne’s antecedents were not the best, and yet he had evidently gained an enormous influence over his master’s weakened mind. I explained this fact to myself by noticing the infinite pains he took to devote himself to the old man’s hobby, and the consummate tact with which he flattered and encouraged the latter’s singular poetic whims. But how was I to explain the no less evident influence he enjoyed over the governess? She had no hobby that could be flattered. A mutual love might have explained the bond that existed between her and him, but my instinct as a man of the world and an observer of human nature told me in the clearest possible way that a love of this kind did not exist. If it was not love, it must have been fear, and everything I had seen confirmed this supposition. What had happened during these two months to inspire the haughty, dark-eyed princess with any fear about the pale-faced, soft-spoken, and polite-mannered Englishman? Such was the problem I undertook to solve with an energy and application that killed my ardor for study and rendered me immune to the fear that my approaching examination must inspire in me. I ventured to broach the subject in the afternoon of that same day with Miss Warrender, whom I found alone in the library, the two children having gone to spend the day in the nursery at the house of a squire[1] in the neighborhood. “You must be very lonely when there are no visitors,” I said. “It seems to me that this part of the country does not offer much in the way of entertainment. ” “Children are always pleasant company,” she replied. Nevertheless, I shall miss Mr. Thurston and yourself very much when you are gone. “I shall be sorry if that day comes,” I said. “I did not expect to find this stay so pleasant. Yet you will not be without society after we are gone; you will always have Mr. Copperthorne. ” “Yes, we shall always have Mr. Copperthorne,” she said strongly. bored. “He is a pleasant companion,” I remarked, “quiet, learned, amiable. I am not surprised that old Master Thurston has taken a liking to him.
” As I spoke, I examined my interlocutor attentively. A slight flush passed over her brown cheeks, and she tapped her fingers impatiently on the arms of the chair. “His manners sometimes have a touch of coldness…” I was about to continue, but she interrupted me, giving me a look that sparkled with anger in her black eyes. “What do you want to talk to me about him?” she asked. “I beg your pardon,” I replied submissively, “I did not know it was a forbidden subject. ” “I do not care at all to hear even his name,” she cried angrily . “That name, I hate it, as I hate him. Ah! If I only had someone to love me, that is to say, as men love from beyond the seas, in my own country, I know well what I would say to her.
“What would you say to her?” I asked, quite astonished at this extraordinary outburst. She leaned so far forward that I thought I felt her hot, panting breath on my face. “Kill Copperthorne,” she said, “that’s what I would say to her. Kill Copperthorne. Then you can come back and talk to me about love. ” Nothing could give an idea of ​​the intensity of fury with which she uttered these words, which hissed between her white teeth. As she spoke, she looked so venomous that I involuntarily recoiled from her. Could it be that this python serpent and the reserved young lady who sat so calmly at Uncle Jeremy’s table were one and the same? I had counted on being able to see something into his character by means of indirect questions, but I hardly expected to evoke such a spirit. She must have seen the horror and astonishment on my face, for she changed her attitude and gave a nervous laugh. “You must surely think I’m mad,” she said. “You see that this is Hindu education coming to light. There we do nothing by halves, in love and in intolerance. ” “And why do you hate Mr. Copperthorne?” I asked. “In fact,” she replied, softening her voice, “the word intolerance is perhaps a little too strong; repulsion would be better. There are people you can’t help taking an aversion to, even when you have no reason to give.” She evidently regretted the outburst she had just made, and tried to mask it with explanations. Seeing that she was trying to change the subject, I helped her. I commented on a book of Hindu engravings that she had gone to get before my arrival and which had remained on her knees. Uncle Jérémie’s Library was very complete, and particularly rich in works of this category. “They are not the most exact,” she said, turning the pages of illuminations. “However, this one is good,” she continued, pointing to an engraving that represented a chief dressed in a coat of mail, and wearing a picturesque turban; this one is really very good. My father was dressed like this when he mounted his all-white warhorse, and led all the warriors of Dooab to battle against the Feringhees. My father was chosen from among them all, for they knew that Achmet Genghis Khan was a high priest as well as a great soldier. The people wanted no other leader than a tried and tested Borka. He is dead now, and of all those who followed his standard, there are none left who are not scattered or have not perished, while I, his daughter, am a mercenary in a distant land. “No doubt you will return to India one day,” I said, doing my best to give her some small consolation. She turned the pages absentmindedly for a few minutes without replying. Then, suddenly, she let out a little cry of pleasure at the sight of one of the pictures. “Look at him,” she cried at once. “Here is one of our exiles. It is a Bhuttotee. He is very like him. The engraving which excited her thus represented a very unprepossessing native , holding in one hand a small instrument which looked like a miniature pickaxe, and in the other a square piece of striped cloth. “That handkerchief is his roomal,” she said. “Of course, he would not go about in public like that. Nor would he carry his sacred axe, but in all other respects he is exactly as he ought to be. Many a time have I been with people like him on moonless nights, with the Lughaees marching in front, when the unsuspecting stranger heard the Pilhaoo on his left, and did not know what it meant. Ah, it was a life worth living. ” “But what is a roomal, and the Lughaee, and the rest?” I asked. “Oh! “Those are Indian words,” she replied, laughing. “You wouldn’t understand them.” “But this engraving has the caption: A Dacoit, and I always thought a Dacoit was a thief. ” “It’s just that the English don’t know any better,” she remarked. ” Certainly, Dacoits are thieves, but many people are called thieves who really aren’t; well, this man is a holy man, and in all probability he is a guru. She might have given me more information about the manners and customs of India, for it was a subject she liked to talk about, when suddenly I saw a change come over her countenance. She turned her fixed gaze on the window behind me. I turned to look, and I saw right at the edge the figure of the secretary, who was stealthily spying. I confess I shuddered at the sight, for with its cadaverous pallor, the head looked like that of a decapitated man. He pushed open the window and opened it when he saw that he had been seen. “I am sorry to disturb you,” he said, putting his head forward, “but don’t you think, Miss Warrender, that it is unfortunate to be shut up in a narrow room on such a fine day? Are you not disposed to go out and take a walk? ” Although his language was polite, his words were spoken in a harsh, almost threatening voice, which gave them the tone of command rather than of prayer. The housekeeper rose and, without protest, without remark, went quietly out to get her hat. This was a new proof of the empire that Copperthorne exercised over her.
And as he looked at me through the open window, a mocking smile played on his thin lips. It was as if he had wanted to provoke me with this demonstration of his power. With the sun behind him, he would have been taken for a demon surrounded by a halo. He remained thus for a few moments, staring at me fixedly, his face imprinted with concentrated malice. Then I heard his heavy footsteps crunching on the gravel of the path, as he went towards the door. Chapter 5. During the few days which followed the interview in which Miss Warrender had confessed to me the intolerance which the secretary inspired in her, all went well at Dunkelthwaite. I had several long conversations with her during the walks which we took at random in the woods, with the two children, but I did not succeed in making her explain clearly the fit of violence which she had had in the library, and she did not say a word to me which could throw any light on the problem which interested me so deeply. Whenever I made a remark that might lead in this direction, she would reply with extreme reserve, or she would suddenly realize that it was only time for the children to return to their rooms, so that I came to despair of learning anything from her. During this time, I devoted myself to my studies only irregularly , by way of jests. From time to time, Uncle Jeremy, with his dragging step, would enter my room, a roll of manuscripts in his hand, to read me extracts from his great epic poem. When I felt the need for society, I would go and take a stroll in John’s laboratory, just as he would come to me at home when solitude weighed on him. Sometimes I varied the monotony of my studies by taking my books and making myself comfortable in the shrubberies where I spent the day working. As for Copperthorne, I avoided him as much as possible, and for his part he did not seem at all eager to cultivate my acquaintance. One day, in the second week of June, John came to me with a telegram in my hand and looking extremely annoyed. “Now that’s a case!” he cried. “Father orders me to leave immediately and go to London. It must be for some legal matter. He has always threatened to put his affairs in order, and now he has had a fit of energy and wants to get it over with . ” “You won’t be away long, I suppose?” say so. “A week or two, perhaps. It’s a very unpleasant thing. It comes just at the moment when I was counting on succeeding in decomposing this alkaloid. ” “You’ll find it just as it was when you come back,” I said, laughing. ” There’s no one here to bother decomposing it in your absence. ” “What annoys me most is leaving you here,” he continued. “It seems to me that it is a poor discharge of the duties of hospitality to bring a comrade into this solitary abode and then suddenly leave him there. ” “Don’t worry about me,” I replied. “I have far too much work to be lonely. Besides, I have found attractions here that I didn’t count on at all. I don’t think there are six weeks in my life that have seemed as short as the last. ” “Oh! they have passed so quickly?” said John, mockingly. I am convinced that he was still under his illusion of believing me to be in love with the housekeeper. He left that same day by a morning train, promising to write and send us his address in London, as he did not know at which hotel his father would be staying. I had no idea of ​​the consequences that would result from this small detail, nor did I suspect what would happen before I could see my friend again. At that moment, his departure caused me no pain. It simply resulted in the four of us who remained being brought into closer contact, and it seemed that this would promote the solution of the problem in which I was taking a keener interest every day . About a quarter of a mile from the house at Dunkelthwaite is a small village consisting of a long street of the same name, consisting of twenty or thirty slate-roofed cottages, and an ivy-clad church right next to the inevitable public-house. On the afternoon of the very day John left us, Miss Warrender and the two children went to the post-office, and I offered to accompany them. Copperthorne would have been more than happy to prevent this excursion or to come with us; but, fortunately for us, Uncle Jeremy was in the throes of inspiration, and could not do without the services of his secretary. It was, I remember, a pleasant walk, for the road was well shaded by trees, where the birds sang merrily. We walked at leisure, talking of many things, while the child and the little girl ran and capered before us. Before reaching the post-office, we must pass the public-house mentioned. As we walked along the village street, we noticed that a small crowd had gathered in front of this house. There were ten or twelve boys in rags or little girls with dirty braids, a few women with bare heads, and two or three men who had just come out of the counter where they were loitering. It was undoubtedly the largest gathering that had ever appeared in the annals of this peaceful locality. We could not see what was the cause of their curiosity; but Our children set off at full speed, and soon returned, full of information. “Oh! Miss Warrender,” cried Johnnie, running up, panting with eagerness. “There’s a black man there, like the ones in the stories you tell us. ” “A gypsy, I suppose,” said I. “No, no,” said Johnnie decisively. “He’s even blacker than that, isn’t he, May? ” “Blacker than that,” repeated the girl. “I think we’d better go and see what this extraordinary apparition is,” said I. As I spoke, I looked at my companion, and was much surprised to see her quite pale, with her eyes, so to speak, shining with suppressed agitation . “Are you unwell?” I asked. “Oh no!” she said briskly, quickening her pace. “Come, come!” It was certainly a curious thing that presented itself to our sight when we joined the little circle of country folk. I immediately recalled the description of the opium-eating Malay that De Quincey saw on a farm in Scotland. In the center of this group of simple Yorkshire peasants stood a tall oriental traveler, with a slender, supple, and graceful body; his linen clothes were soiled with road dust, and his brown feet protruded from his shoes. He had evidently come from afar and had walked a long way. He held in his hand a stick, on which he leaned, while his black, pensive eyes wandered about the space, without seeming to be disturbed by the crowd that surrounded him. His picturesque costume, with the colored turban that covered his swarthy head, produced a strange and discordant effect in this prosaic environment. –Poor fellow! Miss Warrender told me in an agitated and panting voice. He is tired. He is hungry, no doubt, and he cannot make himself understood. I will speak to him. And, approaching the Hindu, she addressed a few words to him in the dialect of her country. I will never forget the effect produced by these few syllables. Without uttering a word, the traveler threw himself face down on the dust of the road, and literally dragged himself at my companion’s feet. I had seen in books how Orientals manifest their abasement in the presence of a superior, but I could never have imagined that any human being would descend to such abject humility as this man’s attitude indicated. Miss Warrender continued in a sharp, imperious tone. He immediately straightened up and remained with clasped hands, his eyes lowered, like a slave before his mistress. The little gathering, which seemed to believe that this sudden prostration was the prelude to some sleight of hand or acrobatic masterpiece , seemed to be amused and interested in the incident. “Would you consent to take the children and post the letters ?” asked the housekeeper. “I should like to have a word with this man.” I did as she asked. A few minutes later, when I returned, they were still talking. The Hindu seemed to be relating his adventures or explaining the reasons for his journey. His fingers trembled; his eyes sparkled. Miss Warrender listened attentively, occasionally letting out a sudden movement or an exclamation, and thus showing how interested she was in the details the man gave. “I must apologize for keeping you so long in the sun,” she said at last, turning to me. “We must get back. Otherwise we shall be late for dinner.” She then spoke a few sentences in a commanding tone and left her dark interlocutor standing in the village street. Then we went back with the children. “Well!” I asked, driven by a very natural curiosity, when we were no longer within hearing distance of the visitors. “Who is he? What is he?” “He comes from the Central Provinces, near the land of the Mahrattas. He is one of us. I was truly overwhelmed to meet a compatriot in such an unexpected way. I feel quite agitated. ” “That must have pleased you,” I remarked. “Yes, a very great pleasure,” she said briskly. “And how did he come to prostrate himself like that? ” “Because he knew that I am the daughter of Achmet Genghis Khan,” she said proudly. “And what chance brought him here? ” “Oh! It’s a long story,” she said carelessly. “He led a wandering life. How dark it is in this avenue and how the great branches crisscross up there! If one were to crouch on one of them, it would be easy to fall on the back of someone passing by.” No one would ever know you were there until you had your fingers clasped around the throat of the passer-by. “What a horrible thought!” I cried. “Dark places always give me dark thoughts,” she said lightly. “By the way, I have a favor to ask of you, Mr. Lawrence. ” “What is it?” I asked. “Don’t say a word at home about my poor countryman. He might be taken for a rascal, a vagabond, you know, and ordered to be turned out of the village. ” “I’m convinced Mr. Thurston would never be so harsh. ” “No, but Mr. Copperthorne might be. ” “I’ll do what you like,” I said, “but the children will certainly talk. ” “No, I don’t think so,” she replied. I don’t know how she managed to stop these chattering little tongues, but, in fact, they were silent on this point, and that day not a word was said of the strange visitor who, from one errand to another, had come to our little village. I had some subtle suspicion that this son of the tropics had not arrived here by chance, but had gone to Dunkelthwaite on some definite mission. The next day I had the most convincing proof possible that he was still in the neighborhood, for I met Miss Warrender as she was coming down the garden path with a basket full of crusts of bread and pieces of meat. She was in the habit of carrying these leftovers to some old women in the country, so I offered to accompany her. “Is it old Venables’ or good woman Taylforth’s that you are going to-day?” I asked. “Neither at one nor at the other,” she said, smiling. “I must tell you the truth, Mr. Lawrence. You have always been a good friend to me, and I know I can trust you. I will hang the basket on this branch here, and he will come and get it. ” “He is still here?” I remarked. “Yes, he is still here. ” “You think he will find it? ” “Oh, you can trust him for that,” she said. “You won’t mind my giving him some help, will you? You would do just as much if you had been living among the Hindus, and found yourself suddenly transplanted to an Englishman’s house. Come into the greenhouse, and we will have a look at the flowers.” We went into the hothouse together. When we came back, the basket was still hanging on the branch, but its contents were gone. She picked it up, laughing, and carried it back to the house. It seemed to me that since that interview the day before with her compatriot, her spirits were more cheerful, her steps freer, more elastic. It was perhaps an illusion, but it also seemed to me that she seemed less constrained than usual in Copperthorne’s presence, that she bore his glances with less fear, and was less under the influence of his will. And now I come to the part of my narrative where I have to say how I came to penetrate the rotations which existed between these two strange creatures, how I learned the terrible truth about Miss Warrender, or Princess Achmet Genghis; I prefer to call her so, for she certainly had more in common with that formidable and fanatical warrior than with her gentle mother. This revelation was a violent blow to me, the effect of which I shall never forget. It may be that from the way in which I have recounted this story, emphasizing the facts that have some importance, and omitting those that do not, my readers have already guessed the plan she had in mind. As for me, I solemnly declare that until the last moment I did not have the slightest suspicion of the truth. I knew nothing of the woman, whose hand I shook amicably and whose voice charmed my ear. However, I still believe today that she was truly well disposed towards me and that she would not have done me any harm voluntarily. Here is how this revelation came about. I believe I have already said that there was a sort of shelter in the middle of the clumps , where I used to study during the day. One evening, around ten o’clock, as I was returning home, I remembered that I had left a treatise on gynecology in that shelter, and as I intended to work for a couple of hours before going to bed, I set out to fetch it. Uncle Jeremy and the servants were already in bed . So I went downstairs without making a noise, and quietly turned the key in the lock of the front door. Once outside, I strode quickly across the lawn to reach the flowerbeds, retrieve my belongings, and return as quickly as possible. I had hardly passed through the little wooden gate and entered the garden when I heard the sound of voices. I suspected that I had stumbled upon one of those nocturnal interviews that I had noticed from my window. These voices were those of the secretary and the housekeeper, and it was evident to me, from the direction from which they came, that they were sitting in the dugout, talking without the slightest suspicion that there was a third party present. I have always regarded eavesdropping as a sign of baseness, under any circumstances, and curious as I was to know what passed between these two persons, I was about to cough or indicate my presence by some other signal, when I heard a few words spoken by Copperthorne, which suddenly stopped me and threw all my faculties into a state of disorder and horror. “He will be thought to have died of apoplexy.” These were the words that came to me clearly and distinctly, in the secretary’s sharp voice, through the still air. I remained, holding my breath, listening with all my ears. I no longer thought of giving notice of my presence. What crime were these dissimilar conspirators plotting on this beautiful summer night? I heard the deep, sweet sound of Miss Warrender’s voice, but she spoke so quickly, so quietly, that I could not distinguish the words. Her intonation enabled me to judge that she was under the influence of some deep emotion. I tiptoed closer, straining my ears to catch the slightest sound. The moon had not yet risen, and it was very dark under the trees. There was very little chance of my being seen. “Ate his bread, really!” said the secretary in a mocking tone. “You are not usually so prudish. You did not have that idea when it came to little Ethel. ” “I was mad! I was mad!” she cried in a broken voice. I had prayed a lot to Buddha and the great Bowhanee and it seemed to me that in this land of infidels, it would be a great and glorious deed for me, if I, a solitary woman, acted according to the teachings of my noble father. Only a small number of women are admitted into the mysteries of our faith, and it was only chance that brought me this honor. But once the path was opened before me, I walked straight and fearlessly on it , and from my fourteenth year, the great guru Ramdeen Singh declared that I deserved to sit on the Trepounee carpet with the other Bhuttotees. Yes, I swear by the sacred axe, I suffered well on that occasion, for what had she done, the poor little thing, to be sacrificed! “I imagine that your repentance is much more due to your being surprised by me than to the moral side of the affair,” said Copperthorne mockingly. ” I had already conceived suspicions, but it was only when I saw you appear with your handkerchief in your hand that I was certain of having this honor, the honor of being in the presence of a Princess of the Thugs. An English gallows would be a very prosaic end for such a romantic creature. ” “And since then you have used your discovery to kill everything that is alive in me,” she said bitterly. “You have made my existence a burden to me. ” “A burden to you!” he said in a changed voice. You know how I feel about you. If, from time to time, I have ruled you by the fear of denunciation, it is only because I have found you insensible to the gentler influence of love. “Love!” she cried bitterly. “How could I have loved the man who constantly held before me the prospect of an infamous death? But to come to the point. You promise me my unrestricted liberty if I will only do this one thing for you? ” “Yes,” replied Copperthorne, “you may go whenever you like as soon as the thing is done. I shall forget that I ever saw you here in these bushes. ” “You swear it? ” “Yes, I swear it. ” “I would do anything to recover my liberty,” she said. “We shall never have such a chance of success,” cried Copperthorne. “Young Thurston is gone, and his friend is fast asleep.” He’s too stupid to suspect anything. The will is made in my favor, and if the old man dies, there isn’t a bit of marijuana, not a grain of sand here that doesn’t belong to me. “Why don’t you do it yourself then?” she asked. “It’s not my way,” he said. “Besides, I haven’t caught the knack. This roomal, as you call it, leaves no trace. That’s the advantage of it. ” “It’s a vile act to murder one’s benefactor. ” “But it’s a great thing to serve Rowhanee, the goddess of murder. I know enough of your religion to know that. Wouldn’t your father do it, if he were here? ” “My father was the greatest of all the Borkas of Jublepore,” she said proudly. “He put more men to death than there are days in the year.” “I would have given a thousand pounds not to meet him,” said Copperthorne, laughing. “But what would Achmet Genghis Khan say now, if he saw his daughter hesitate in the presence of such a favorable opportunity to serve the gods? Up to this moment you have acted perfectly. He must have smiled to see the young soul of little Ethel fluttering before this god or ghoul of yours. Perhaps this is not the first sacrifice you have made. Let us speak a little of the daughter of this brave German merchant. Ah! I see from your face that I am right again. After having acted thus, you are wrong to hesitate now that there is no longer any danger, and the whole task will be made easy for us. Besides, this act will deliver you from the existence you lead here, and which must not be the most pleasant, seeing that you are continually tied with a rope , so to speak. If the thing must be done, let it be done at once.” He might redo his will at any moment, for he has affection for the young man and he is as changeable as a weathercock. There was a long silence, a silence so profound that I thought I heard the violent beating of my heart in the darkness. “When will it be?” she asked at last. “Why not tomorrow night? ” “How shall I get to him? ” “I will leave the door open,” said Copperthorne. He is a heavy sleeper , and I will leave a nightlight burning so you can find your way. “And then? ” “Then you will go home. In the morning, it will be discovered that our poor old master died in his sleep. It will also be discovered that he has left everything he owns in this world to his faithful secretary, as a feeble token of appreciation for his devotion to work. Then, as Miss Warrender’s services will no longer be required , she will be free to return to her dear homeland, or to any other country she pleases. She may run away, if she likes, with Mr. John Lawrence, the medical student. ” “You insult me,” she said angrily. Then, after a silence: “We must meet again tomorrow evening before I act. ” “Why? ” “Because I may need some new instructions. ” “Well, then, here at midnight,” he said. “No, not here, it is too near the house.” Let us meet under the great oak tree at the beginning of the avenue. “Wherever you like,” he replied gruffly, “but remember , I intend not to be with you when you do the thing. ” “I will not ask you,” she said disdainfully. “I think we have said all that needed to be said this evening.” I heard the noise one of them made as he rose, and, although they continued to talk, I did not stop to hear any more. I furtively left my hiding place, to cross the lawn plunged in darkness, and I reached the door, which I closed behind me. It was only when I had returned home, when I let myself fall back in my armchair, that I found myself in a state to put some order into my troubled thoughts and to think of the terrible conversation to which I would have listened. That night, for long hours, I lay motionless, pondering every word I heard, and endeavoring to formulate a plan of action for the future. Chapter 6. The Thugs! I had heard of the ferocious fanatics of that name who are found in the central regions of India, and to whom a religion, diverted from its purpose, presents murder as the most precious and purest offering that a mortal can make to the Creator. I remembered a description I had read in the works of Colonel Meadows Taylor, which dealt with the secret of the Thugs, their organization, their implacable faith, and the terrible influence their homicidal mania exercises over all other mental and moral faculties. I even remembered that the word roomal—a word I had seen recur more than once—designated the sacred handkerchief by means of which they were accustomed to accomplish their diabolical work. Miss Warrender was already a woman when she left them, and to believe what she said, she who was the daughter of their principal chief, it was not surprising that a very superficial culture had not uprooted all first impressions or prevented fanaticism from breaking out on occasion. It was probably during one of these crises that she had put an end to poor Ethel’s life after having carefully prepared an alibi to conceal her crime, and Copperthorne having discovered this murder by chance , this had given him the ascendancy he exercised over his strange accomplice. Of all the kinds of death, that of hanging is regarded in these tribes as the most impious, the most degrading, and knowing that she had exposed herself to this death according to the law of the country, she evidently saw it as an inescapable necessity to submit her will, to dominate her imperious nature when she found herself in the presence of the secretary. As for Copperthorne, after reflecting on what he had done and what he intended to do, I felt my soul full of horror and disgust towards him. This was, then, his acknowledgment of the kindnesses which the poor old man had lavished on him. He had already wrung from him by his flatteries a signature which was the abandonment of his properties, and now, as he feared that some pangs of conscience might modify the old man’s will, he had resolved to put him in a position to add a codicil. All this was roguish enough, but what seemed to crown it was that, too cowardly to carry out his plan with his own hand, he had taken advantage of the horrible religious ideas of this unfortunate creature, to make Uncle Jeremy disappear in such a way that no suspicion could reach the real author of the crime. I decided to myself that, whatever should happen, the secretary would not escape the punishment due to him. But what could be done? If I had known my friend’s address, I would have sent him a telegram the next morning, and he might have been back in Dunkelthwaite before nightfall. Unfortunately, John was the worst of correspondents, and although he had been gone for some days already, we had received no news of him.
