The Ghost Camp

Here Mr. Blount carefully opened the envelope, and was slightly reassured by the “Dear Mr. Blount” which introduced the subject-matter.

“We are afraid, Imogen and I, that Edward has written you an extremely disagreeable, not to say threatening letter. He was furiously angry, would hear neither reason nor explanation, when the O’Hara stockyard mystery was unveiled. You must confess that explanation was difficult, not to say embarrassing for your friends. We are certain that there has been some great mistake which needs clearing up without delay. It will never do for you to lie under this accusation – false as we believe it to be – of living with dishonest people, and with the knowledge of their malpractices; of course, you may not know that no men are more artful in hiding their true characters than our bush cattle and horse thieves (or ‘duffers’) to use a vulgar expression. They are not coarse ruffians – on the contrary very well-mannered, hospitable, even polite, when compared with the labourers of other lands; good-natured, and most obliging, outside of their ‘profession.’ Indeed I heard a story from a nice old priest, that visited our station, when I was a girl, which explains much. A bushman was dilating on the noble qualities of a comrade. ‘Jack’s the best-hearted chap going; good-natured? why, he’d lend you his best horse, if you was stuck for one on the road. If he hadn’t a horse handy, why, he’d shake one for you, rather than let you leave the place afoot!’ Of course the situation looks bad, on the face of it, but Imogen and I will never believe anything against your honour. You have a friend at court, perhaps two.” Besides this – there was a tiny scrap inside the envelope, apparently pushed in after the letter had been closed.

“Don’t believe you knew anything. – Imogen.”

Mr. Blount read this soothing epistle twice over and put away the scrap in his pocket-book very carefully. Having done this, he sat down and wrote hard until summoned to lunch, after which he packed up carefully all his belongings, leaving out only such as might be wanted for an early morning start. He was more grave than usual at that comfortable meal, and it was with an effort that he replied to Sheila’s query whether he’d received bad news.

“Not bad, no! only important, which comes almost to the same thing. You have to think over plans and make up your mind, perhaps, to start off at a moment’s warning, which is always distressing.”

“Oh! nonsense,” said Sheila, who seemed in better spirits than usual. “I often wish I were a man; how I would wire in when there was anything to do, even if it was only half good. Men do too much thinking, I believe. If they’d only ride hard at the fence, whatever it is, they’d get over, or through it, and have a clear run for their money.”

“But suppose they came a cropper and broke a leg, an arm, or their neck, as I see one of your steeplechase riders did at Flemington the other day, what then?”

“Oh! a man must die some time,” replied the cheerful damsel, who looked indeed the personification of high health, abounding spirits, and as much courage as can be shown by a woman without indiscretion, “and you get through nine times out of ten: the great thing is to go at it straight. ‘Kindness in another’s woes, courage in your own,’ that’s what Gordon says.”

“Who is Gordon, may I ask?”

“Why, Adam Lindsay, of course, our Australian poet. Haven’t you heard of him? I thought everybody had.”

“And do you read him?”

“Yes. Every Australian man, woman, and child, if they’re old enough, knows him by heart.”

“I think I’ve caught the name. Was he born here?”

“Is he dead? Perhaps you’ve heard of Mark Twain?” said Sheila scornfully, who seemed to be in rather a reckless humour. “Well! he is. No! he was not born here, more’s the pity, for he knows us cornstalks better than we know ourselves. He was the son of a British officer, the family’s Scotch. I’m half Scotch, that’s partly why I am so proud of him. But it would have been all the same whatever country owned him. I find my tongue’s running away with me, as usual – the unruly member, as the Bible says. But you take my tip, Mr. Blount, ‘never change your mind when you pick your panel’ (that’s Gordon again), it’s the real straight griffin, with horse or man.”

“This is a wonderful country, and you’re a wonderful young woman. I haven’t time to analyse you, just now, for my affairs, which I had intended to treat to a short holiday, are conspiring to hurry me up. At what hour can I leave in the morning?”

“To-morrow?” said the girl, and her face changed. “You don’t mean to say you’re going away to-morrow?”

“Sorry to say I must; you saw that I got a telegram, and if I don’t clear, as your people say, I may lose thousands, perhaps a fortune.”

“The coach goes at six, sharp; and gets to the railway-station at the same hour the next morning. You’d like breakfast first, I suppose?”

“It’s too early to ask you to have it ready – anything will do.”

“