There were three maids in the house, but not a man, except old Elijah, and I knew no one in the country whom I could rely on. However, this mattered little, for I knew myself to be able to contend with great advantage against the secretary, and I had enough confidence in myself to be sure that my resistance alone would be sufficient to absolutely prevent the execution of the plot. The question was, what were the best measures I should take in such circumstances? My first idea was to wait quietly until morning, and then send without scandal to the nearest police station to bring back two constables. Then I could deliver Copperthorne and his accomplice to justice and relate the interview I had overheard. On further reflection, I recognized that this plan was quite impracticable. Had I the shadow of proof against them besides my story? And would not this story appear absurdly improbable to people who did not know me? And I could well imagine with what a reassuring tone, with what an impassive air Copperthorne would repel the accusation, how much he would dwell on the malice I felt against him and his accomplice because of their mutual affection; how easy it would be for him to make a third person believe that I was fabricating a story to harm a rival; how difficult it would be for me to persuade anyone that this personage with the appearance of a clergyman and this young person dressed in the latest fashion were two animals of prey associated for hunting. I felt that I would be making a great mistake in showing myself before being sure that I had the game. The other alternative was to say nothing and let events take their course, always holding myself ready to intervene when the evidence against the conspirators appeared conclusive. This was the course that recommended itself to my young and adventurous character. It was also the one that seemed most likely to lead to decisive results. When at last, at daybreak, I lay down on my bed, I had completely fixed in my mind the resolution to keep to myself what I knew and to rely on myself alone to defeat the bloody plot that I had surprised. The next day, Uncle Jeremy showed himself full of enthusiasm after breakfast, and insisted on reading aloud a scene from Shelley’s The Cenci, a work for which he had a profound admiration. Copperthorne was beside him, silent, impenetrable, except when he uttered some indication, or uttered a cry of admiration. Miss Warrender seemed lost in her thoughts, and I thought I saw tears in her black eyes once or twice. I experienced a strange sensation in spying on these three personages and reflecting on the relations that really existed between them. My heart warmed at the sight of the little old man with the ruddy face, my host, with his strange hairdo and old-fashioned ways. I swore to myself that no harm would come to him as long as I was able to prevent it. The day passed long and tedious. I found it impossible to absorb myself in my work, so I began to wander restlessly through the corridors of the old house and through the garden.
Copperthorne was upstairs with Uncle Jeremy, and I saw little of him. Twice, while I was walking quickly outside, I saw the housekeeper coming my way with the children, and each time I quickly moved aside to avoid her. I felt that I could not speak to her without revealing the unspeakable horror she inspired in me and without showing her that I was aware of what had happened the night before. She noticed that I was avoiding her, for, at lunch, my eyes having fallen upon her for a moment, I saw in hers a flash of surprise and anger, to which, nevertheless, I did not reply. The day’s mail brought a letter from John in which he informed me that he was staying at the Langham Hotel. I knew that it was now impossible to have recourse to him to share with him the responsibility for anything that might happen. However, I thought it my duty to send him a telegram to inform him that his presence would be desirable. It would necessitate a long run to the station, but this run would have the advantage of helping me to kill time, and I felt a weight lifted from my shoulders when I heard the squeaking of the hands, which told me that my message was flying to its destination. On my return from Ingleton, when I arrived at the entrance to the avenue, I found our old servant Elijah standing there, and he looked very angry. “They say one rat brings another,” he said, lifting his hat. “It seems it’s the same with swarthy people. He had always hated the housekeeper because of what he called her airs and graces. ” “Well, what’s the matter?” I asked. “He’s one of those strangers who’s always hiding and prowling around,” the old man replied. “I saw him here among the bushes and sent him away, telling him what I thought. Is he looking after the chickens? He may be. Or does he want to set fire to the house and murder us all in our beds? I’ll go down to the village, Mr. Lawrence, and find out about him.” And he went off, giving vent to his senile anger. The little incident made a strong impression on me, and I thought about it a great deal as I walked along the long avenue. It was clear that the traveling Hindu was always circling the house. This was a factor I had forgotten to take into account . If his countrywoman enlisted him as an accomplice in her dark plans, it might well happen that the three of them would be too strong for me. However, it seemed unlikely that she would do so, since she had taken such pains to keep Copperthorne from knowing anything about the Hindu’s presence. I had a momentary idea of ​​taking Elijah as my confidant, but on reflection I came to the conclusion that a man of his age would be more of an embarrassment than an auxiliary. About seven o’clock, as I was going up to my room, I met Copperthorne, who asked me if I could tell him where Miss Warrender was. I replied that I had not seen her. “It is very singular,” he said, “that no one has seen her since dinner. The children do not know where she is. I have something to say to her in private. ” He walked away, without the slightest expression of agitation or trouble on his face. For me, Miss Warrender’s absence was not likely to surprise me. Without a doubt, she was somewhere in the shrubberies, framing her head for the terrible task she had undertaken. I closed the door behind me, and sat down, a book in my hand, but my mind too agitated to comprehend its contents. My plan of campaign was already formed. I had resolved to stay within sight of their meeting place, to follow them, and to intervene at the moment when my intervention would be most effective. I had provided myself with a solid, knobbly club, dear to my student heart, and thanks to which I was sure to remain master of the situation. I had, in fact, assured myself that Copperthorne had no firearms. I do not remember any time in my life when the hours seemed so long to me, as those I spent that day in my room. I heard in the distance the soft sound of the Dunkelthwaite clock which struck eight o’clock, then nine, then, after an interminable silence, ten o’clock. Then, as I walked back and forth in my little room, it seemed to me that time had completely suspended its course, so much did I await the hour with fear and also with impatience, as one does when one has to face some grave trial. Nevertheless, all things must come to an end, and I heard, through the still night air , the first silvery stroke which announced the eleventh hour. Then I got up, put on my felt slippers, took my stick and slipped noiselessly out of my room and down the creaking old stairs. I heard the loud snoring of Uncle Jeremy on the upper floor. I managed to find my way to the door through the darkness. I opened it and found myself outside under a beautiful sky full of stars. I had to be very careful in my movements, for the moon shone so brightly that one could see almost as if it were day. I walked in the shadow of the house until I came to the garden hedge. I crept under the shelter it afforded me and reached the clump of trees where I had been the night before without hindrance. I crossed this place, walking with the greatest caution, slowly, so that not a branch broke under my feet. I advanced in this way until I was hidden among the brushwood at the edge of the plantation. From there I had a full view of that great oak which stood at the upper end of the avenue. There was someone standing in the shadow which the oak cast. At first I could not guess who it was, but soon the figure stirred, and advanced under the silvery light which the moon shed through the interval of two branches on the path, and looked impatiently to right and left. Then I saw that it was Copperthorne, who was waiting and alone. Apparently, the housekeeper had not yet arrived for the meeting. As I was anxious to hear as well as see, I made my way under the black shadows of the trees in the direction of the oak. When I stopped, I found myself less than fifteen paces from the spot where the tall, gangly figure of the secretary stood out fierce and fantastic in the changing light. He paced back and forth with an anxious air, sometimes disappearing into the darkness, sometimes reappearing in the places illuminated by the silvery light filtering through the thick foliage. He was evidently, from his manner, intrigued and disappointed not to see his accomplice approaching. He finally stopped under a large branch which hid his body, but from which he could see in all its extent the gravelly road leading from the house, and by which he certainly expected to see Miss Warrender approach. I was still crouching in my hiding-place, and was inwardly congratulating myself on having reached a place where I could hear everything without running the risk of being discovered, when my eyes suddenly encountered an object which seized me to the heart and almost drew from me an exclamation which would have revealed my presence. I have said that Copperthorne was just below one of the large branches of the oak. Below this branch reigned complete darkness, but the upper part of the branch itself was all silvered by the light of the moon. By dint of looking, I finally saw something creeping down this luminous branch; it was something flickering , formless, which seemed to be part of the branch itself, and which, nevertheless, advanced without respite, bending around itself. My eyes having become accustomed, after a while, to the light, this something, this indefinite object took form and substance. It was a human being, a man. It was the Hindu I had seen in the village. With his arms and legs entwined around the large branch, he advanced downwards, making no more noise and almost as fast as a snake in his country would have done. Before I had time to conjecture as to what his presence meant, he had arrived just above the place where the secretary was standing, and his bronzed body stood out in a hard, clear outline against the disc of the moon, which appeared behind him. I saw him untie something around his waist, hesitate for a moment, as if measuring the distance, then descend with a bound, rustling the leaves as he passed. Then there was a dull crash, like two bodies falling together, then, in the night air, a noise similar to that made when gargling, followed by a series of croaks, the memory of which will haunt me until my dying day. During the whole time this tragedy took to unfold before my eyes, its suddenness, its horrific character had deprived me of all power to act in any way. Only those who have found themselves in a similar situation will be able to form an idea of ​​the paralyzing helplessness which seized the mind and body of a man in such an adventure. It prevents him from doing any of the thousand things that might later come to your mind, and which would seem entirely appropriate under the circumstances. However, when these accents of agony reached my ears, I shook off my lethargy and sprang from my hiding place with a great shout . At this noise, the young Thug detached himself from his victim with a leap, growling like a wild beast being chased from its corpse, and scampered down the avenue with such speed that I felt it impossible to catch up with him. I ran to the secretary and lifted his head. His face was purple and horribly contorted. I opened his shirt collar. I did my best to bring him back to life. All was useless. The roomal had done his work; the man was dead. I have only a few details to add to my strange tale. Perhaps I have been a little verbose in my narration, but I feel that I have no need to apologize for it, for I have confined myself to relating the sequence of incidents in their order, in a simple manner, devoid of all pretension, and the narrative would have been incomplete if I had omitted a single one. It was subsequently learned that Miss Warrender had left by the 7:20 train for London, and that she had reached the capital in time to be safe there, before any search could be begun for her. As for the messenger of death whom she had left behind to take her place at the place of rendezvous, nothing more was heard of him. He was never seen again. His description was sent out throughout the country, but it was in vain. No doubt the fugitive passed the day in a safe retreat, and employed the night in traveling, feeding on debris, as an Oriental might do, until he was out of danger. John Thurston returned the next day, and was astonished when I told him of the adventure. He agreed with me in recognizing that it would be better to say nothing of what I knew about Copperthorne’s plans and the reasons which would have obliged him to linger so long outside during that summer night. Also the county police themselves have never known the complete story of this extraordinary tragedy and they certainly never will know it never, unless chance should bring this tale before the eyes of one of its members. Poor uncle Jeremiah lamented the loss of his secretary, and wrote quantities of verses in the form of epitaphs and commemorative poems. He has since been reunited with his fathers, and I am happy to say that the greater part of his fortune has passed to his rightful heir, his nephew. There is only one point on which I would like to remark. How did the traveling Thug come to Dunkelthwaite? This question has never been cleared up, but I have not the slightest doubt in my mind on the subject, and I am certain that when the circumstances are laid down, it will be admitted, as I do, that his appearance was not the effect of chance. This sect formed a numerous and pressing body in India, and when it thought of choosing a new leader, it quite naturally remembered the beautiful daughter of its old master. It should not have been difficult to trace her in Calcutta, in Germany, and finally, in Dunkelthwaite. He had doubtless come to inform her that she was not forgotten in India, and that she would be welcomed with the greatest eagerness if she saw fit to come and find the scattered remnants of her tribe. This supposition may be considered a little forced, but it is the way of seeing things that has always been my own. Chapter 7. I began this narrative with a copy of a letter; I will end it the same way. This came to me from an old friend, Dr. B.C. Haller, a man of encyclopedic science and particularly well-versed in the manners and customs of India. It is thanks to his kindness that I am able to transcribe the various native words that I have heard Miss Warrender pronounce from time to time , and which I would not have been able to recall in my memory if he had not reminded me of them. In his letter, he comments on the subject I had explained to him some time before in conversation. My dear Lawrence, I promised to write to you about Thuggism, but my time has been so taken up that it is only today that I can keep my engagement. I have been much interested in your extraordinary adventure and would have great pleasure in talking further on this subject with you. I can inform you that it is extremely rare for a woman to be initiated into the mysteries of Thuggism, and in your case, this may have happened because she had tasted, either by chance or design, the sacred goor, which is the sacrifice offered by the gang after each assassination. Anyone who has done this may become an active member of Thuggism, regardless of rank, sex, and condition. As she was of noble blood, she must have quickly passed through the various grades, that of Tuhaee, or scout, that of Lughaee, or gravedigger, that of Shumshaee, who holds the hands of the victim, and finally that of Bhuttotee, or strangler. In all this, she would have received lessons from her guru, or spiritual adviser, whom she indicates in your story as her own father, who was an accomplished Borka or Thug. Once she had reached this degree, I am not surprised that she had from time to time fits of instinctive fanaticism. The Pilhaoo, of which she speaks in one place, is an omen from the left side, which, if followed by the Thibaoo, or omen from the right side, was regarded as an indication that all would be well. By the way, you speak of the old coachman who saw the Hindu coming out among the bushes in the morning. Either I am very much mistaken, or he was busy digging Copperthorne’s grave, for the customs of the Thugs are absolutely against the incident being committed before a receptacle is prepared for the body. To my knowledge, only one English officer in India fell victim to this brotherhood, and that was Lieutenant Monsell, in 1812. Since then, Colonel Sleeman has succeeded in crushing it to a great extent, though it cannot be doubted that it has a greater extent than the authorities suppose. Truly, the dark places of the earth are full of cruelties, and the Gospel alone is capable of effectually dissipating this darkness. I most willingly authorize you to publish these few remarks, if you think they throw any light on your narrative. Your sincere friend, BC Haller THE BONES Chapter 8. Abe Durton’s cabin was not beautiful. People have been heard to say that it was ugly and dreary, following the example of the people at Harvey’s Lock, going so far as to preface their adjective with an expressive expletive to emphasize their appreciation. But Abe was an impassive man, who went about his business, and on whose mind the comments of a tasteless public made little impression. He had built the house himself. It suited his business and that of his partner; Did they need anything more? To tell the truth, he showed some sensitivity on that point. “Though I say I built it myself,” he remarked. “It’s much better than all the sheds in the valley. Holes? Why, yes, of course; would you pretend to have fresh air without holes? It doesn’t smell musty in my house. Rain? Well, if it lets the rain in, isn’t it an advantage to know it’s raining without having to open the door? I wouldn’t want a house that wouldn’t let the water in somewhere. As for being a little off the perpendicular, well, I don’t mind a house leaning a little to one side. At any rate, it pleases my mate, Boss Morgan, and what’s good for him is good enough for you, I suppose.” And then his interlocutor, sensing the coming of the arguments ad homineum, usually slipped away, and left the indignant architect master of the field of battle. But however different opinions might be as to the beauty of the building, there was only one as to its utility. To the weary traveler, after a laborious march from the Buckhurst road in the direction of Harvey’s Lock, the beautiful light that shone from the summit of the height was like a beacon of hope and comfort. These same holes, of which the sneering neighbors spoke, contributed to spread outside a cheerful atmosphere of light, which was doubly welcome on an evening like this. There was only one man inside the hut. It was the owner, Abe Durton, himself, or The Bones, as he had been christened from the primitive rules of the coat of arms in use at the camp. He sat before the great wood fire, gazing fiercely into the burning depths, and occasionally kicking someone as a lesson whenever that person seemed to be burning to ashes. His Saxon face, with its clear complexion, naive and bold eyes, and blond, curly beard , stood out in a sharp outline against the darkness when the whimsical light played upon it. It was that of a virile, resolute man. However, a physiognomist might have discovered, in the outline of his mouth, signs that betrayed some weakness, an indecision that contrasted strangely with his Herculean shoulders and his massive limbs. This weakness of Abe’s was that he was one of those trusting, simple natures, who are as easy to lead as they are difficult to make walk, and this happy flexibility of character had made him at the same time the plaything and the favorite of the inhabitants of the Sluis. In this primitive colonization, banter had a rather heavy feel, and yet, however far one pushed the joke, one had never succeeded in making Les Os’s face take on a gloomy air, in giving birth to a malicious thought in his brave heart. It was only when he imagined that his aristocratic associate, that his lower lip would be seen to take on an ominous twitch, and that a flash of anger in his blue eyes would compel the most incorrigible joker in the colony to withdraw to the semblance of his favorite mockery and branch off into a serious and absorbing dissertation on the weather. “The boss is late tonight,” he murmured, rising and stretching himself with a giant yawn. “By my stars! What rain, what wind! Isn’t it, Blinky? ” Blinky was a reserved owl of a meditative disposition, whose comfort and well-being were a constant concern of his master, and who, at this very moment, was gravely contemplating him from his perch on one of the roof joists. “It’s a pity you can’t talk, Blinky,” Abe continued, glancing at his feathered companion, “for there’s an awful lot of reason in your face. And a good deal of melancholy too, one would say. Unhappy love, perhaps, when you were young… Speaking of love,” he added, “I haven’t seen Suzanne all day.” He lit the candle stuck in a black bottle on the table, crossed the room, and went to look gravely at one of the numerous engravings from the illustrated newspapers that had strayed there, where they had been cut out by the inhabitants of the house and pasted on the wall. The engraving that particularly attracted his attention represented an actress in a very flashy costume, who, holding a bouquet, was simpering before an imaginary audience. This drawing had, for some unfathomable reason, made a deep impression on the miner’s sensitive heart. He had conceived a completely human interest in the young person, and without any authorization, he had christened her Suzanne Banks, and had made her his ideal of feminine beauty. “You see my Suzanne,” he said, when a traveler coming from Buckhurst or even from Melbourne described the charms of a Circe he had left there. “There is no young girl comparable to my Suz. If ever you return to the old country, do not fail to ask to see her. Suzanne Banks, that is her name, and I found her portrait, which I put in the cabin. Chapter 9. Abe was still contemplating his charmer, when the rude door opened. A blinding cloud of gusts and rain entered the cabin, almost entirely hiding a young man, who leaped forward and set about closing the door behind him, an operation made rather difficult by the violence of the wind. He might have been taken for the storm genie, with the water streaming from his long hair and running down his pale, distinguished face. “Well,” he said, in a slightly sulky voice, “have you not prepared anything for supper?” “It is ready to serve,” said his companion gaily, pointing to a large pot boiling near the fire. “You look a little wet.” “Pestilence! a little wet! I am soaked, friend, I am drenched to the skin. This is a night not to put a dog out, at least not a dog for whom I would have any respect. Pass me that dry coat which is hanging on the peg. ” Jack Morgan, or the landlord, as he was called, belonged to a larger class than would have been supposed at the time of the rush that had marked the beginnings. He was a man of good family, who had received a liberal education, a graduate of an English university. The landlord would, in the natural course of things, have been an energetic curate. He would have sought to make his way in liberal careers, but for certain hidden traits of his character which had burst forth from the outside, and which might well have been handed down to him as an inheritance by old Sir Henry Morgan, the man who had founded the family, thanks to a few pieces of eight valiantly won in naval battles. It was evidently these few drops of adventurous blood which had induced him to leave, by jumping out of the bedroom window, the ivy-clad parsonage, to abandon home and friends, to come to Australia, to try his fortune, pick and shovel in hand on the Australian plains. The rough inhabitants of Harvey’s Lock had not been slow to learn that in spite of his feminine figure and his precious manners, this little man possessed a cold courage, an invincible resolution, by which he had won that respect in a gathering of men where boldness was regarded as the highest of human qualities.
None of them knew how he and The Bones had become partners, and yet they were, partners, and the most vigorous man, in his simple and sympathetic nature, felt an almost superstitious respect for his clear-minded and decided companion. “That’s better,” said the boss, sinking into the vacant chair before the fire, and looking at Abe, who was setting the table: two metal plates, horn-handled knives, and forks with abnormally long tines. “Take off your miner’s boots,” said Bones. “There’s no point filling the hut with red earth… Come and sit down.” His gigantic partner came over with a humble air and sat down on a barrel. “What’s new?” he asked. “The shares are going up,” said his companion, “that’s what there is. Look at this.” And he took a crumpled newspaper from his smoking coat pocket. “This is the Buckhurst Sentinel. Read this article: the one about a vein yielding well in the Conemara mine. We’re heavily involved in the business, my boy. We could sell today and make some profit, but I think it’s better to wait.” As he spoke, Abe laboriously deciphered the article in question, tracing the lines with his index finger and muttering under his rust-colored mustache. “Two hundred dollars a foot!” he said, raising his head. “Hey, comrade, we have one hundred feet each. That would make twenty thousand dollars. With that we could go back to the country. ” “What nonsense!” said his companion. “We left him to come here to pick up a little better than a paltry thousand pounds. The business must get even better. Sinclair, the assayer, has been there and says he has one of the richest beds of quartz he has ever seen. It’s time to get some grinding machinery. By the way, what’s the result of the day?” Abe took a small wooden box from his pocket and handed it to his comrade. It contained a teaspoonful of sand and one or two small metallic grains, no more than the size of a pea. Boss Morgan laughed and handed it back to his partner. “We won’t make our fortune at that rate, Bones,” he said. And there was a pause in the conversation while the two men listened to the wind whirling and howling around the little hut. “And any news from Buckhurst?” said Abe, rising and proceeding to extract the contents of the pot. “Not much,” said his companion. “Rooster-eyed Joe was shot dead by Billy Reid in MacFarlane’s shop. ” “Ah!” said Abe, with a vaguely interested air. “The Bush Runners are in the field and almost at Rochdale Station: they say they’ll show themselves this way.” The miner whistled as he poured a little whiskey into a jug. “Nothing more?” he asked. “Nothing important, except that the blacks have been a bit visible over there towards the Sterling road, and that the assayer has bought a piano, and that he is going to bring his daughter from Melbourne to settle in the new house, on the other side of the road. So, you see, my boy, we shall have something to see,” he added, sitting down and attacking the dish that was served to him. “They say she’s a beauty, Les Os,” he continued. “She would be only a rag to sew on my Suzon,” replied the other in a determined tone. His partner smiled as he looked at the garishly colored picture stuck to the wall. Suddenly he put down his knife and seemed to listen. Amid the furious roar of the wind and rain, there came a dull, rolling sound that evidently did not come from the struggle of the elements. “What is it? ” “The devil! If I know.” The two men went to the door and looked carefully into the darkness. Far away on the Buckhurst road, they glimpsed a moving light , and the dull sound grew louder. “It’s a buggy coming,” said Abe. “Where is it going? ” “I don’t know. No doubt it’s going to cross the ford. ” “But, man, there will be six feet of water at the ford tonight and a current as violent as a millfall.” Now the light was nearer. It moved quickly around the bend in the road. There was a furious gallop with the jolting of the wheels. –The horses got carried away by the thunder? –Bad business for the man inside. Chapter 10. There was among the inhabitants of Harvey’s Lock a rough sense of individuality, by which each one bore the weight of his own misfortunes alone and sympathized very little with those of his neighbor. What predominated in the two men was only curiosity as they watched the lanterns swing and flutter as they drew nearer around the bends in the road. –If he can’t get them under control before they reach the ford, he’s a burnt man,’ Abe Durton remarked resignedly. There was a sudden lull in the dreary stream of rain. It lasted only a moment, but at that moment the wind brought a long cry that made the two men start, exchange a glance , and then hurled them at full speed down the steep slope toward the road. “A woman, by heaven!” gasped Abe, as he leaped, in his reckless haste, over a mine pit. Morgan was the lighter and more agile of the two. He soon outstripped his athletic companion. A minute later he was standing panting, bareheaded, in the mud that covered the soft, sodden road, while his partner was still struggling down the very steep slope. The carriage was almost upon him at that moment. He could easily distinguish, by the light of the lanterns, the gaunt Australian horse, which, terrified by the storm and the noise it itself was making, was heading at a mad pace toward the ford. The man who was driving doubtless saw before him the pale and resolute figure of the one who had been standing in the road, for he yelled a few words of warning and made a supreme effort to restrain the beast. There was a shout, a curse, a cracking noise, and Abe, running down , saw a horse carried away to the last pitch of fury, rearing up in a rage, heaving a slender body hanging from the bridle. The Boss, with that quick intuition which had made him, in his day, the best cricketer, had seized the bridle just below the bit and clung to it with mute concentration of strength. Once he was thrown to the ground by a violent, dull shock, while the horse suddenly threw its head forward with a snort of triumph, but it was only to perceive that the man, stretched out on the ground under its forehooves, maintained his pitiless grip. “Hold him, Bones,” he said to a tall man who rushed out onto the road and seized the other bridle. “Very well, old fellow, I’ve got him!” And the horse, frightened at the sight of a new assailant, did not move, and remained shivering with terror. “Get up, Boss, there’s no danger now.” But the poor boss remained lying there, groaning, in the mud. “I can’t, Bones,” he said, with a certain vibration in his voice, like that of suffering. “There’s something wrong, ” Oh, old fellow, but don’t make a noise. It’s only the aftershock. Give me a hand. ” Abe leaned tenderly over his recumbent companion. He could see that he was very pale and breathing with difficulty. “Cheer up, Boss,” he murmured. ” Hello! my stars!” The last two exclamations burst from the brave miner’s chest as if driven out by an irresistible force, and such was his astonishment that he stepped back two steps. There, on the other side of the fallen man, half-enveloped in darkness, stood a form which, to Abe’s simple soul, appeared the most beautiful vision that had ever been shown on earth. To eyes unaccustomed to rest on anything more captivating than the ruddy faces and bushy beards of the miners at the Sluice, it seemed as if this creature, so white and delicate, could only be a passenger from some fairer world. Abe gazed at her with such admiring respect that he forgot for a moment his friend who lay bruised on the ground. “Oh, papa,” said the apparition in a voice of great emotion, “he’s hurt, the gentleman’s hurt.” And with a quick gesture of feminine sympathy, she bent over the prone body of Boss Morgan. “Why, that’s Abe Durton and his partner,” said the buggy driver, coming forward, which revealed the grizzled face of Mr. Joshua Sinclair, the assayer of the mines. “I don’t know how to thank you, lads.” That infernal animal took the bit between its teeth, and I saw the moment when I must throw Carrie overboard and then risk the same chance. “It’s all right,” he continued, seeing Morgan stagger to his feet . “Not too badly hurt, I hope? ” “Now I’m fit to get back to the cabin,” said the young man, leaning on his partner’s shoulder. “How will you drive Miss Sinclair home? ” “Oh! we can walk,” said the young lady, shaking off the last traces of her fear with all the elasticity of her age. “We can get back in the carriage and drive along the road around the bank so as to avoid the ford,” said her father. “The horse looks quite calmed down now, and you have nothing to fear from him, Carrie. I hope we shall both see you at home. Neither she nor I can forget the event of last night.” Miss Carrie said nothing, but she managed to throw a little timid, grateful glance from under her long eyelashes, one of those glances that would have made honest Abe stop a locomotive. Then there was a cheerful cry of good night. The whip cracked, and the buggy disappeared with a loud noise into the darkness. Chapter 11. “You told me, papa, that the people were boors and dirty,” said Miss Sinclair, after a long silence, when the two black shadows had disappeared in the distance, and the carriage was rolling along the unruly stream. “I can’t think of it. They seem very nice to me.” And Carrie was unusually calm for the rest of her journey, and she seemed to come to terms better with the fate that was keeping her away from her dear friend Amelia, who had remained far away at the boarding house in Melbourne. This did not prevent him from writing that same evening to the said young lady a long, frank letter, full of details of their little adventure. They stopped the horse, my dear, and one of those poor fellows was wounded. Oh! Amy, if you had seen the other one in the red shirt, with a pistol in his belt. I couldn’t help thinking of you, my dear. He was just what you imagined. Do you remember? A blond mustache and big blue eyes. And how he stared at me, poor creature! You never saw people like that in Burke Street, no, Amy. And so on for four pages of this pretty feminine babble. Meanwhile, the poor boss, rudely shaken, had gone up the coast with the help of his partner and returned to the shelter of the cabin. Abe treated him with remedies borrowed from the camp’s modest pharmacy and bandaged his dislocated arm. Both were people of few words. Neither made any mention of what had happened. Nevertheless, Blinky did not fail to notice that his master forgot to make his usual evening devotions before the altar of Suzanne Banks. Did this perceptive bird draw any conclusions from this fact, as well as from the other that Bones remained for a long time, looking grave, smoking, by the fire, which was going out? I don’t know. Suffice it to say that the candle finally went out, the miner rose from his chair, his feathered friend descended and perched on his shoulder, and if she did not utter a sympathetic hoot, it was because she was prevented from doing so by a warning sign from Abe with his finger, and also by her highly developed instinct for decorum .
Chapter 12. If a passing traveler had arrived in the winding streets of Harvey’s Lock town soon after Miss Sinclair’s arrival, he would have noticed a considerable change in the manners and costumes of its inhabitants. Was it due to the beneficent influence of a woman’s presence, or was it caused by the emulation aroused by Abe Durton’s brilliant exterior? Which is difficult to determine; probably both causes concurred. It is certain that this young man had suddenly felt a growing taste for cleanliness and a regard for the conventions of civilized life develop within him, which provoked the astonishment and mockery of his companions. That the boss Morgan took some care of his appearance was something that had long been classified among the curious and inexplicable phenomena that depend on a first education, but that this tall, gangly fellow from Les Os, with his carelessness, paraded around in a clean shirt, was a fact that all the old men of the Lock regarded as a direct and premeditated affront. Consequently, and as a defensive measure, there was a general washing session after working hours. The Grocery was invaded to the point that soap rose to an unprecedented price and a restocking had to be ordered from Macfarlane’s store at Buckhurst. “Are we in a free mining camp or a damned Sunday school?” Thus complained indignantly the great Mac Coy, a distinguished member of the reactionary party, a man who had persisted in marking time while time marched on, for he had been absent during the period of regeneration. But his protestations found little echo, and after two days, the murky appearance of the creek water announced his capitulation, and it was confirmed by his appearance at the Colonial Bar, where he showed a shiny face, with an embarrassed air. His hair gave off a whiff of bear fat. “I feel, as one might say, out of my element,” he said in the tone of a man who apologizes, “but I wanted to see what was under the clay.” And he gazed at himself approvingly in the cracked mirror that adorned the establishment’s hall of honor. Our chance visitor would also have noticed a change in the population’s speech. In any case, as soon as a charming and sweet little girl’s face appeared, even from a distance, under a certain very coquettish little hat, among the out-of-service wells and the piles of red earth that disgraced the sides of the valley, one could hear whispers of people warning each other, and immediately everywhere the cloud of curses dissipated, which was, I regret to have to say, a characteristic feature of the working population at Harvey’s Lock. For such things to happen, it only takes a beginning, and it was easy to notice that long after the disappearance of Miss Sinclair, there was an upward movement in the moral barometer of the excavations. People recognized by experience that their stock of epithets was less limited than they had become accustomed to believing, and that the least dirty were sometimes the most appropriate to express their thoughts. Abe had once been regarded in the camp as one of the most experienced appraisers of the value of an ore. It was generally believed that he was capable of estimating with remarkable accuracy the quantity of gold contained in a fragment of quartz. However, this was a mistake. Otherwise he would not have gone to the useless expense of so many analyses of worthless samples, as he was now doing. Master Joshua Sinclair found himself encumbered with such a large quantity of fragments of mica, pieces of rock containing an infinitesimal percentage of precious metals, that he began to form a very unfavorable opinion of the young man’s aptitude for mining. It is even said that Abe went home one morning with a smile of hope on his lips, and after searching himself, he pulled half a brick from the hollow of his knitting, making the very stereotypical remark: that in the end he had struck the right spot with the pick, and that he had come, just like that, to have a look around, and to have a valuation given to him in figures. However, as this anecdote has no other basis than the completely gratuitous assertion of Jim Struggles, the camp’s joker, it may be that the details are not rigorously accurate. Chapter 13. What is certain is that either as a result of his professional visits in the morning, or those he made in the evening as a neighbor, the gigantic miner had become one of the familiar beings in the small living room, in the Azalea Villa, as the assayer’s new house was sumptuously called. He seldom ventured to speak in the presence of the young person who occupied it. He merely sat on the very edge of his chair in a state of mute admiration while she tapped out a very danceable tune on the newly imported piano. And his feet carried him into many strange and unexpected places. Miss Carrie had come to believe that Abe’s legs acted quite independently of the rest of his body. She had given up trying to understand why she met them at one end of the table, while their owner was at the other, and excused herself. There was only one cloud on the mental horizon of brave Bones, and that was the periodic appearance of Black Tom Ferguson, from the Rochdale ferry. This cunning young rascal had managed to insinuate himself into old Joshua’s good graces, and he paid very frequent visits to the villa. Unpleasant rumors were circulating about Black Tom. At Harvey’s Lock, there is little inclination to censure, and yet it was generally felt that Ferguson was a man to be avoided. There was, nevertheless, a reckless enthusiasm in his manner, a sparkle in his conversation, which charmed irresistibly. The landlord himself, so difficult in such matters, came to cultivate his society, while forming an exact idea of ​​his character. Miss Carrie seemed to welcome his arrival as a relief. She chatted for hours about books, music, and the pleasures of Melbourne. On such occasions, poor Bones fell into the depths of discouragement, or slipped away, or remained, casting glances at his rival marked by genuine malevolence, which seemed to amuse this gentleman greatly. The miner made no secret of his partner’s admiration for Miss Sinclair. If he was silent when he was with her, he was prodigal of words when she was mentioned in conversation. If there were any loiterers on the Buckhurst road, they could hear at the top of the hill a stentorian voice tossing a rosary feminine charms. He submitted his embarrassments to the superior intelligence of the boss. “That lazy Rochdale,” he said, “you’d think it came naturally to him to babble like that. As for me, when it came to my life, I couldn’t find a word. Tell me, boss, what would you say to a young lady like that? ” “Well, I’d talk to her about the things that interest her,” said his companion. “Ah! yes, that’s the difficult part.” “Tell her about the customs of the place and the country,” said the boss, taking a meditative puff from his pipe. ” Tell her stories about what you’ve seen in the mines, things of that sort. ” “Hey! You’d do that, wouldn’t you?” his companion replied, a little encouraged. “If that’s what it depends on, I’m her man.” I’ll go over there now, and tell her about Chicago Bill, and tell her how he put two bullets in a man, at the turn of the road, on the night of the dance. Boss Morgan laughed aloud. “That wouldn’t be very appropriate,” he said. “If you told her that, you ‘d frighten her. Tell her something lighter, you see, something to amuse her, something pleasant. ” “Pleasant?” said the anxious lover, in a less confident tone. “How you and I got Mat Roulahan drunk, and put him in the minister’s chair at the Baptist church, and how, in the morning, he refused to let the preacher in. What effect would that have? Huh? ” “For heaven’s sake,” said his mentor, quite dismayed, “don’t you go telling her such stories. She wouldn’t speak to you or me again.” No, what I mean is to talk to her about the ways of the mines, how they live, how they work, how they die. If she’s a sensible girl, it ought to interest her. “How they live in the mines? Comrade, you’re good to me. How they live. That’s what I can talk about with as much gusto as Black Tom, as anyone else. I’ll try it on her the first time I see her. ” “By the way,” said his partner indifferently, “keep an eye on that fellow, this Ferguson. He’s not very clean-handed, you know, and he’s not much for scruples when he’s got something in view. You remember Dick Williams, of the English town, who was found dead in the bush. They say, though, that Black Tom owed him a good deal more money than he could ever have paid him. There are one or two singular things about him.” Keep an eye on him, Abe, watch his actions. “I will,” said his companion. And he did. He watched him that very day. He saw him stride out of the assayer’s house, anger and disappointed pride manifest in every detail of his handsome, dark brown face. He saw him leap over the garden fence, stride long and fast up the valley sides, gesticulating furiously, and then disappear into the depths of the bush. All this Abe Durton saw, and with a thoughtful air he relit his pipe and walked slowly back to his cabin at the top of the hill. Chapter 14. March was drawing to a close. At Harvey’s Lock the blinding glare and heat of an antipodean summer had softened to reveal the rich, well-blended hues of autumn. This place has never been a pleasant sight. There was something hopelessly prosaic about these two jagged, weakened ridges, pierced by the hands of men, with the iron arms of the winches, with the broken buckets showing on all sides through the innumerable little mounds of red earth. Below, the axis of the valley was traversed by the deeply rutted Buckhurst road, which made its twists and turns, running alongside and crossing Harper’s Brook by means of a worm-eaten wooden bridge. Beyond this bridge was the little group of hillocks, with the Colonial Bar and the Grocery store dominating in all the majesty of their plasterwork the humble dwellings around. The assayer’s porch house rose above the excavations on the side of the slope opposite this specimen of architecture threatening ruin, about which our friend Abe displayed such unjustifiable pride . There was another building likely to figure in the class of those which a Lock resident might have called Public Buildings by a motion of the hand that held his pipe, as if he had evoked an indefinite prospect of colonnades and minarets. This was the Baptist Chapel, a modest shingled structure , situated near a bend in the river, about a mile above the camp. From here the town appeared at its most advantageous, the hard outlines and crudeness of color being somewhat softened by distance. This morning the stream looked pretty, with its meanderings in the valley; The long plateau rising in the background was also pretty, with its luxuriant greenery; but the prettiest thing was Miss Sinclair, when she set down the basket of ferns she was bringing and stopped at the highest point of the ascent. One would have said that all was not going according to the will of this young person. There was an expression of uneasiness in her countenance which contrasted strangely with her usual air of piquant insouciance. Some recent annoyance had left its mark on her. Perhaps it was to dissipate it by a walk that she had gone wandering through the valley. In any case, it is certain that she breathed the fresh breezes of the woods as if their resinous aroma had the effect of some antidote to human suffering. She remained for some time contemplating the panorama which stretched out before her. From there she could see her father’s house, a small white speck halfway up the slope, and yet, strangely enough, what seemed to attract her most attention was a streak of blue smoke rising from the opposite slope. She stood there, watching, curiosity in her hazel eyes . Then it seemed as if the isolation of her situation had struck her. She experienced one of those violent fits of unconscious terror to which the bravest women are subject. Stories of natives, of bush runners, of their audacity and their cruelty, flashed through her mind like lightning. She considered the vast and mysterious expanse of the Bush that stretched out near her, then bent down to pick up her basket, intending to return as quickly as possible to the road, in the direction of the mine trenches. She shuddered and could scarcely suppress a cry when she saw a long arm with red shirt-sleeves appear behind her and take her basket in its own hands. The individual who presented himself to her eyes would have seemed to some people little calculated to dispel her fears. The long boots, the coarse shirt, the broad belt adorned with his deadly weapons, all this, no doubt, was too familiar to Miss Carrie to cause her any fright, and when she saw above these objects a pair of blue eyes looking at her with tenderness, and a rather timid smile hidden under a thick blond mustache, she understood that during all the rest of her walk, bush runners and natives would be equally incapable of doing her any harm. “Oh! Mr. Durton,” she said, “how you surprised me! ” “I am sorry, miss,” said Abe, trembling at having caused his idol a single moment of uneasiness. “You see,” he continued with naive cunning, “as the weather was fine and my partner was out prospecting, I thought I could take a walk up Hagley Hill, on my way back by the big bend, and here I am, by chance, by pure chance, standing on this hill.” The miner spouted this brazen lie with great volubility. There was a frankness in the tone of his voice so well imitated that it immediately detected the deception. The Bones had composed and learned it by heart while following the trace left in the clay by the little boots, and regarded his invention as the last word in human ingenuity. Miss Carrie did not think it proper to risk an observation, but there shone in her eyes an expression of amusement which intrigued her lover. Abe was in great spirits that morning. Was it the effect of the beautiful sunshine, was it the rapid rise of the shares in Conemara that made his heart so light? I am, however, inclined to believe that it was neither of these two causes. Simple as it was, the scene he had witnessed the day before could lead him to only one conclusion. He saw himself walking rapidly down the valley under similar circumstances, and he felt pity in his heart for his rival. He felt perfectly certain that this ominous figure, this Mr. Thomas Ferguson, of the Rochdale Ford, would not show himself again within the precincts of the Azalea Villa. Then why had she sent him away? He was handsome, he was very comfortable. Could it be that… ? No, it was impossible, of course, it was impossible? How could the thing have been possible? The idea was ridiculous, so ridiculous that it had fermented all night in the young man’s brain, that he had not been able to stop himself from thinking about it all morning and carrying it with him in his restless soul. They went down the red earth path together, then followed the edge of the stream. Abe had fallen back into the silence which was his normal state. He had made a brave effort to hold his ground in the fern field, feeling encouraged by the basket in his hand, but it was not an exciting subject, and after a series of diminishing efforts, he had abandoned his attempt. While he had been making the journey, his mind had felt full of piquant anecdotes, of pleasant observations. He had gone over an infinite number of remarks which he was to relate to Miss Sinclair, so capable of appreciating them. But at that moment, it seemed as if a vacuum had been created in his brain, and that no trace of any idea remained in it, except a mad and irresistible tendency to comment on the heat given by the sun. Never was an astronomer so occupied with the calculation of a parallax, and so completely absorbed in his thoughts on the constitution of the heavenly bodies, as was the brave Les Os while he followed the lazy course of the Australian river. Suddenly, his conversation with his partner came back to him. What had the Boss said? Give him the details of the miners’ way of life. He turned the matter over and over mentally. It seemed like a strange topic of conversation. But the boss had said it, and the boss was always right. He would make the leap. So he began, stammering after a preliminary cough. “The people of the valley live chiefly on bacon and peas.” It was impossible for him to judge the effect this communication had on his companion. He was too tall to be able to look out from under the little straw hat. She did not reply. He would try again. “Mutton on Sundays,” he said. Even this news produced no enthusiasm. She even seemed to laugh. Evidently the boss had made a mistake. The young man was in despair. The sight of a ruined cabin by the side of the path gave rise to a new idea . He clung to it like a drowning man clings to a straw. “Cockney Jack built it. ” “What did he die of?” asked his companion. “Three-star brandy,” said Abe, decisively. “I used to come and sit in it, and stay by him, when he was caught. Poor fellow! He had a wife and two children in Putney.” He was delirious, calling me Polly for hours. He was thoroughly washed up . He didn’t have a farthing left, but the comrades raised enough raw gold to give him a funeral. He’s buried in this pit over there. It was his claim. We only had to lower him down and fill up the hole. We put his pick, a shovel, and a bucket in there too, so he’ll feel a little more comfortable and at home. Miss Carrie seemed more interested now. “Do many die that way?” she asked. “Ah! yes, brandy kills a lot of them, but more have gone down… shot, you know. ” “That’s not what I mean. Do many people die like that in misery and solitude, with no one around to look after them?” And she pointed down to the group of houses below them. “Is anyone dying now? It’s a terrible thing. ” “There isn’t anyone about to break their pick. ” “I would ask you, Mr. Durton, not to use so many slang expressions,” said Carrie, looking at him with her violet eyes. It was astonishing how this young person was gradually coming to assume an air of proprietorship toward her gigantic companion. “You know it’s not polite. You must get a dictionary, and learn the proper terms. ” “But,” said Bones apologetically, “that’s just the proper term: when you can’t get a steam drill, you must resign yourself to using the pick. ” “Yes, but it’s an easy thing if you put your mind to it. You might say a man is dying, or moribund, if you like.” “That’s right,” said the miner enthusiastically. “Morning! That’s a word. You could outsmart Boss Morgan in the matter of words. Morning: that’s a good-sounding word! ” Carrie laughed. “It’s not the sound you should think about; you should ask yourself if the word expresses your meaning. To speak seriously, Mr. Durton, if anyone were to fall ill in the camp, you must inform me. I know how to treat people and I can be of some service. You will do it, won’t you?” Abe readily consented, and, relapsing into silence, he reflected on the possibility of inoculating himself with some long and troublesome disease. There had been talk at Buckhurst of a mad dog. Perhaps there might be some way of turning it to account. “And now I must say hello,” said Carrie, when they came to a place where a path detoured from the road to the Azalea Villa. “I thank you very much for escorting me. ” Abe asked in vain to be allowed to go the extra hundred yards, and in vain used the crushing argument of the cute little basket he offered to carry. The young woman was inexorable: she had already taken him too far from her path. She was confused; she would hear nothing of it. So poor Bones had to go away, experiencing a confused mixture of feelings. He had interested her. She had spoken kindly to him. But she had sent him away before it was necessary. If she had done this, it was because she did not care much for him. I believe, however, that he would have felt a little more courage, if he had seen Miss Sinclair as she stood at the garden gate, watching him go away, with an affectionate expression on her mischievous face, and a smile full of malice, as he went away with his head bent, looking discouraged. Chapter 15. The Colonial Bar was the favorite rendezvous of the inhabitants of Harvey’s Lock during their moments of leisure. There had been a lively competition between this Bar and the rival establishment called The Grocer’s, which, in spite of its innocent name, aspired to sell spirituous refreshments as well. The introduction of chairs in the latter had led to the appearance of a couch in the former. Spittoons were introduced into the Bar, the day a painting made its debut in the Grocery, and then, as the customers said, the first round was won. However, the Grocery having put up curtains, while its competitor inaugurated a private cabinet and a mirror, it was decided that the latter had won the game, and Harvey’s Lock showed how much it appreciated the proprietor’s zeal by withdrawing its custom from its adversary. Although anyone who came along had the right to venture into the Bar and bask beneath the flickering of its variously colored bottles , it was tacitly, but generally, accepted that the private cabinet or boudoir was reserved for the use of the most prominent citizens.
It was in this room that committees met, that opulent companies were conceived and brought into the world, and that inquests were ordinarily held. This last ceremony, I regret to say, was quite frequent at Sluis, around 1861, and the coroner’s conclusions were sometimes noted for a very piquant flavor and originality . To cite only one instance, when Burke the Slayer, a notorious bandit, was shot dead by a young doctor of quiet manners, a sympathetic jury declared: that the deceased had met his death in an imprudent attempt he had made to stop a pistol bullet in its path. In the camp, this verdict was regarded as a masterpiece of jurisprudence, in that it exonerated the guilty, while rigorously and incontestably respecting the truth. That evening, there was a gathering of notables in the small drawing room, although they had not been brought there by a pathological ceremony of this kind. Many changes had occurred recently that merited discussion, and it was in this room, sumptuously furnished with a sofa and a mirror, that Harvey Lock was accustomed to exchanging his ideas. The habits of cleanliness, which were beginning to establish themselves among the population, still caused some agitation in the minds of many. Then there were comments to be made on Miss Sinclair, her comings and goings, on the rich vein of Conemara, on the recent rumors concerning the bush runners. It was therefore not surprising that the notables of the town had gathered at the Colonial Bar. The bush runners were at that moment the subject of discussion. For several days, their presence had been talked about, and the colony was experiencing a feeling of unease. Physical fear is little known at Harvey’s Lock. The miners are said to have set out on a deadly hunt for the brigands, and to have done so with as much enthusiasm as if it had been a question of killing the same number of kangaroos. What caused their anxiety was the presence of a large quantity of gold in the town. They were determined to secure the fruits of their labor at all costs. Messages had been sent to Buckhurst to summon all available soldiers. Meanwhile, the main street of the Lock was patrolled every night by goodwill patrols. Panic had increased again following the news brought back that same day by Jim Struggles. Jim was of an ambitious and enterprising disposition, and after spending some time in considering with disgust the result of his last week’s work, he had shaken off, metaphorically speaking, the dust from the Sluice clay, and set out for the woods with the intention of prospecting in the vicinity until he found a suitable spot. Jim related that, while sitting on a fallen log and eating his midday meal of liquid and rancid lard, his A trained ear had caught the sound of horses’ hooves. He had hardly had time to lie down on the ground behind the tree when a troop of horsemen crossed the wood and passed within a stone’s throw of him. “There were Bill Smeaton and Murphy Duff there,” he said. ” Those were the names of two well-known bandits. There were three others whom I didn’t get a very good look at. They took the right-hand track. They looked as if they had set out on an expedition in earnest, their guns in hand.” Jim was subjected that evening to a minute examination, but nothing could alter his statement or add any clarity to what he had seen. He told the story several times and at long intervals, but although there may have been pleasant variations in the details, the essential facts always remained the same. Things were beginning to take a serious turn. There were, however, some who loudly expressed their doubts about the existence of bush runners. Among those who thus attracted the most attention was a young man perched on a barrel in the middle of the room. He was evidently one of the influential members of the population. We have already seen that black curly hair, that dull eye, that cruel lip, in the presence of Black Tom Ferguson, Miss Sinclair’s ousted suitor . He was easily distinguished from the rest of the company by his check suit and other indications of an effeminate character, which his costume furnished, might have given him an unwelcome reputation; but, like Abe’s partner, he had early become known as a man capable of anything without appearing to be. In the present circumstances, he appeared to be to some extent under the influence of drink, a very rare occurrence in him, and which was probably to be attributed to his recent failure. He was really furious in fighting Jim Struggles and his story. “It’s always the same thing,” he said, “when a man meets some travelers in the forest, it doesn’t take much for him to lose his head and come and tell stories about bush runners. If they had seen Jim Struggles in that place, they would have left with endless stories about a bush runner they saw behind a tree. As for recognizing men who ride, and fast, among tree trunks, that’s an impossibility.” But Struggles persisted in maintaining his first assertion, and the sarcasm, the arguments broke on the invulnerable thickness of his placidity. It was noticed that Ferguson seemed singularly bored by the whole affair. It seemed, too, that something was weighing on his mind, for from time to time he would rise abruptly, pace up and down the room, his brown face animated by a very menacing expression. All felt a real relief when he abruptly took up his hat, and saying curtly good-night to the company, he left, crossed the bar, and went out into the street. “He looks, as one might say, disappointed,” said Long MacCoy. “He can’t be afraid of bushmen, surely,” said Joe Shamees, another person of importance and principal shareholder in the Eldorado. “No, he’s not a man to be afraid of,” replied another. ” He’s been looking quite singular for a day or two. He’s been making long tours in the woods without carrying any tools. They say the assayer’s daughter told him to get lost. ” “She did perfectly well.” She’s much too pretty for him, several voices remarked. “It would be very funny if he didn’t have another trick up his sleeve. He’s a hard man to beat when he gets his mind set on something . ” “Abe Durton is the winning horse,” remarked Roulahan, a small, bearded Irishman. “I’ll bet him seven to four. ” “So you’re willing to lose your money, friend,” a young man said, laughing. “He needs a man with more brains than The Bones never had one. Do you want to bet? “Who saw The Bones today?” asked Mac Coy. “I saw him,” said the young miner. “He was going about asking for a dictionary. Probably he had a letter to write. ” “I saw him reading it,” said Shamees. “He came to me and said he’d hit on something good at the first try. Showed me a word almost as long as your arm… abdicate… something like that. ” “He’s a rich man today, I suppose,” concluded the Irishman. “Yes , he’s almost made his money. He’s got a hundred feet in Conemara and the shares are rising every hour. If he sold, he ‘d be able to go back home. ” “I bet he’s thinking of taking someone home with him,” said another . “Old Joshua wouldn’t make any trouble, seeing the money’s there.” I believe I have already mentioned in this narrative that Jim Struggles, the wandering prospector, had acquired a reputation as the witty man of the camp. He had won this reputation not only by his light and pleasant remarks, but also by the conception and execution of more complicated practical jokes. His adventure of the morning had caused a certain stagnation in the usual course of his humor, but society and drink gradually restored him to a more cheerful state. Since Ferguson’s departure, he had been silently brooding over an idea, which he was preparing to expound to his attentive companions. “Say, children,” he began, “what day is it? ” Friday, is it? ” “No, no, not that; what day of the month? ” “The devil take me if I know. ” “Well! I’ll tell you. It’s the first of April. I found a calendar in the cabin that says so. ” “What does it matter?” several voices asked. “Well, don’t you know? It’s practical joke day. Couldn’t we arrange one for somebody? Couldn’t we have a little fun with it? Well, there’s old Bones for instance, he won’t suspect anything. Couldn’t we get him to go somewhere and watch him walk? Then we’d have something to joke with for a whole month. ” There was a general murmur of assent. A practical joke, however pathetic, was always welcome at the Lock. The more clumsy the wit, the more appreciated it was. In the working pits, they don’t go so far as a morbid delicacy of sensation. “Where shall we send him?” they wondered. For a moment, Jim Struggles had been lost in thought. Then a sacrilegious inspiration seemed to come to him. He burst into a loud peal of laughter, rubbed his hands between his knees, he was so pleased. “Well!” What is it? asked the eager audience. “Here, children. Here’s Miss Sinclair. You said Abe is mentally ill. You can imagine she doesn’t think much of him. Suppose we write her a note, send it to her tonight, you see. ” “Well, what then?” said Mac Coy. “Well, it would look as if the note came from her. We would put her name at the bottom.
We would write that she wants to see him and that she has arranged to meet him at midnight in the garden. He will be sure to go. He will think she wants to run away with him. It will be the greatest farce played this year. ” General laughter. The evocation of this picture: honest Bones hanging around in the moonlight in the garden and old Joshua coming out to reprimand him, a double-barreled shotgun in his hand: it was irresistibly comic. The plan was unanimously approved. “Here’s a pencil, and here’s some paper,” said the comedian. “Who’s going to write the letter? ” “Write it yourself, Jim,” said Shamees. “Well, what shall I say? ” “Say whatever seems proper to you. ” “I don’t know how she’d express herself,” said Jim, scratching his forehead, much perplexed. “It’s true that Bones won’t notice the difference. And will this do: Dear old fellow, come to the garden tonight at midnight. Otherwise I won’t speak to you again. Eh? “No, that’s not the style,” said the young miner. “Remember she’s a young lady who’s been educated… You have to put it in a flowery, tender sort of way. ” “Well, write it yourself,” said Jim sullenly, passing the pencil to him. “Here’s what you have to do,” said the miner, wetting the point with his lips: “When the moon is in the sky…” “That’s right, it’s magnificent,” said the audience. “And the stars send out their brilliant brilliance, come, oh! come and find me, Adolphus, at the garden gate at midnight. ” “His name isn’t Adolphus,” objected a critic. “That’s how poetry is done,” said the miner; “it’s, you see, fantastic.” That sounds different to you than Abe. Leave it to him to guess what it means. I’ll sign it Carrie. There! This epistle passed gravely from hand to hand and made the rounds of the room. It was gazed upon with the respect due to so remarkable a production of the human brain. It was then folded up and entrusted to the care of a little boy, who was ordered, with the accompaniment of terrible threats, to carry it to the cabin and slip away before anyone had time to ask him any embarrassing questions. It was only when he had disappeared into the darkness that a little, very little, compunction dawned on one or two of the bystanders. “And isn’t that playing a rather nasty trick on the young lady?” said Shamees. “And being rather cruel to old Bones,” suggested another. But the majority passed over these objections, which were completely drowned under another round of whiskey. The matter was almost forgotten when Abe received the letter and began to spell it out, his heart pounding, by the light of his solitary candle. Chapter 16. That night left a long memory at Harvey’s Lock. A capricious breeze came down from the distant mountains, moaning and sighing over the deserted claims. Black clouds passed swiftly over the moon, casting their shadows on the earthly landscape and then leaving the silvery glow, cold, clear, over the little valley, bathing in a strange, mysterious light the vast expanse of the Bush that spread out on both sides. A great solitude seemed to rest on the face of Nature. People later remembered this fantastic, magical atmosphere that enveloped the little town. It was very dark when Abe left his little cabin. His partner, Boss Morgan, was still away, in the bush, so that apart from the ever-vigilant Blinky, there was not a living being who could spy on his comings and goings. He felt a sweet surprise, in his simple soul, to think that the cute fingers of his angel could have traced these large hieroglyphics in a row, but the name was at the bottom, and that was enough for him. She asked for it. It mattered little why; and this rough miner set out at the call of his love, with the heroism of a knight errant. He climbed as best he could the rising and winding road which led to the Azalea villa. A small clump of shrubs and bushes stood about fifty yards from the entrance to the garden. Abe stopped there for a moment to regain his presence of mind. It was barely midnight and he had only a few minutes before him. He sat down under their dark vault and spied on the white house that vaguely loomed before him. It was a very simple little house in the eyes of a prosaic mortal, but it was enveloped, in those of the lover, in an atmosphere of respect and veneration. The miner, after this station in the shade of the trees, went towards the garden gate. There was no one there. Evidently he had come a little too early. At that moment the moon was shining brightly, and the surroundings were as clear as day. Abe looked across to the other side of the cottage and saw the road, which appeared like a white, winding line, all the way to the top of the hill. If anyone had been there to spy on him, they would have seen his athletic build clearly outlined. Then he made a sudden movement, as if he had just been hit by a ball, and he staggered and leaned against the little door near him. He had seen something that made his sun-tanned face grow even paler , and already pale at the thought of the girl who was so near him. At the very point where the road made a curve, and not two hundred yards away, he saw a black mass moving around the curve and lost in the shadow of the hill. It lasted only a moment, but that moment was enough for his practiced forester’s eye , his quick perception, to take in the situation in all its details. It was a troop of horsemen heading towards the villa, and who could these night riders be but the people who terrified the forest country, the dreaded Bush Riders? Abe was, it must be said, of slow intelligence and moved heavily under ordinary circumstances. But in the hour of danger, he was as remarkable for his coolness and resolution as for his promptness in acting decisively. As he advanced through the garden, he calculated the odds against him. By the most moderate estimate, he had half a dozen opponents, all people determined to do anything and fearing nothing. The question was whether he could hold them in check for a moment and prevent them from forcing their way into the house. We have already mentioned that sentries had been posted in the main street of the town. Abe thought that help would arrive within ten minutes of the first shot. Had he been inside the house, he would have been sure to hold out longer than that. But the bush runners would be upon him before he could rouse the sleeping inhabitants and get the door let in. He had to resign himself to doing his best. At any rate, he would prove to Carrie that if he could not speak to her, he was at least capable of dying for her. This idea made a real flame of pleasure pass through him as he crept into the shadow of the house. He cocked his revolver: experience had taught him the advantage of being the first to fire. The road by which the bush runners arrived ended at a wooden gate leading to the upper part of the tester’s little garden. This gate was flanked on the left and right by a high acacia hedge, and opened onto a short drive, also bordered by an impenetrable wall of thorny shrubs. Abe knew the layout of the place perfectly well. In his opinion, a resolute man could bar the passage for a few minutes, until the assailants broke through from some other point and took him from behind. In any case, this was his best chance. He passed by the front gate, but refrained from giving the alarm. Sinclair was a man of some advanced age and could not be of much use to him in a desperate fight such as the one he expected, and the appearance of lights in the house would warn the brigands of the resistance that was being prepared to make. Ah! If only he had his partner, the boss, Chicago Bill, any of the brave men who would have run to his call and stood by him in such a struggle! He turned back in the narrow alley. There was the wooden gate he knew very well, and up there, perched on the crossbar, a man, in a languid attitude, was swinging his legs, and peering down the road that stretched out before him; it was Master John Morgan, the very one Abe called from the bottom of his heart. There was no time for long explanations. In a few hasty words, the boss said that while returning from his little excursion, he had encountered the Bush Runners who had set out on horseback for their dark expedition. He had overheard some talk that had revealed their goal. Running as fast as he could, and thanks to his knowledge of the country, he had managed to get ahead of them. “No time to sound the alarm,” he explained, panting from his recent effort, “we must stop them ourselves. Not here to play the gallant… here for your young daughter… They will only arrive over our bodies, The Bones.” And after these few words spoken in a broken voice, these two strangely matched friends shook hands, exchanged a look of deep affection while the fragrant breeze from the woods carried the sound of the horses’ hoofs to them. There were six brigands in all. One of them, who appeared to be the leader, walked in front. The others came behind, forming a group. Arriving in front of the house, they tied their horses to a small tree, after a few words spoken in a low voice by their captain, and advanced confidently towards the door. Boss Morgan and Abe were crouching in the shadow of the hedge, at the very end of the drive. They were invisible to the bandits, who evidently expected to meet with only slight resistance in this isolated house. As the leading man, who had advanced, half turned to give an order to his comrades, the two friends recognized the hard profile and thick mustache of Black Ferguson, the suitor rejected by Miss Carrie Sinclair. Honest Abe swore mentally that this one at least would not reach the door alive. The bandit advanced to this door and put his hand on the latch. He started when he heard a stentorian voice cry: Back from among the bushes. In battle, as in love, the miner was a man of few words. “No one goes through here,” explained another voice, with a timbre of infinite sadness and sweetness, as it always was when its possessor had the devil in his body. The bush runner recognized this voice: he remembered the speech delivered in a soft and languid voice that he had heard in the billiard room of the Buckhurst Arms, an address which had ended as follows. The gentle orator had leaned against the door, taken out a revolver, and asked to see the rogue who would have the audacity to force his way through. “It’s that cursed fool Durton, and his white-faced friend,” he said. These two names were well known all around. But the Bush Runners were reckless men, determined to do anything. They advanced en masse to the door. “Clear the way,” their leader said fiercely, in a low voice, ” you can’t save the young lady. Go away without a bullet in your skin, since you’re given the chance. ” The associates responded with laughter. “Then to hell with it! Advance.” The door opened wide, and the troop fired a volley as they pushed and made a vigorous effort to enter the sandy alley. The revolvers made a joyful noise in the silence of the night between the bushes at the other end. It was difficult to fire accurately in the darkness. The second man made a convulsive leap into the air and fell face first, arms outstretched. He writhed horribly in the moonlight. The third was hit in the leg and stopped. The others did the same, in a spirit of imitation. After all, the young lady was not for them and they put little enthusiasm into the work. Their captain rushed forward furiously, like the brave bandit that he was, but he was met by a tremendous blow from Abe, with the butt of his pistol, a blow delivered with such violence that he staggered back among his companions, blood streaming from his shattered jaw, unable to utter a curse at the very moment when he felt the most urgent need. “Don’t go yet,” said the voice from the darkness. But they had no intention of leaving yet. A few minutes would pass, they knew, before they would have the people from Harvey’s Lock upon them. They still had time to break down the door if they could overcome the defenders. What Abe feared came true. Black Ferguson knew the house as well as he did. He ran at full speed along the hedge. The five men forced their way through it with great noise wherever there appeared to be an opening. The two friends exchanged a glance. Their flanks were turned. They remained there, like people who know the fate that awaits them and are not afraid to face it. There was a furious melee of black bodies in the moonlight, while a loud shout of encouragement burst forth from familiar voices. The jokers of Harvey’s Lock found themselves in the presence of a situation far more extraordinary than the mystification they had come to witness. The associates saw friendly figures near them, Shamees, Struggles, Mac Coy. There was a desperate resumption, a decisive hand-to-hand fight, a cloud of smoke from which issued shots, fierce oaths, and, when it dissipated, a black shadow was seen fleeing alone for its life, through the gap in the hedge. It was the only one of the Bush Runners who had remained standing. But the victors uttered no shout of triumph. A strange silence reigned among them, followed by a compassionate murmur, for across the threshold he had so valiantly defended lay poor Abe, the man with the loyal and simple heart. He was breathing with difficulty, for a bullet had pierced his lungs. They carried him into the house, with all the gentleness of which these rough miners were capable. There were men there, I am sure, who would have wished to have received his wound, if they could thus have won the love of this young girl dressed in white who was bending over the blood-stained bed, and speaking to him in a low voice such sweet and tender words. This voice seemed to revive him. He opened his blue eyes, with their dreamy gaze, and wandered them around him: they fell on this face. “The game is lost,” he murmured, “sorry, Carrie, dying…” And, with a languid smile, he let himself fall back on the pillow. Chapter 17. But this time, Abe did not keep his word. His robust constitution intervened, and he triumphed over a wound that would have been fatal to a weaker man. Should it be attributed to the balsamic air of the woods which the breeze carried over thousands of miles of forest into the sick man’s room; or to the little nurse who nursed him with such gentleness? At any rate, we know that in less than two months he had sold his shares in Conemara and left the little cabin on the coast forever. Not long after, I had the pleasure of reading an extract from a letter written by a young lady named Amélie, to whom we have made a passing allusion in the course of our narrative. We have already broken the secrecy of a woman’s epistle: so we shall scarcely scruple to glance at another epistle: I was one of the maids of honor, she said, and Carrie looked lovely (underlined word) under the veil and orange blossoms . What a man! There are twice as many people of all kinds of bodies as your Jack! He was very amusing with his blush; he dropped the prayer book. And when he was asked the question, he answered yes, in such a voice that you could have heard it from one end of George Street to the other. His best man was charming (underlined word with two strokes), with his gentle face. He was very handsome, very kind. Too gentle to be defend among these rough fellows, I am sure. It is, in my opinion, perfectly possible that when the time was fulfilled, Miss Amélie took it upon herself to look after our old friend Mr. Jack Morgan, generally known as the boss. There is a tree near the bend of the river which is pointed to as Ferguson’s gum tree. It is useless to go into details which would be repugnant. Justice is brief and severe in the early colonies and the inhabitants of Harvey’s Lock were serious and practical people. The elite of society still meet on Saturday evenings in the reserved room of the Colonial Bar. In such circumstances, if one has a stranger or a guest to entertain, one constantly observes the same ceremonial, which consists of filling the glasses in silence, banging them on the table, then, after coughing, as if to apologize, Jim Struggles comes forward and narrates the April Fool’s joke and the manner in which the adventure ended. It is agreed that he pulls off like a true artist, when, having reached the end of his story, he concludes it by swinging his glass in the air, and saying: “Now, to the health of Mr. and Mrs. Bones.” A sentimental demonstration which the stranger will not fail to applaud, if he is a wise man. THE MYSTERY OF SASASSA VALLEY Chapter 18. Do I know why Tom Donahue was called Lucky Tom? Yes, I know, and it’s more than one in ten of the people who call him that can say. I’ve traveled the world a good deal in my time, and seen many strange things, but none stranger than how Tom got that nickname, and with it his fortune. For I was with him then. To tell it? Oh, certainly, but it’s a rather long story, and a most strange story. So fill your glass again, and light another cigar, while I try to unwind it. Yes, it’s a very strange story, and leaves some of the fairy tales I’ve heard far behind. And yet it’s true, sir, true all the way. There are people in the Cape Colony still living, who remember it, and who will confirm what I say. The story has been told many times around the fire in Boer cottages from Orange State to Criqualand, yes, and also in the Bush and the Diamond Fields. I took to my manners rather rudely, sir, but I was once enrolled at Middle Temple, and studied for the Bar. Tom—too bad for me—was one of my schoolmates, and we had a rough wedding during that time, so that our finances were about to run dry. We were obliged to leave our so-called studies there, and see if there was not somewhere in the world a country where two young fellows with strong arms and sound constitutions could make their way. At that time, the tide of emigration was just beginning to veer towards Africa. So we thought the best course of action was to go there, to the Cape Colony. So, to cut it short, we embarked, and landed at the Cape, with a capital of less than five pounds, and then we parted. We tried our luck in many directions, we had ups and downs, but at last, when chance, after three years, brought each of us to the high country, where we met again , I regret to say that we were in as embarrassed a situation as when we started. Chapter 19. This hardly seemed like a brilliant beginning, and we were very discouraged, so discouraged, that Tom was talking of returning to England and looking for a clerk’s position. By which you see that, without knowing it, we had only played our lowest cards, and that we still held all our trumps. No, we thought we had the worst of everything. We were in a region almost devoid of population. There were only a few farms scattered at great distances, with dwelling-houses surrounded by a stockade and barriers for protection against the Kaffirs. Tom Donahue and I had just a miserable hut in the bush, but it was known that we owned nothing, and that we played with some skill with the revolver, so that we were not in great danger. We stayed there, doing a few jobs here and there, and hoping for better times. Now, after a month, something happened one evening that began to cheer us both up a little, and it is of this thing, sir, that I am going to tell you. I remember it well. The wind howled around our hut and the rain threatened to burst in through our miserable window. We had built a large wood fire, which crackled and threw sparks on the hearth. I sat by it, busying myself with mending a whip, while Tom, lying in the box that served as his bed, moaned piteously over the misfortune that had brought him to such a place. “Cheer up, Tom, cheer up,” I said. “No man ever knows what awaits him. ” “Bad luck, Jack, bad luck. I have always been the unluckiest dog there is. I have been in this abominable country for three years. I see young men who have just arrived from England, jingling their pockets full of money, and I am as poor as the day I landed. Ah! Jack, old friend, if you want to keep your head above water, you must seek your fortune elsewhere than in my company. ” “Nonsense, Jack!” You’re out of luck today… But listen, someone’s walking outside! By his step, I recognize Dick Wharton. If anyone can get you going again, it’s him. I was still talking when the door opened to let in honest Dick Wharton, dripping with water, his good red face showing through a mist like the moon on the autumn equinox. He shook himself, and after saying good morning to us, he sat down by the fire. “Out, Dick, on a night like this?” I said. “You’ll find rheumatism a worse enemy than the Kaffirs, if you don’t get into regular habits.” Dick looked more serious than usual. You might even have said he looked frightened, if you hadn’t known his man. “You should have gone,” he said. “You should have gone. One of Madison’s animals has strayed.” We saw it over there, in the Sasassa Valley, and naturally not one of our blacks consented to venture into that valley at night, and if we had waited until morning, the animal would have been in Kaffir country. “Why do they refuse to go into the Sasassa Valley at night?” asked Tom. “Because of the Kaffirs, I suppose,” I said. “Ghosts,” said Dick. We both began to laugh. “I’m sure they haven’t even given a glimpse of their charms to a man as prosaic as yourself ?” said Tom from the depths of his crate. “Yes,” said Jack seriously, “but yes, I’ve seen what the blacks are talking about, and, upon my word, my boys, I don’t want to see it again.” Tom sat up: “Nonsense, Dick, you’re joking, my friend.” Come now, tell us all about it: the legend first, and then what you saw. Pass him the bottle, Jack. “Well,” said Dick, “as for the legend, it seems that the dark-haired people pass down from generation to generation the belief that the valley of Sasassa is haunted by a horrible Demon. Hunters, travelers who came down the defile saw its eyes shining under the shadows of the escarpments, and the rumor goes that whoever has by chance been subjected to this malevolent gaze, is pursued for the rest of his life by bad luck due to the cursed influence of this being. Is it true, or is it not? said Dick, with a piteous air. I may have an opportunity to find out for myself. ‘Go on, Dick, go on,’ cried Tom. ‘Tell us what you saw.
‘ ‘Well, here it is: I was groping my way up the valley looking for Madison’s cow, and I had come, I think, halfway down the slope, to where a steep, black rock stands out in the right-hand ravine. I stopped there to take a drink. At that moment, my eyes were fixed on that point of rock. After a while I saw, apparently, emerging from the base of the rock, eight feet above the ground, and a hundred yards away, a strange livid flame, which flickered, oscillated, sometimes seemed about to go out, and sometimes reappeared… No, no, I have seen the glow-worm and the fire-fly many times. It was nothing of the sort. This flame was indeed there, and I looked at it for a good ten minutes, trembling all over. I then took a step forward. It disappeared instantly, like the flame of a candle that has been blown out. I took a step back; but it took me some time to find the exact spot and position from which the flame was visible. At last, it reappeared, the mysterious glow, moving as before. So, summoning all my courage, I walked towards the rock, but the ground was so uneven that it was impossible for me to walk in a straight line, and although I walked all the way around the base of the rock, I could see nothing. So I started back home, and I can tell you, my children, I didn’t notice it was raining all the way , until you told me. But ho! What’s the matter with Tom? What would be the matter with him? At that moment Tom was sitting with his legs out of his box, and his whole face betrayed such intense excitement that it was painful to see. “The devil would have two eyes. How many lights did you see, Dick? Speak. ” “Only one.” “Hurrah!” cried Tom. “Good time.” Whereupon he kicked the blankets to the middle of the room, which he began to pace with long, feverish strides. Suddenly he stopped in front of Dick, and, putting his hand on his shoulder, said: “Tell me, Dick, could we get to the Sasassa Valley before sunrise? ” “It would be very difficult.” “Well, mind you, we are old friends, Dick Wharton. I ask you, for a week from now, do not speak to anyone of what you have just told us. You promise, do you not?” From the look Dick cast in Tom’s face, it was easy to guess that he regarded poor Tom as if he had become a mentally ill person, and I must say that his conduct absolutely confounded me. But I had so much proof up to that time of my friend’s good sense and quickness of understanding that it seemed to me perfectly admissible that Dick’s story had some meaning for him, although my dull intelligence could not grasp it. Chapter 20. All night long, Tom was extremely agitated. When Wharton left us, he made him repeat his promise. He also made him give a minute description of the place where he had seen the apparition, and indicate the time when it had appeared. When Wharton had left, about four o’clock in the morning, I lay down in my box, from where I saw Tom sitting by the fire, busy tying together two sticks. I fell asleep. I must have slept about two hours, but when I awoke, I found Tom still at his work in the same attitude. He had fixed one of the pieces of wood to the end of the other so as to roughly represent a T, and he was now fixing in the corner a smaller piece of wood by means of which the transverse arm of the T could be placed in a more or less raised or inclined position . He had made notches in the upright stick, so that by means of this little stay, the cross could be held indefinitely in the same position. “Look at this, Jack,” he cried, seeing me awake, “come and give me your opinion. Suppose I put this stick right in the direction of an object, and put this other piece of wood in such a way as to hold the first one in its position, and then leave it there, could I then find the object again, if I wanted to? Don’t you think I could? Jack, don’t you think so?” he resumed excitedly , seizing me by the arm. “Oh!” said I, “that would depend on the distance to the object, and the exactness with which your stick was aimed. If it were at any distance, I would cut sights on your stick in the form of a cross; to the end I would attach a rope, which I would let down as a plumb line; and that would bring you very near the object you want. But, assuredly, Tom, it is not your intention to mark the exact place of the ghost in this way. “You will see this evening, old fellow, you will see this evening. I will take it to the Sasassa Valley. You will borrow Madison’s lever and come with me; but remember well that you must not tell anyone where you are going, or why you want this lever.” Tom spent the whole day walking up and down the room or working at his apparatus. His eyes were shining, his cheeks animated by a feverish red, of which he presented in the highest degree all the symptoms. “God grant that Dick’s diagnosis does not prove true,” I said to myself, as I returned with my lever. And yet, when evening came, I felt myself invaded by this excitement. About six o’clock, Tom got up and took his instrument. “I can’t stand it any longer, Jack,” he said, “take your lever, and let’s go to the Sasassa Valley.” Tonight’s work, old fellow, will either make us wealthy or destroy us. Take your revolver, in case we meet any Kaffirs… I don’t dare take mine, Jack, he continued, putting his hands on my shoulders, because if my bad luck follows me again tonight, I don’t know what I’ll be capable of doing with it. Having therefore filled our pockets with provisions, we set off on this tiring journey through the Sasassa Valley. On the way, I made many efforts to get some information from my companion about his project. He merely replied: “Let’s make haste, Jack. Who knows how many people have, by this time, heard Wharton’s story. Let’s make haste, or we may not be the first to arrive on the ground. ” Ah! Sir, we traveled about ten miles through the mountains. Finally, after descending a steep slope, we saw a ravine open before us so dark, so black that one might have taken it for the very gate of hell. Cliffs several hundred feet high enclosed on all sides this defile encumbered with fallen blocks which led through the haunted country, in the direction of the Land of the Kaffirs. The moon, rising above the escarpments, drew in the sharpest outlines the irregular jaggedness of the rocks which formed the summits, while below that all was black as Erebus. “The valley of Sasassa?” I said. “Yes,” replied Tom. I looked at him. At that moment, he was calm. The feverish ardor had disappeared. He acted thoughtfully, slowly. However, there was a certain stiffness in his features, in his eye a gleam which announced that the grave moment had come. Chapter 21. We entered the defile, stumbling among the scree. Suddenly I heard a short, sharp exclamation from Tom. “There it is, the rock,” he cried, pointing to a large mass that rose up before us in the darkness. “Now, I beg you, make good use of your eyes. We We are about a hundred yards from the cliff, I believe. Advance slowly on one side; I will do the same on the other. If you see anything, stop and call out. Do not move more than twelve inches at each step, and keep your eyes fixed on the escarpment about eight feet from the ground. Are you ready? “Yes!” At this moment I was even more excited than he. What was his intention, what did he have in view? I had not even a guess about it, except that he proposed to examine in broad daylight that part of the cliff from which the light came. But the influence of this romantic situation, and of the agitation which my companion experienced in compressing it, was so strong that I felt the blood rushing in my veins and the pulse beating violently at my temples. “Go,” cried Tom. And so we set off, he on the right, I on the left, keeping our eyes fixed on the base of the rock. I had advanced about twenty paces when the thing suddenly appeared to me. Through the increasingly dark night shone a small red glow, a glow that diminished, that increased, flickered, oscillated, which with each change produced a stranger and stranger effect. The ancient Kaffir superstition took possession of my mind and I felt an icy shudder pass through me. In my agitation, I took a step back. Then the glow disappeared instantly, leaving in its place a profound darkness. I advanced again. It reappeared, the red glow, at the base of the rock. “Tom, Tom!” I cried. “Yes, I’ll go,” I heard him cry in turn, as he ran towards me. “There it is… there, up there, against the rock.” Tom was very close to me. “I don’t see anything,” he said. “Come now, there, there, friend, in front of you.” As I said this, I moved a little to the right, and immediately the light disappeared from my sight. But judging by Tom’s joyful exclamations, it was evident that, having taken the place I had occupied, he also saw the light. “Jack,” he cried, turning and squeezing my hand with all his might, “Jack, you and I will have no more reason to complain of our bad luck. Now let’s make a pile of stones where we are. That’s it . Now we will fix our signpost firmly to the top. There! It would take a very strong wind to knock it down, and it is enough for us if it holds firm until morning. Oh! Jack, my boy, when I think that yesterday we were talking about getting employed, and you replied that no one knows what awaits him.” By Jove, Jack, that would make for some fine news. By this time we had the vertical stake firmly fixed between two large stones. Tom stooped down and aimed by means of the horizontal post. He stood for a good quarter of an hour, raising and lowering it alternately ; at last, heaving a sigh of satisfaction, he fixed the support in the corner and stood up again. “Look at that line, Jack,” he said. “You have the truest eye I have ever encountered. ” I looked at the sight. There, within sight, shone the glittering spot. It looked as if it were at the end of the sight, so exactly had the aim been taken. “And now, my boy,” said Tom, “let us eat a little and sleep. There is nothing more to be done tonight, but tomorrow we shall need all the wit and strength we have. Let us gather some wood and make a fire here.” Then we shall be in a position to keep an eye on our signpost and see that nothing happens to it during the night. We made a fire, and had supper while the demon of Sasassa gazed at us face to face with his mobile and sparkling eye. He continued to do so throughout the night. However, it was not always from the same place, for, after supper, when I looked along the sight to see him again, he was entirely invisible. But this information did not disturb Tom in the least; he confined himself to this remark: “It was the moon, and not the object, which had changed place.” Then, curling up on himself, he fell asleep. The next day, at daybreak, we were up, and we examined the rock at the end of our sights. We distinguished nothing, only a dull, slate-like, uniform surface, perhaps a little rougher where our line of sight arrived, but without any other remarkable particularity. “Now let’s put your idea into execution, Jack,” said Tom Donahue, unwinding a long string from around his waist, “fix it at one end, while I go to the other end.” So saying, he set off in the direction of the base of the escarpment, holding one end of the rope, while I pulled on the other, winding it around the stake, and passing it through the sight at the end. In this way I could tell Tom to go right or left. Our rope was kept taut from its point of attachment, by the sight, and thence in the direction of the rock, where it ended about eight feet from the ground. Tom chalked out a circle about three feet in diameter around this point. Then he called out to me to come and join him. “We have combined the matter together, Jack,” he said, “and we will make the find together, if there is one.” The circle, which he had drawn, included a part of the rock smoother than the rest, except in the center, where a few rough, projecting pits were noticeable . Tom showed me one with a shout of joy. It was a rather irregular mass, brown in color, about the size of a man’s fist, and which one would have taken for a shard of dirty glass embedded in the steep wall. “That’s it!” he cried, “that’s it! “That, what? ” “Hey, my man, a diamond, and such a diamond as no monarch in the world would not envy Tom Donahue’s possession of! Play with your iron bar, and soon we shall have exorcised the demon from the valley of Sasassa. ” I was so stunned that for a moment I remained speechless with surprise, contemplating the treasure which had fallen into our hands in such an unexpected manner. “Come,” said Tom, “pass me the lever. Now, taking as a support the projection which emerges here from the rock, we can make it jump… Yes, it gives way.” I never thought he would have come so easily… Now, Jack, the sooner we get back to the cabin, and from there to the Cape, the better. Chapter 22. Having wrapped up our treasure, we set off again through the hills for home. On the way, Tom told me that, while he was studying law at Middle Temple, he had found in the library a dusty pamphlet by one Jans Van Hounym, which told of an adventure very similar to ours, which had befallen that brave Dutchman towards the end of the 17th century, an adventure which had resulted in the discovery of a luminous diamond. This tale had come to Tom’s mind while he was listening to the ghost story of honest Dick Wharton. As for the means invented to verify the supposition, they had sprung from his fertile Irish brain. We will take it to the Cape, said Tom, and if we cannot dispose of it profitably there, we shall earn our fare well by embarking for London. All the same, let us first go to Madison’s; he knows a little about these things, and perhaps will give us some idea of ​​what we may consider a fair price for our treasure. Accordingly, we left our road, instead of returning to our hillock, to take the narrow path which led to Madison’s farm. We found him eating breakfast. A minute later, we were seated at his table, thanks to South African hospitality . “Well,” said he, when the servants had gone, “what is there?” Under a rock? You have something to tell me, I see. What is it ?
Tom took out his parcel, solemnly untied the handkerchiefs that enveloped it.
“Here,” he said, placing the crystal on the table, “what price would you think it fair to offer for this?” Madison took the object and examined it with a connoisseur’s air. “Well,” he said, putting it back on the table, “in the rough, it would be worth twelve shillings a ton. ” “Twelve shillings,” cried Tom, jumping up. “Don’t you see what this is? ” “Rock salt. ” “To hell with rock salt! It’s diamond.” “Taste it,” said Madison. Tom put it to his lips, threw it to the ground with a terrible oath , and left the room at once. I myself felt saddened and disappointed, but remembering what Tom had said about the revolver, I went out too and returned to the hut, leaving Madison there, speechless and stunned. When I went in, I found Tom lying in his box, his face turned towards the wall, and looking too dejected to accept my words of consolation. Cursing Dick and Madison, the demon of Sasassa and all the rest, I went for a walk outside the hut and comforted myself for our painful misadventure by smoking a pipe. I had got within fifty paces of the hut when I heard the noise I least expected from that quarter. If the sound had been a moan or an oath, I should have thought it quite natural, but the one that made me stop and take my pipe from my mouth was a loud burst of laughter. The next moment, Tom himself came out of the hut, his face beaming with joy. Chapter 23. –On the hunt for another ten miles on foot, old comrade. –Ah! yes, for another lump of rock salt, at twelve shillings a ton… –Let’s not talk about that, Jack, said Tom, with a hearty laugh, if you have any affection for me. Now, mind you, Jack. What
fools, what mentally ill people we have been to let ourselves be brought down by a trifle? Just sit down on this stump for a moment, and I ‘ll make it as clear as day. You have seen a lump of rock salt set in rock more than once, and I have seen them too, though I have done so much business with this one. Well, Jack, have you ever seen any of those lumps shining in the dark hardly as bright as a firefly? “No, I can’t say I’ve seen any. ” “I might even venture to predict that if we waited until nightfall , which we won’t, we’d see that light shining among the rocks again. So, Jack, when we loosened that worthless salt, we got the wrong crystal. There’s nothing strange in these hills about a lump of rock salt being within a foot of a diamond. It took on the brilliance, and we were overexcited, behaved foolishly, and left the real stone in its place. You may depend on it, Jack, the precious stone of Sasassa is embedded within the perimeter of the magic circle chalked on the surface of that rock over there. Come, old fellow, light your pipe, and pick up your revolver, and we’ll be far away before this Madison has time to put two and two together.” I don’t think I showed much enthusiasm this time. I had already begun to regard this diamond as an uncompensated scourge . But determined not to throw cold water on Tom’s hopes, I declared myself ready to go. What a walk it was! Tom had always been a good hill walker, but on this day the excitement seemed to give him wings, while I did my best to climb after him. When we were within half a mile, he broke into a charging pace , and did not stop until he was before the white circle drawn on the rock. Poor old Tom! When I reached him, his state of mind had changed. He was standing there with his hands in his pockets, his gaze distracted, floating before him, his expression piteous. “Look, examine,” he said, showing me the rock. ” There was absolutely nothing to be seen there that resembled a diamond. In the circle, nothing could be seen but the smooth, slate-colored surface, with a hole, the one from which we had torn the piece of rock salt, and one or two small hollows. As for the precious stone, no trace. ” “I’ve examined it inch by inch,” said poor Tom; “it’s not there; someone will have come and noticed the circle, and taken it. Let’s go home, Jack, I’m feeling nervous, tired. Oh! was there ever such bad luck as mine.” I was turning to leave, but first I took a last look at the escarpment. Tom had already taken about ten steps. “Whoa! I cried, “do you see no change in this circle since yesterday? ” “What do you mean?” asked Tom. “Do you find something that was there before? ” “The rock salt?” said Tom. “No, but the little rounded, projecting body we used as a fulcrum. I suppose we will have loosened it by operating the lever. Let us see what it was made of.” Accordingly, we searched among the loose pebbles at the foot of the escarpment. “Here we are, Jack. We have succeeded at last. We are now men again.
” I turned around and found myself facing Tom, who was beaming with joy and holding in his hand a small piece of black rock. At first glance, it would have been taken for a splinter of the stone, but close to the base, something protruded from it, which Tom showed me enthusiastically . At first it looked like a glass eye, but there was a brightness and a transparent depth that no kind of glass ever gave. This time there was no mistake, we were indeed the possessors of a precious stone of great value. So we left the valley with a light heart, taking with us the demon that had reigned there for so long. Chapter 24. That’s the thing, sir, I have told it too long, and I have perhaps tired you. You see, when I begin to speak of those hard times of long ago, I seem to see again the little cabin, the stream that flowed by it, and the Bush that surrounded it, and I seem to hear still the voice of this brave Tom. There is little more for me to add. We prospered thanks to the precious stone. Tom Donahue, as you know, settled here, and he is well known in the town. For my part, I’ve been successful, I’m engaged in farming and ostrich breeding in Africa. We gave old Dick Wharton enough to set up on his own, and he’s one of our nearest neighbors. If you ever come our way, sir, be sure to ask for Jack Turnbull, owner of Sasassa Farm. OUR DERBY POT Chapter 25. “Bob!” I shouted. No answer. “Bob! ” A quick crescendo of snoring ends in a prolonged yawn. “Wake up, Bob. ” “What the devil is all this noise about?” said a sleepy voice. “It’s almost lunchtime,” I explained. “The devil take lunch!” said the rebel spirit from his bed. “And there’s a letter, Bob,” I said. “Couldn’t you have said so sooner? Bring it in at once .”
And at this kind invitation, I entered my brother’s room and sat down on the edge of his bed. “Here is the thing: postage stamp from India, postage stamp from Brindisi. Whose name could it be? ” “Mind your own business, Stub,” said my brother, tossing back his disheveled curly hair. Then, after rubbing his eyes, he set about breaking the seal. Now, if there is a nickname that inspires a deeper aversion in me than the others, it is indeed that of Stub. A miserable maid, impressed by the proportions between my round, grave face and my little freckled legs, inflicted this nickname on me in the days of my childhood. In reality, I am no more a stub than any other girl of seventeen. On the present occasion, I stood up with all the dignity that anger inspires, and was preparing to pound my brother’s head with a bolster , when I was stopped by the expression of interest on his face. “You’d never guess who’s coming, Nelly,” he said. “He was a friend of yours once. ” “What? From India? Isn’t that Jack Hawthorne? ” “Just so,” said Bob. “Jack is coming back and is going to spend a few days with us. He says he’ll arrive here almost at the same time as his letter. Do n’t start dancing like that.” You’ll either drop the guns or cause some other accident. Just sit still like a good girl and sit down again. Bob spoke with all the authority of the twenty-two summers that had passed over his sheepish head. So I calmed myself and resumed my former position. “How charming it will be!” I cried; “but, Bob, the last time he was here he was only a boy, and now he’s a man. He won’t be the same Jack at all. ” “Oh, as for that,” said Bob, “you were just a little girl then, a naughty child with ringlets; whereas now— ” “Whereas now?” I asked. It really looked as if Bob were about to pay me a compliment. “Well, you haven’t got the ringlets any more, and you’re now a great deal fatter and meaner. In one way, it’s excellent to have brothers.” It is not possible for a young lady of any description to form an exaggerated opinion of her own merits. I believe that at lunchtime, everyone was glad to hear of Jack Hawthorne’s promised return. By everyone, I mean my mother, and Elsie, and Bob. Our cousin Solomon Barker, on the other hand, did not at all seem to be overcome with joy when I broke the news in a triumphant, breathless voice. Until then, I had never thought of it, but perhaps this young gentleman is beginning to fall in love with Elsie and is dreading a rival. Otherwise, I do not see why so simple a thing should have made him push away his egg, declare that he had had a superb lunch, and that in an aggressive tone that made one doubt his sincerity. Grace Maberly, Elsie’s friend, looked very pleased, as was her custom.
As for me, I was in a state of exuberant joy. Jack and I had been childhood comrades. He had been like an older brother to me, until the day he joined the cadets and left us. How many times he and Bob had climbed old Brown’s apple trees, while I stood below and received the spoils in my little white apron. There was scarcely an escapade in my memory, scarcely an adventure in which Jack did not play a leading part. But now he was Lieutenant Hawthorne. He had been in the Battle of Afghanistan, and, in Bob’s expression, he was a finished warrior. What shape would he take? I don’t know how that warrior’s expression had conjured up the image of Jack in full armor, with plumes in his helmet, thirsty with blood, and fencing with an enormous sword at an opponent. After such an exploit, I was afraid that he would no longer condescend to play leapfrog, charades, and the other traditional amusements of Hatherley House. Cousin Sol was certainly very depressed for a few days afterward. It was very difficult to persuade him to play a fourth at tennis games. He displayed a quite extraordinary passion for solitude and strong tobacco. We came upon him in the most unexpected places, in the massive, along the river, and on these occasions, if it was impossible for him to avoid us, he kept his gaze rigidly fixed on the distance and refused to hear our feminine calls or to notice the waving of parasols. This was certainly very ungentlemanly of him. One evening, after dinner, I seized him, and, drawing myself up to my full height, which reaches five feet four and a half inches, I set about telling him what I thought of him. This is a procedure which Bob regards as the height of charity, for it consists in giving liberally what I myself have the greatest need of. Cousin Sol was lounging in a rocking chair with the Times before him, and looking sullenly over the fire. I drew up beside him and fired my broadside. “It seems we have angered you, Master Barker,” I said in a tone of haughty courtesy. “What do you mean, Nell?” asked my cousin, looking at me in surprise. He had a very odd way of looking at me, Cousin Sol. “It seems you no longer care for our society,” I remarked. Then, suddenly dropping from my heroic tone: “You’re stupid, Sol. What’s gotten into you? ” “Nothing at all, Nell, or at least nothing worthwhile. You know I’m taking my medical exam in two months and I have to prepare for it. ” “Oh!” I said, bristling with indignation, “if that’s it, then let’s not talk about it anymore. Of course, if you prefer bones to your young relatives, that’s very well. There are young people who would do their best to make themselves agreeable, instead of sulking in corners and learning to skin their fellow men with knives.” And having thus summarized the noble science of surgery, I busied myself with exaggerated violence in putting back in place the headpieces that could not be helped. I could see Cousin Sol looking with an amused air at the little blue-eyed person who was pacing back and forth angrily in front of him. “Don’t blow on me, Nell,” he said. “I’ve already been caught once , you know. Besides,” and then he assumed a grave face, “you ‘ll have enough distractions when that… what’s his name?… Lieutenant Hawthorne arrives. ” “It’s not always Jack who would go around with mummies and skeletons,” I remarked. “Do you always call him Jack?” asked the student. “Of course. That name John, it sounds so stiff to you. ” “Oh! yes, that’s true,” said my interlocutor doubtfully. I still had my theory about Elsie running through my head. I thought I might try to make things a little more cheerful. Sol had gotten up and was looking out of the window. I went over to him and looked timidly at his face, which usually expressed good nature and which, at this moment, looked very gloomy, very unhappy. He was always very withdrawn, but I thought that if I pushed him a little I might bring him to a confession. “You are a jealous old man,” I said. The young man blushed and looked at me. “I know your secret,” I said boldly. “What secret?” he said, blushing even more. “Don’t worry yourself, I know it. Let me tell you,” I continued, becoming even bolder, “that Jack and Elsie have never been very comfortable together.” There’s a much better chance that Jack will fall in love with me. We’ve always been friends. If I had stuck the knitting needle I was holding in my hand into Cousin Sol’s body , he wouldn’t have jumped any higher. “Good heavens!” he cried. And I saw very clearly in the twilight his black eyes fixed on me. “Do you really think it’s your sister I’m concerned about?” “Certainly,” I said firmly, with the conviction that I was nailing my flag to the mainmast. Never had a single word produced such an effect. Cousin Sol spun around, his breath caught in his throat, and actually jumped out of the window. He had always had odd ways of expressing his feelings, but this time he did it in such an original way that the only impression that came over me was one of amazement. I stood there staring into the gathering darkness. Then I saw a figure on the lawn, also looking at me with a stunned and amazed expression. “It’s you I’m thinking of, Nell,” said the figure. After which it disappeared. Then I heard the sound of someone running as fast as he could along the avenue. He was a very extraordinary young man. Things went on as usual at Hatherley House, in spite of Cousin Sol’s characteristic declaration of affection . He never sounded me out about my feelings for him , and several days passed without his making the slightest allusion to the matter. Evidently, he thought he had done all that was indispensable in such circumstances. However, from time to time, he happened to embarrass me terribly, when he appeared, stood right in front of me, and looked at me with the stare of stone, which was absolutely dreadful. “Don’t do that, Sol,” I said to him one day, “you make me shiver from head to foot. ” “Why do I give you shivers, Nelly?” he said. “Isn’t it because you have affection for me?” “Oh! yes, I have enough affection. I have some for Lord Nelson, if that’s what it is, but I wouldn’t like his statue to come and stand in front of me and stand for hours looking at me. That gets me in a state. ” “What could have put Lord Nelson into your head?” said my cousin. “I certainly don’t know. ” “Do you have the same affection for me as you have for Lord Nelson, Nell?” –Yes, only stronger. And poor Sol had to be content with this little glimmer of encouragement, for Elsie and Miss Maberly burst into the room with a loud noise and put an end to our tête-à-tête. I had affection for my cousin, that was certain. I knew what a simple and loyal character lay beneath his quiet exterior. And yet the idea of ​​having Sol Barker for a lover—Sol, whose very name is synonymous with timidity—was too incredible. Why wasn’t he infatuated with Grace, or with Elsie? They would have known what to do with him. They were older than I. They could encourage him or rebuke him, if they preferred. But Grace was busy flirting very gently with my brother Bob, and Elsie seemed to suspect absolutely nothing. I have remembered a typical trait of my cousin’s character, which I cannot refrain from relating here, although it is entirely outside the scope of my narrative. It was on the occasion of his first visit to Hatherley House. The Rector’s wife came one day to visit us, and the responsibility of receiving her fell to Sol and me. Everything went very well at first. Sol was extraordinarily animated and talkative. Unfortunately, a feeling of hospitality took hold of him, and, despite numerous signs and warning glances, he asked the visitor if he would be so kind as to offer her a glass of wine. Now, as if misfortune had willed it, our supply had just been completed, and although we had written to London, the consignment had not yet arrived at its destination. I waited for the reply, hardly breathing. I hoped for a refusal, but what was my terror! She accepted with eagerness. “Don’t bother ringing, Nell,” said Sol. “I’ll be the wine waiter.” And with a confident smile, he went to the small cupboard where the decanters were usually kept. It was only after he had gone all the way in that he suddenly remembered having heard earlier that morning that there was no more wine in the house. His mental anguish was such that he spent the rest of Mrs. Salter’s visit in the cupboard and refused to come out until she had gone. If there had been any possibility of the wine cupboard having another outlet, which led somewhere else, the matter would have been arranged, but I knew old Mrs. Salter perfectly acquainted with the geography of the house; she knew it as well as I did. She waited three-quarters of an hour for Sol to reappear. Then she went away in a very bad mood. “My dear fellow,” she said, as she told the story to her husband, and in her indignation resorting to language almost copied from writing, “one would have said that the cupboard had opened and swallowed him up. ” Chapter 26. “Jack is coming in by the two o’clock train,” said Bob one morning, appearing at breakfast with a telegram in his hand. I caught a reproachful glance from Sol, but that didn’t stop me from expressing my joy at the news. “We’ll have a great time when he’s here,” said Bob. “We ‘ll drain the fishpond. We’ll have endless fun. Won’t it, Sol, it will be lovely?” Sol’s opinion of how lovely it was was evidently one that cannot be expressed in words, for he only replied with an inarticulate grunt. That morning I thought a long time about Jack in the garden. After all , I was growing up, as Bob had rather rudely reminded me. I had to be reserved in my behavior from now on. A man, in the flesh, had indeed cast a loving glance at me.
When I was a child, having Jack behind me and kissing me, it might have been all right, but now I had to keep him at a distance. I remembered that one day he had given me a dead fish which he had pulled from the Hatherley Brook, and that I kept this among my most precious treasures, until one day a treacherous odor which pervaded the house caused my mother to write a letter full of abuse to Mr. Burton, because he had declared our drainage system to be as perfect as could be desired. I must learn to be of a stiff politeness which keeps people at a distance. I pictured our meeting in my mind, and I rehearsed it. The clump of honeysuckle representing Jack, I approached it solemnly, made a stately curtsey to him, and addressed these words to him, holding out my hand: “Lieutenant Hawthorne, I am very glad to see you.” Elsie came in while I was engaged in this exercise; She made no observation, but at lunch I heard her ask Sol whether idiocy ran in a family, or whether it remained confined to individuals. At this, poor Sol blushed terribly and began to stammer in the most confused manner, trying to explain. Chapter 27. The yard of our farmhouse opens on the avenue, about equidistant from Hatherley House and the lodge. Sol, I, and Master Nicholas Cronin, son of an esquire[2] in the neighborhood, went there after lunch. This imposing demonstration was intended to suppress a revolt which had broken out in the hen-house. The first news of the insurrection had been brought to the house by little Bayliss, son and heir of the man in charge of the hens, and my presence had been urgently required. Let me say in passing that poultry was the department of domestic science for which I was specially charged; and that no action was being taken in their regard without my advice and assistance. Old Bayliss hobbled out on our arrival and gave me great details of the riot. It appears that the crested hen and the bantam cock had acquired wings of such length that they were able fly into the park and that the example set by these leaders had been contagious, to the point that old matrons of regular morals, such as the bow-legged Cochinchineses, had shown a propensity for vagrancy and pushed their way even onto the defended ground. A council of battle was held in the courtyard, and it was unanimously decided that the mutineers should have their wings clipped. What a mad dash we made! By we, I mean Master Cronin and me, for Cousin Sol remained hovering in the distance, scissors in hand, and encouraging us. The two culprits evidently suspected why they were wanted, for they rushed under the haystacks, or over the cages to the point that one would have thought one was dealing with at least half a dozen crested hens and Bantam cocks, playing hide-and-seek in the courtyard. The other hens seemed to be quietly interested in the proceedings, and only gave the occasional mocking cluck. However, it was not the same with the Bantam’s favorite wife. She positively abused us from her perch. The ducks formed the most unruly part of this assembly, for although they had nothing to do with the beginning of this disorder, they showed keen interest in the fugitives, ran after them with all the speed of their short yellow legs , and obstructed the steps of the pursuers. “We have her,” I cried, panting, when the crested hen was hemmed in at a corner. “Get her, Master Cronin. Ah! you missed her ! You missed her! Stop her, Sol. Oh! my God! She’s coming my way.” “Very well, Miss Montague,” cried Master Cronin, while I caught the unfortunate bird by the legs and prepared to put it under my arm to prevent it from fleeing again. “Let me hold it for you. ” “No, no, please catch the cock. There he is! Look, there, behind the haystack! Go one way, I’ll go the other. ” “He’s going by the front gate,” cried Sol. “Cabbage!” I cried in my turn, “Cabbage! Oh! he’s gone!” And we both rushed into the park to pursue him. We turned the corner, went into the avenue, where I found myself face to face with a young man with a very tanned face, in a checked suit, who was strolling towards the house. There was no mistaking him with those laughing gray eyes. Even if I hadn’t looked at him, instinct, I’m sure, would have told me it was Jack. Was it possible for me to look dignified, with the crested hen stuffed under my arm? I made an effort to sit up, but the scoundrel of a bird seemed to suspect that he had at last found a protector, for he began to squawk with redoubled violence. In my despair, I let go of her and burst out laughing. Jack did the same. “How are you, Nell?” he said, holding out his hand. Then, in a voice that showed astonishment: “Why, you’re not at all what you were when I last saw you . ” “Ah! Then I didn’t have a hen under my arm,” I said. “Who would have thought that little Nelly would ever have grown into a woman?” said Jack, still completely in his astonishment. “You didn’t expect me to grow up to be a man, did you?” I said with deep indignation. And then, abruptly abandoning all reserve: “We’re mighty glad you’re coming, Jack. Don’t be in such a hurry to get home. Come and help us catch the bantam cock. ” “You’re quite right,” said Jack in his old-fashioned cheerful voice. ” Come on!” And here we three were running like mentally ill people across the park, while poor Sol hurried to our aid, embarrassed in the rear with the scissors and the prisoner. Jack had his suit very rumpled for a visiting gentleman when he paid his respects to Mother in the afternoon, and my dreams of dignity and spare were scattered to the winds. Chapter 28. That May we had a regular company at Hatherley House. It was Bob, and Sol, and Jack Hawthorne, and Master Nicholas Cronin. It was, on the other hand, Miss Maberly, and Elsie, and Mother, and myself. In case of necessity, we could recruit half a dozen guests from the neighboring houses, so that we could form an audience when we produced charades or plays of our own. Master Nicholas Cronin, a young student from Oxford, given to sports and full of complaisance, was, by all accounts, a useful acquisition, for he was gifted with an astonishing talent for organization and execution. Jack did not show, by any means, the same spirit as formerly. In fact, we were unanimous in accusing him of being in love, which made him assume that silly air young people have in such circumstances, but he made no attempt to exonerate himself from this charming imputation. “What are we going to do today?” said Bob one morning. ” Have any of you any ideas? ” “Drain the pond,” said Master Cronin. “We haven’t enough men,” said Bob. “Let’s move on. ” “We must organize a fund for the Derby,” said Jack. “Oh! we have time for that: the races won’t be held until the second week. Let’s see, something else? ” “Lawn tennis,” suggested Sol hesitantly. “Lawn tennis, we don’t need it. ” “You could organize a dinner party at Hatherley Abbey,” I said. “Superb,” ​​cried Master M. Cronin, “that’s right. What do you say, Bob? ” “A first-class idea,” said my brother, eagerly adopting the proposal. “Dinners on marijuana are very much loved by those in the first phase of tender passion. ” “Well, how shall we get there, Nell?” said Elsie. “I won’t go at all,” I said. “I’d be very keen, but I have to plant those ferns that Sol went to fetch me. You’d better go on foot. It’s only three miles, and we could send little Bayliss ahead with the basket of provisions.” Then another obstacle arose. The lieutenant had sprained his ankle the day before. He hadn’t mentioned it to anyone until then, but now it was beginning to hurt . “Really, couldn’t,” said Jack, “three miles there, three back.” “Come now, don’t be lazy,” said Bob. “My dear boy,” said the lieutenant, “I’ve done enough marching for the rest of my life. If you had seen how eagerly our energetic general pushed me from Kabul to Kandahar, you would have pity on me. ” “Let’s leave the veteran alone,” said Master Nicholas Cronin. “Let’s have pity on this soldier who’s grown white in harness,” remarked Bob. “Enough of that joke!” said Jack. “I’ll tell you what I intend to do,” he continued, perking up. “You’ll give me the English cart, Bob, and I’ll drive it with Nell as soon as she’s finished planting her ferns. We can take care of the basket. You’re coming, aren’t you, Nell? ” “All right,” I said. Bob gave his approval to this arrangement, and everyone was pleased, except Master Salomon Barker, who cast a look of indulgent malice at the soldier. The matter finally settled, the whole party went to make preparations, and then they set off along the avenue. Chapter 29. It is hard to believe how much the condition of the ankle improved as soon as the last of the party had disappeared around the bend of the hedge. When the ferns had been planted, when the gig[3] was harnessed, Jack had regained all his activity, all his vivacity. “It seems to me that you took very little time to recover,” I said as we trotted through the windings of the little country path. “Indeed,” said Jack, “it’s because I had nothing at all, Nell. I wanted to talk with you. ” “You are not going to maintain that you told a lie for to be able to talk with me? I protested. “I should say forty,” said Jack, with aplomb. I was so lost in the contemplation of such depths of villainy in Jack’s character, that I made no further reply. I wondered whether Elsie would be flattered or indignant at being spoken of committing so many lies for her. “We were always such good friends when we were children, Nell,” began my companion. “Yes,” said I, looking down at the blanket thrown over our knees.
“I was beginning at this moment to become a young person of great experience, as you see, and to understand what certain inflections of the male voice signify. These are things one only acquires by practice. ” “You don’t seem to have as much affection for me as you did then,” said Jack. I was still entirely absorbed in the examination of the leopard skin before me. “Do you know, Nelly,” Jack continued, “that when I was camping in the open air in the icy passes of the Himalayas, when I saw the enemy army drawn up in battle array before me, in short…” he continued, suddenly assuming a passionate tone, “all the time I spent in that cursed hole of Afghanistan, I had no other thought than that of the little girl I had left in England. ” “Really!” I said in a low voice. “Yes,” said Jack, “I took the memory of you with me, and when I came back, you were no longer a little girl. I found you a beautiful woman, Nelly, and I wondered if you had forgotten the days of old.” Jack was beginning to become very poetic in his enthusiasm. Meanwhile, he had completely abandoned the old pony to his initiative, who was giving in to his chronic inclination, that of stopping to admire the landscape. “Now, Nelly,” said Jack, with a lapse of breath, like when you go to pull the cord for your rain shower, “one of the things you learn in campaigning is to get hold of the good things as soon as you see them. No delay, no hesitation, for you never know if someone else will carry it off while you ‘re trying to make up your mind. We’re coming to that, I thought despairingly, and there’s no window for Jack to jump out of as soon as he’s made the plunge. I had come to form an association of ideas between that of love and that of jumping out of the window, and that dated from poor Sol’s confession. “Don’t you think, Nell,” said Jack, “that you would have enough affection for me to bind your existence eternally to mine? Would you like to be my wife, Nelly?” He didn’t even jump out of the vehicle. There he sat, watching me with his bright gray eyes, while the pony strolled along, nibbling at the flowers on both sides of the road. He evidently wanted an answer. Somehow I thought I saw a pale, timid face looking at me from a dark background, and heard Sol’s voice making his declaration of love. Poor fellow, after all, he had gone out into the field first! “Could you, Nell?” asked Jack once more. “I have a great deal of affection for you, Jack,” I said, looking at him with some uneasiness, “but—” How his face changed at the monosyllable: “But I don’t think my affection extends that far. Besides, I ‘m so young, you see. I do believe your proposal would earn me a great deal of compliments and all that, but you mustn’t think of me from that point of view anymore. ” “Then you refuse me,” said Jack, turning slightly pale. “Why don’t you talk to Elsie?” I cried in my despair. “Why does everyone talk to me? ” “It’s not Elsie I want,” cried Jack, giving the pony a crack with his whip that surprised the unhurried quadruped a little. “What does everyone mean, Nell?” No answer. “I see how it is,” said Jack bitterly. “I’ve noticed that cousin, who’s always after you, since I’ve been here. Are you engaged to him ?” “No , no, I’m not. ” “Thank God!” replied Jack devoutly. “There’s hope yet. Perhaps, in time, you’ll come to better ideas. Tell me, Nell, do you like that simpleton of a medical student very much? ” “He’s not a simpleton,” I said indignantly, “and I like him just as much as I ever will. ” “You could like him just as much without liking him very much,” said Jack sulkily. Then neither of us said a word, until a loud shout from Bob and Master Cronin announced the arrival of the rest of the party. Chapter 30. If the country party was successful, it was entirely due to the. efforts of this last gentleman. Three lovers out of four people is out of proportion, and it took all his powers of fun to compensate for the disastrous effect of the others’ moods. Bob seemed to see only Miss Maberly’s charms. Poor Elsie remained to mope in isolation, while my two admirers spent their time looking at each other, then at me in turn. But Master Cronin fought bravely against this discouraging state of affairs , made himself agreeable to all, by exploring ruins or uncorking bottles with the same vehemence, the same energy. Cousin Sol, in particular, appeared discouraged and lacking in enthusiasm. He was convinced, I am sure, that my trip alone with Jack had been arranged in advance between us. But there was more pain than anger in his expression. Jack, on the contrary, I regret to say, was distinctly aggressive. It was this very thing that made me decide to choose my cousin to accompany me on the walk through the woods after lunch. Jack had finally taken on such a provocative air of landlordism that I was determined to put an end to it once and for all. I also resented him for having seemed cruelly mortified by my refusal and for having wanted to denigrate poor Sol behind his back. I was far from being in love with either of them, but after all, with my juvenile ideas of a fight on equal terms, I was revolted to see either of us take an advance that I regarded as an ill-gotten advantage. I felt that if Jack had not come back, I would have ended up approving my cousin in the long run . On the other hand, if it had not been Sol, I could never have refused Jack. For the moment, I loved them both too much to favor one or the other. How will it end? I wonder, I thought. I must do something decisive one way or the other, unless , perhaps, the best course is to wait and see what the future brings. Sol showed slight surprise when I chose him as my companion, but he accepted with a smile of gratitude. His spirits seemed considerably relieved. “So I haven’t lost you yet, Nell,” he said to me in a low voice, as we went deeper under the tall trees and the voices of the troop reached us, fainter and fainter with distance. “No one can lose me,” I said, “for so far no one has won me. I pray you, don’t talk about it any more. Couldn’t you talk as you did two years ago, and not be so dreadfully sentimental? ” “You’ll know why someday, Nell,” said the student reproachfully . Wait until the day you know love yourself; then you will understand. I made a slight pout of incredulity. “Let’s sit here, Nell,” said Cousin Sol, guiding me skillfully to a small mound covered with strawberries and moss, and perching on a tree stump beside me. Now, all that I ask you, is to answer one or two questions. After that I will persecute you no more. I sat down, with a resigned air, my hands on my knees. “Are you engaged to Lieutenant Hawthorne? ” “No,” I replied energetically. “Do you love him better than me? ” “No; I don’t.” Sol’s happiness thermometer registered at least 100 degrees in the shade. “Do you love me better than him, Nelly?” he said in a very tender voice. “No.” The thermometer dropped below zero again. “Do you mean to say that we are, in your eyes, exactly on the same level? ” “Yes.” “But you will have to choose between us one day, you know,” said Cousin Sol in a tone of gentle reproach. “I wish I weren’t tormented like this,” I cried, getting angry , “which is what women usually do when they are in the wrong.” You don’t love me at all. Otherwise you wouldn’t be pestering me like this. I think the two of you will end up driving me mad. And then I seemed about to burst into tears, at the same time that the Barker faction was showing signs of dismay and defeat. Don’t you see what it is, Sol? I said, laughing through my tears at his crestfallen expression. Suppose you had been brought up with two young girls, and had come to love them both very much, but had never had a preference for one, and had never even thought of marrying either. Then, to be told like that, point-blank, that you must choose one of them, and thus make the other very unhappy, you would find it, wouldn’t you, that it was not an easy thing to do. “Indeed, I don’t,” said the student. “Then you can’t blame me. ” “I don’t blame you, Nelly,” he replied, attacking a large foxglove with his cane. “I think you have every right to want to be sure of your dispositions. It seems to me, ” he continued—speaking in a somewhat broken voice, but speaking what he thought, like the true English gentleman that he was—”it seems to me that this Hawthorne is an excellent fellow. He has seen more of the world than I have. He always does and says the best thing to do and say, and when it is necessary, and certainly that is not one of the traits of my character. Besides, he is of good family. He has a bright future. I should, I think, be very grateful to you for your hesitation, Nell, and regard it as a proof of your good heart. ” “We will not speak of this again,” I said, thinking to myself that this fellow was of a much finer nature than the one he was praising. Look, my jacket is all stained with these dreadful fungi. I wonder where the others are now. It wasn’t long before we discovered them. First we heard shouts and laughter echoing in the long glades. Then, as we advanced in that direction, we were astonished to see the phlegmatic Elsie running as fast as she could through the wood, hatless, her hair flowing in the wind. My first idea was that some dreadful catastrophe had occurred— perhaps brigands, or a mad dog—and I saw my companion’s strong hand tighten on his stick. But when we were near the fugitive, we learned that the whole tragedy of the thing amounted to a game of hide-and-seek organized by the indefatigable Master Cronin. How we had fun, bending, hiding, running among the oaks of Hatherley.
How the good old abbot who had planted them would have felt horror, and how the long procession of black-robed monks would have begun to mutter their orations! Jack refused to take part in the game, pleading his bad ankle, and remained smoking under a tree, looking very sulky, casting glances full of gloomy intolerance at Solomon Barker, while the latter gentleman participated in the game with enthusiasm and distinguished himself by always taking and never taking anyone. Chapter 31. Poor Jack! He was certainly very unhappy that day. Even a favorably received lover would have been somewhat disoriented, I think, by an incident that occurred on our way home. It had been arranged that we should all return on foot. The cart had already been sent back with the empty basket, so we took Thorn Lane, and then across the fields. We were just about to get over a wire fence to cross Father Brown’s ten-acre piece of land, when Master Cronin came back and said we had better take the road . “The road?” said Jack. ” Nonsense . We’re gaining a quarter of a mile over that field . ” “Yes, but there’s some danger. We’d better go around. ” “Where’s the danger?” said our soldier, twirling his mustache contemptuously . “Oh! it’s nothing,” said Cronin. That quadruped in the middle of the meadow is a bull, and a bull with a bad temper. That’s all. I don’t think we should let the ladies go. “We won’t go,” the ladies chorused. “Then let’s follow the hedge back to the road,” Sol suggested. “You can go whichever way you like,” said Jack grumpily. “As for me, I’m going through the meadow. ” “Don’t act like a mentally ill person, Jack,” said my brother. “It’s good for you guys to think of turning your backs on an old cow; I can’t think of one. It hurts my pride, you see, and I’ll join you on the other side of the farm.” And with that, Jack buttoned his coat with a truculent air, brandished his cane boastfully, and walked out into the ten-acre meadow. They gathered near the gate and watched events anxiously. Jack did his best to appear absorbed in contemplating the landscape and the probable state of the weather, for he was glancing around him and up at the clouds with a preoccupied air. However, his glances started in the direction of the bull and returned to it I know not how. The animal, after a long and fixed examination of the intruder, had retreated into the shadow of the hedge on one side, and Jack was following the main axis of the field. “It’s all right,” I said, “he’s moved out of the way. ” “I think he’s making him walk,” said Master Nicholas Cronin. “He’s a very malicious and cunning animal.” Master Cronin had hardly finished these words when the bull came out of the shadow of the hedge, and began to stamp his feet while shaking his black, evil-looking head. At this moment Jack was in the middle of the field and pretended not to notice his adversary, though he quickened his pace a little. The maneuver the bull performed next consisted of quickly describing two or three small circles. Then he stopped, gave a roar, lowered his head, raised his tail , and headed toward Jack at full speed. There was no time to pretend ignorance of the animal. Jack looked around for a moment. He had no other weapon than his small cane to stand up to this angry half-ton of meat that was charging toward him at a fast pace. He did the only thing he could, which was to run toward the hedge on the other side of the field. At first Jack was condescending enough to run, but then he broke into a quiet, contemptuous trot, a sort of compromise between his dignity and his fear, a thing so amusing that, despite our terror, we burst out laughing together. Little by little, however, as he heard the galloping of hooves approaching, he quickened his pace, and finally took to flight for good and shelter. His hat had flown off, the tails of his coat were flapping in the wind, and his enemy was now only ten yards from him. Even if our hero of Afghanistan had had all of Ayoub Khan’s cavalry at his heels, he could not have covered that distance in less of minutes. However fast he went, the bull went faster still, and they seemed to reach the hedge at the same time. We saw Jack plunge boldly into it, and a second later he came out the other side, in one go, as if he had been thrown from a cannon, while the bull uttered a series of triumphant bellows through the hole made by Jack. We felt a sense of relief when we saw Jack shake himself off and set off in the direction of the house without a glance in our direction. When we arrived, he had retired to his room and it was not until lunchtime the next day that he reappeared, limping and looking very crestfallen. But none of us was cruel enough to allude to the event, and by judicious treatment we had him back in his normal state of good humor before lunchtime. Chapter 32. It was two days after the country party that our great Derby prize pool was to be drawn. It was an annual ceremony never omitted at Hatherley House. Counting visitors and neighbors, there were generally as many applications for tickets as there were horses entered. “The prize pool is drawn tonight, ladies and gentlemen,” said Bob, as master of the house. “The amount is ten shillings. The second has a quarter of the pool, the third gets his stake. No one can take more than one ticket, nor sell his ticket after having taken it. ” All this was proclaimed by Bob in a very pompous, very official voice, though the effect was somewhat lessened by a resounding Amen from Master Nicholas Cronin. Chapter 33. I must now forgo personal style for a moment. Up to this time my little story has consisted merely of a series of extracts from my private journal, but I have now to relate a scene which I learned of only after many months. Lieutenant Hawthorne, or Jack, as I cannot help calling him, had been very quiet since the campaign, and had given himself up to reverie. Now, as chance would have it, Master Salomon Barker came to the smoking-room after luncheon, on the day of the prize-money, and found the lieutenant sitting there making smoke, to amuse his solitary grandeur. To retreat would have seemed cowardly. So the student sat down without a word and began to leaf through the Graphic. Both levels found the situation equally embarrassing. They had gotten into the habit of taking the greatest care to avoid each other, and now they suddenly found themselves face to face, without a third party there to act as a buffer. The silence was becoming painful. The lieutenant yawned, coughed with ill-judged nonchalance, and continued to gloomily examine the newspaper he was holding. The ticking of the clock, the clatter of the balls coming from the other side of the corridor, where the billiard room was located, took on an intensity and monotony that, in the long run, became unbearable. Sol looked up once, but he met the eyes of his companion, who had just done exactly the same thing. The two young people immediately assumed an air of deep interest, exclusively in the drawings on the ceiling. Why quarrel with him? Sol thought to himself. After all, I only ask to play on equal terms. I’ll probably be badly received, but I’m not risking anything by offering him an opening for conversation. Sol’s cigar had gone out: the opportunity was too favorable to pass up. “Would you be so kind as to give me a match, Lieutenant?” he asked. The lieutenant was sorry, extremely sorry, but he didn’t have a single match. It was a bad start. Frosty politeness keeps you at a greater distance than actual rudeness. But Master Salomon Barker, like most timid people , was audacity itself, once the ice had been broken. He wanted no more of these pinpricks, no more misunderstandings; the time had come for definitive measures. He pushed his armchair to the middle of the room and stood opposite the astonished soldier. “You are courting Miss Nelly Montague,” he said. Jack rose from his sofa as quickly as if Farmer Brown’s bull had flown in through the window. “And if I do,” he said, twirling his singed mustache, “what the devil does it matter to you?” “Don’t get carried away,” said Sol, “sit down again; and let’s talk the matter over like reasonable people. I love her, too. ” “What the devil is this fellow getting at?” asked Jack , composing himself, and still steaming from the recent outburst. “In a nutshell, the fact is that we both love her,” continued Sol, emphasizing his remark with a movement of his bony finger. “And then?” said the lieutenant, giving some indications of a relapse. I suppose the most favored will win, and that the young lady is perfectly capable of making her own choice. You don’t expect me, do you, to withdraw from the race, merely because you are anxious to win the prize? “That’s right,” cried Sol, “one of us will have to withdraw . You have suggested the right idea. You see, Nelly, I mean Miss Montague, likes you better than me, as far as I can see, but she still likes me enough not to want to distress me by a formal refusal. ” “Honesty compels me to acknowledge,” said Jack, in a more conciliatory tone than he had spoken before, “that Nelly, I mean Miss Montague, likes you better than me, but that, nevertheless, she still likes me enough not to prefer my rival openly, in my presence.” “I do not agree with you,” said the student. “Indeed, I think you are mistaken, for she has told me so in her own words. However, what you say will make it easier for us to come to an understanding. It is perfectly obvious that as long as we show ourselves equally in love with her, neither of us can have the slightest hope of winning her. ” “There is some common sense in that,” said the lieutenant, with a thoughtful air, “but what do you propose? ” “I propose that one of us withdraw, to use your expression. There is no other alternative. ” “But who shall withdraw?” asked Jack. “Ah! that is the question. “I may plead that I have known her longer. ” “I may plead that I was the first to love her. ” The matter seemed to have reached a dead end. Neither of the young men was in the least disposed to abdicate in favor of his rival. “Let us see,” said the student, “if we cast lots.” It seemed fair, and they both agreed. But a new difficulty arose. Both felt a sentimental repugnance to risk the angel of their dreams on a chance as petty as the fall of a coin or the length of a straw. It was at this critical moment that Lieutenant Hawthorne had an inspiration. “I will tell you how we are going to settle the matter,” he proposed. “You and I have entered for the prize money of our Derby. If your horse beats mine, I give up my chance. If mine beats yours, you give up Miss Montague forever. Is that a deal ? ” “I have only one reservation to make,” said Sol. ” The races will be held in two days. During that time, neither of us must do anything to gain an unfair advantage over the other.” We will both agree to adjourn our courtship until the matter is decided. “Agreed!” said the soldier. “Agreed!” said Solomon. And they both sealed the engagement with a handshake. Chapter 34. As I have remarked, I knew nothing of the interview which had taken place between my suitors. I may incidentally say that, during that time, I was in the library, where I listened to Tennyson, which Master Nicholas Cronin read to me in his sonorous and musical voice . However, I noticed, in the evening, that these two young people showed a singular enthusiasm about their horses, and that neither was disposed to do anything to please me. I am happy to say that they were punished for this crime by fate, which assigned them worthless outsiders. Eurydice was, I believe, the horse that fell to Sol, while Jack drew the name Bicyclette. Master Cronin had for his part a horse called Iroquois. As for the others, they seemed delighted with their lot. Before going to bed, I glanced into the smoking-room, and was delighted to see Jack consulting the prophet of sport in the Racecourse while Sol was up to his neck in the Gazette. This sudden passion for the Turf seemed all the more strange, since, although I knew my cousin to be able to distinguish a horse from a cow, that was all his friends could grant him in the way of knowledge of that kind. The various people who were at the house were unanimous in finding that these ten days passed very slowly. I could not have said the same. Perhaps because I discovered something very unexpected and very pleasant during this period. It was a relief to feel myself free from all fear of hurting the sensibilities of either of my former lovers. I could now say what was the object of my choice, of my preference, for they had completely abandoned me, and left me to the society of my brother Bob or Master Nicholas Cronin. The new element of enthusiasm which horse-racing had brought seemed to have entirely driven their first passion from their minds. Never before had a house been so overrun with special tips, with such a number of odious printed matter, where a word about the shape of horses or their antecedents might by chance be found. The stable boys themselves were tired of saying how Bicyclette was descended from Velocipede, or of explaining to the medical student how Eurydice had come from Hades through Orpheus. One of them discovered that Eurydice’s maternal grandmother had come third in the Ebor Handicap; but the odd way in which he put the half-crown he had received over his left eye, while winking at the coachman with his right, gives some reason to doubt his assertion. And in a voice that smelled of beer, he said quietly that evening: “That fool!” He won’t notice the difference, and just to imagine it’s true is worth a dollar to him. Chapter 35. As Derby day approached, the excitement increased. Master Cronin and I exchanged glances and smiles as we watched Jack and Sol, after lunch, pounce on the newspapers and devour the betting lists. But the climax came the evening immediately before the race. The lieutenant had run to the station to get the latest news. He came back still running, frantically brandishing a crumpled newspaper above his head. “Eurydice is crowned,” he shouted. “Your horse is ruined, Barker. ” “What?” yelled Sol. “Yes, ruined—absolutely ruined in training, won’t run at all. ” “Let me see,” moaned my cousin, seizing the paper. Then he dropped it, rushed out of the room, and clattered down the stairs two at a time. We did not see him again until evening, when he stealthily reappeared, very disheveled, and hurried into his room. Poor fellow! I should have sympathized with his grief, had I not remembered his recent disloyal conduct towards me. From that moment on, Jack seemed quite a different man. He immediately began to show me visible attentions, which was very annoying to me and to another person who was there. He played the piano. He sang. He proposed social amusements. In short, he usurped the functions ordinarily performed by Master Nicholas Cronin. I remember being struck by one remarkable fact: that on the morning of the Derby, the lieutenant seemed to have completely lost interest in the race. At breakfast, he was full of enthusiasm, but he didn’t even open the newspaper in front of him. It was Master Cronin who unfolded it at last and glanced at the columns. “What’s new, Nick?” asked my brother Bob. “Nothing much. Oh, yes, here’s something. Another railway accident. A meeting of trains, it seems, the Westinghouse brake didn’t work. Two killed, seven injured, and—by Jove! hear this: among the victims was one of the competitors in today’s Olympic Games.” A sharp splinter of wood entered his side, and this valuable animal had to be sacrificed on the altar of humanity. This horse’s name is Bicyclette. Hey, Hawthorne, you’ve spilled all your coffee on the tablecloth. Oh, I forgot: Bicyclette was your horse, wasn’t it? There’s your water luck, I’m afraid. I see that Iroquois, who had a low rating at the beginning, has become the favorite of the day. Chapter 36. Meaningful words, and I have no doubt that your perspicacity has taught you that, at least since the last three pages. Don’t call me a flirt, a coquette before you’ve weighed the facts. Consider my pride, which was stinging from the sudden abandonment of my lovers; consider how charmed I was by the confession made to me by the man whose love I had wished to hide from me, even though I returned it; consider the opportunities which presented themselves to him and which he took advantage of during the whole time that Jack and Sol systematically avoided me and in conformity with their ridiculous convention. Weigh all this, and then who among you will cast the first stone at the blushing girl who was the stake in the Derby prize pool? Here is the matter, as it appeared at the end of three very short months in the Morning Post: August 12–At Hatherley Church, marriage of Nicholas Cronin, Esquire, eldest son of Nicholas Cronin, Esquire, of Woodlands, Cropshire, to Miss Eleanor Montague, daughter of the late James Montague, Esquire, Justice of the Peace, at Hatherley House. Chapter 37. Jack set out, declaring that he was going to volunteer for a balloon expedition to the North Pole. But he returned three days later, and said he had changed his mind. He intended to retrace on foot the route taken by Stanley across equatorial Africa. Since then, he has let slip one or two bitter allusions to disappointed hopes and the unspeakable joys of death; but all things considered, he continues to be very well, and has recently been heard grumbling on such occasions as undercooked mutton and overcooked beef, allusions which may justly be regarded as indications of good health. Sol took it more calmly; but I fear the sword has sunk deeper into his soul. However, he recovered himself like the brave fellow he was. He even went so far as to point out the bridesmaids, which gave him the opportunity to lose himself in an inextricable labyrinth of words. He washed his hands of the rebellious phrase, and cut it in two to sit down, succumbing to his blush and the applause. I have heard that he has taken Grace Maberly’s sister as a confidant of his sorrows and disappointments and found in her the sympathy he expected. Bob and Grace are to be married in a few months, and it may be that another wedding will take place at the same time. THE AMERICAN’S STORY Chapter 38. This looks strange to you, he was saying, as I opened the door of the room where our half-social, half-literary circle met, but I could tell you much funnier things than these, devilishly funnier. As you see, it is not the people who know how to string English words together correctly, and who have received good educations, who are to be found in the funny places where I have seen myself. Gentlemen, most of the time, they are rude people, who can barely make themselves understood by word of mouth; much less describe, with pen and ink, the things they have seen, but if they could, they would make your Europeans’ hair stand on end with astonishment ; yes, gentlemen, that is so. His name was, I believe, Jefferson Adams. I know his initials were JA, for you can still see them deeply carved with a knife on the top panel, and to the right of our smoking-room door. He left us this souvenir, along with some artistic drawings he had executed with tobacco juice on our Turkish carpet, but apart from these relics, our American storyteller has disappeared from our world. He blazed like a brilliant meteor in the midst of our ordinary, quiet gatherings, and went to lose himself in the outer darkness. That evening, however, our Nevada host was completely fired up. So I quietly lit my pipe and settled myself on the nearest chair , taking care not to interrupt his story. “Mark this well,” he continued, “I do not want to pick a fight with your men of science.” I like, I respect a fellow who can put any beast or plant, from a holly berry to a grizzly bear, in its proper place, with names that would break your jaw, but if you want really interesting facts, facts full of savory juice, ask your whalers, your frontiersmen, your scouts, the Hudson’s Bay men, fellows who hardly know how to sign their names. There was then a pause, during which Master Jefferson Adams took out a long cigar and lit it. We observed strict silence, for experience had taught us that at the slightest interruption our Yankee immediately retreated into his shell. He looked around him with a smile of satisfied self-esteem, and noticing our attentive air, he resumed through a halo of smoke: “Well, which of you gentlemen has ever been to Arizona? None, I’ll wager.” And of all the English and Americans who put pen to paper, how many have been to Arizona? Very few, I ‘m sure. I went there, sir, I lived there for years, and when I think of what I saw there, I hardly believe I’m myself today. Ah! There’s one of the country! I was one of Walker’s buccaneers. It was thought appropriate to call us that. After we were dispersed, and our leader shot, several of us made our way and settled there. It was a complete English and American colony, with our wives and children. I believe there are still some of the old ones left, and they haven’t forgotten what I’m going to tell you. No, I guarantee you they haven’t forgotten it, as long as they’re on this side of the grave. But I was talking about the country, and I bet I would surprise you enormously if I didn’t talk about something else. To think that such a country would have been made for a few Greasers and a few half-breeds! It’s making a bad use of the blessings of Providence, I tell you. Marijuana grew there higher than the head of a man on horseback, and trees so dense that for leagues and leagues you couldn’t see a patch of blue sky, and orchids as big as umbrellas. Perhaps one of you has seen a plant called a flytrap somewhere in the States. “Dionoea muscipula,” said Dawson, our scholar par excellence, in a low voice . “Ah! Ten on the municipal nose, that’s it! You see a fly landing on that plant. Then you immediately see the two flaps of the leaf suddenly come together and hold the fly prisoner between them, crush it, grind it into small pieces. It looks just like a large octopus with its beak, and hours later, if you open the leaf, you see the body of the fly half digested, and in tiny pieces. Well, I saw in Arizona these fly traps with leaves eight, ten feet long, spines or teeth at least a foot long. They were capable of… But, God damn me, I’m going too fast. It was the death of Joe Hawkins that I wanted to tell you about. It’s the strangest thing you could ever hear. There was no one from Montana who didn’t know Joe Hawkins, Alabama Joe, as they called him there. He was an outdoorsman, I’ll tell you, but the damnedest skunk a man ever saw. A good fellow, remember, as long as you stroked him the right way, but the least bit of teasing he got, he was worse than a wildcat. I saw him fire his six-shooter into a crowd of men who were pushing him into Simpson’s bar while a dance was going on, and he stuck his bowie knife in Tom Hooper because he had accidentally poured his drink down his waistcoat. No, he didn’t back down from a murder, Joe, oh no, and you couldn’t trust him, as long as you didn’t have your eye on him.
For, at the time I’m talking about, when Joe Hawkins was swaggering through town and trampling the law under his revolver, there was an Englishman there named Scott, Tom Scott, if I remember rightly. That devil Scott was a real Englishman (I beg the pardon of the company present), and yet he didn’t much please the English gang over there, or the English gang didn’t suit him much. He was a quiet man, that Scott, even too quiet for such a rough population as that. They called him sly, but he wasn’t. He mostly kept to himself and didn’t get involved in any business as long as he was left alone. Some said he had been, as it were, persecuted in his own country, that he had been a Chartist, or something of that sort, that he had had to put his foot down and run off, but he never spoke of it himself and never complained. That Scott fellow was a sort of target for the Montana people, he was so quiet and simple-looking. He had no one to support him in his troubles, for, as I was saying just now, the English hardly looked upon him as one of their own, and more than one nasty joke was played on him. He never answered rudely; he was polite to everyone. I think people came to think he was lacking in energy, until one day he showed them they were mistaken. It was at Simpson’s bar that the whole thing started, and it ended in the funny thing I was about to tell you. Chapter 39. Alabama Joe and one or two other rascals were now after the English, and they spoke their minds openly, although I had warned them it might end in a terrible affair. That night, in particular, Joe was more than half drunk. He was swaggering about town with his revolver and looking for someone to squabble with. So he went back to the bar, where he was certain to meet some of the English as disposed to a quarrel as he himself was. And sure enough, indeed; there were half a dozen of them loitering about, and Tom Scott was standing alone at the stove. Joe sat down by the table, and put his revolver and bowie-knife before him. “Here are my arguments,” said Jeff, “if ever one of these white-livered Englishmen dares to give me the lie.” I tried to stop him, gentlemen, but he was not a man to be so easily persuaded, and he began to make such remarks as no one could endure them. Yes, a greaser himself would have caught fire, if you had told him so much about the Grease Country. There was excitement in the bar, and everyone put their hands on their guns, but before they had time to draw them, a calm voice was heard from the side of the stove, saying: “Say your prayers, Joe Hawkins, for, by Heaven, you are a dead man.” Joe turned and made a gesture for his gun, but it was no use. Tom Scott was standing and holding him under his Derringer. His pale face was smiling, and it was the devil himself you saw in his eyes. “Not that the old country has been very kind to me,” he said, “but no one will ever speak ill of it to my face. ” For a second or two I saw his finger gradually press the trigger. Then he burst out laughing, and throwing his revolver to the ground: “No,” he said, “I can’t kill a man who’s half drunk. Keep your filthy life, Joe, and use it better than you have been doing. You’ve been nearer the grave tonight than you’ll ever be until your time comes. You’d better go, for the forest, I’ll wager. No, don’t look at me with that fierce air. I’m not afraid of your gun: a braggart is very near being a coward.” And he turned away with a contemptuous air, relighted his pipe, which he had not yet finished smoking, at the stove, while Alabama slipped out of the bar, accompanied by the loud laughter of the English. I saw his face as he passed me, and in that face I saw murder, gentlemen, murder, as clearly as anything I have ever seen most clearly. I lingered at the bar after this quarrel, and I looked at Tom Scott, with whom all the men were going to shake hands. It seemed to me, as it were, strange to see him looking so smiling and cheerful, for I knew Joe’s bloodthirsty temper, and I thought the Englishman had little chance of seeing the next morning. He lived in a sort of deserted place, you know, quite off the beaten track, and to get there he had to go by way of the Flytrap Gully. This gully was a dark, marshy place, very lonely even in the daytime, for it gave you a thrill just to see those great leaves, eight or ten feet long, suddenly close up when anything touched them, but at night there wasn’t a soul about. Besides, in some parts of the ravine the ground was soft to a great depth, and if a body had been thrown in, it would not have been seen again the next day. I thought I saw Alabama Joe crouching under the leaves of the great Flytrap in the darkest part of the ravine, looking fierce, revolver in hand; I almost saw him, gentlemen, as if I had him right in front of me. About midnight, Simpson closes his bar, so that we had to leave. Tom Scott set off at a brisk pace on his three-mile journey. I had not failed to give him a word of warning as he passed by me, for I had a sort of affection for my man. “Keep your Derringer loose in your belt, sir,” I said, “for it may come to pass that you may need it. ” He looked me full in the face with a quiet smile, and then I lost sight of him in the darkness. I was convinced I should not see him again. He had scarcely disappeared when Simpson came to me and said: “There’s going to be a fine affair at Flytrap Gully tonight. The boys say Hawkins left half an hour early to wait for Scott and shoot him point-blank. I reckon the coroner will have his work cut out tomorrow.” Chapter 40. What happened in the gully that night? This was a question that was sure to be asked the next morning.
A half-blood was at daybreak in Ferguson’s shop. He said that a little while before he had been in the vicinity of the ravine at about one o’clock in the morning. It was not easy to get him to tell his story, he looked so frightened, but at last he told us that he had heard terrible screams in the middle of the silence of the night. There were no shots, but a series of howls, as one might say muffled howls, such as a man would utter if his head was in a serape and he was in pain to death. Abner Brandon, I, and some others were at the store at the time. So we mounted our horses to go to Scott’s house and to do so we crossed the ravine. There was nothing particular to be seen there, no blood, no marks of struggle; and when we arrived at Scott’s house, he came out to meet us, as cheerful as a lark. “Hello! Jeff,” he said, “no need of a pistol at all.” Come in and have a cocktail, comrades! “Did you see or hear anything last night on your way home?” I said. “No,” he replied, “it was very quiet. A sort of wail from an owl, in Flytrap Ravine, and that’s all. Come on, dismount and have a drink. ” “Thank you,” said Abner. So we dismounted, and Tom Scott rode with us when we left. Chapter 41. There was a tremendous commotion in the Main Street when we arrived there. The American party seemed to have lost their minds. Alabama Joe was gone. Not a crumb could be found. Since he went to the ravine, no one had seen him. When we dismounted, there was a large gathering in front of Simpson’s Bar, and I tell you, people were looking askance at Tom Scott. Pistols were cocked, and I saw Scott put his hand in his belt too. There wasn’t a shadow of an Englishman in that place. “Stand aside, Jeff Adams,” said Zebb Humphrey, “the greatest scoundrel who ever lived, you have nothing to do with this affair. Say, folks, are free Americans going to let themselves be murdered by a damned Englishman? It was the quickest thing I ever saw. There was a melee and a shot. Zebb was on the ground, with a Scott bullet in his thigh, and Scott was also on the ground, held down by a dozen men. It would have done him no good to struggle. So he didn’t move. They seemed not to know what to do with him, then one of Alabama’s close friends decided them. “Joe’s disappeared,” he said. “That’s all that’s certain, and this is the man who killed him.” Someone among you knows he went to the ravine last night on business; he hasn’t come back. This Englishman over there went after him. They fought. There were shouts from the direction of the big Flytraps. He must have played one of his sneaky tricks on poor Joe and thrown him into the swamp. No wonder the body is gone. Are we going to stay like this and let the English kill our comrades? No, no. Let him appear before Judge Lynch, that’s my advice. “Let’s lynch him,” cried a hundred furious voices, for by this time the whole colony had come running down to the last scoundrel. “Come, children, let’s get a rope and hoist him up. Let’s hang him at Simpson’s door. ” “Wait a moment,” said another, coming forward. “Let’s hang him beside the big Flytrap in the ravine.” Let Joe see that he is avenged, since that is where he is buried. There was a loud applause, and they left, taking Scott in their midst, tied to a mustang, and surrounded by a guard on horseback, his revolver ready to fire, for we knew that there were about twenty Englishmen there , who did not seem to recognize Judge Lynch, and who were only waiting for the moment to give battle. I left with them, my heart very moved with pity for poor Scott, who nevertheless did not seem moved at all, no, not at all. He was a tough man. It may seem strange to you to hang a man from a flytrap , but ours was indeed a tree. The leaves were like boats coupled together, with a hinge between them and the thorns at the bottom. Chapter 42. We went down into this ravine to where the largest of these trees grew and we saw it, with some firm leaves and others spread out. But we saw something else in this place. Standing around the tree were about thirty men, all English, and armed to the teeth. Evidently, they were waiting for us and seemed very ready for the work: they had come for some reason and they intended to achieve their object. There was all the materials there for the finest melee I had ever seen. As we were coming up, a tall, red-bearded Scotsman—his name was Cameron—stepped a few steps ahead of the others, holding his revolver cocked. “See, lads, you have no right to touch a hair on this man’s head. You haven’t yet proved that Joe is dead, and even if you had, you wouldn’t have proved that Scott killed him. In any case, it would have been in self- defense, for you all know that Joe was lying in wait to kill Scott, to shoot him at point-blank range. So, I repeat, you have no right to touch this man, and what’s even better, I’ve gathered thirty arguments, each with six shots, to dissuade you from doing so. ” “That’s an interesting point, and one worth discussing,” said the man who was Alabama Joe’s close companion. We heard the cocking of pistols, the firing of pistols, the drawing of knives, and the two troops began to fire at each other. It was evident that the average mortality rate would rise in Montana. Scott was standing back, with a pistol to his ear, if he made a movement. He looked as calm, as calm as if he had not his money on the gaming table, when suddenly he started and uttered a cry which rang in our ears like a trumpet blast. “Joe!” he cried, “Joe. Look! Here he is in the Flytrap.” Everyone turned and looked in the direction he pointed. Ah! Jerusalem. I believe this picture will never be effaced from our memory. One of the large leaves of the Flytrap, which had remained closed and lying on the ground, was beginning to open little by little on the hinge. In the hollow of the leaf, Joe Alabama was stretched out, like a child in its cradle. As it closed, the leaf had slowly driven its long thorns through his heart . We saw clearly that he had made an attempt to open a passage and get out, for there was a slit in the thick, fleshy leaf, and he had his bowie-knife in his hand, but the leaf had already enclosed it. No doubt he had lain down in it to wait for Scott, out of the damp, and it had closed over him, as you see your little hothouse plants close over a fly, and we found him there, just as he was, torn to pieces, reduced to a pulp by the great rough teeth of the cannibal plant. That is the thing, gentlemen, and you will agree that it is a curious story. “And what became of Scott?” asked Jack Sinclair. “Well, we carried him on our shoulders to Simpson’s bar, and he bought us a round of drinks.” And he even made a speech, a famous speech again, standing on the counter. It spoke of the English Lion and the American Eagle who would henceforth go arm in arm. Now, gentlemen, as the story was long, and my cigar is finished, I think I’ll trot off before it gets late. He wished us good night and left. Chapter 43. –That’s a very extraordinary story, said Dawson, who would have believed it. that a Dionoea would have such power. “A devilishly murky story,” said young Sinclair. “Obviously,” said the Doctor, “he’s a man who sticks to the most prosaic truth. ” “Or he’s the most original liar who ever lived. I wonder which of them was right.” [1] Landowner. [2] A gentleman’s honorary title. [3] Convertible. 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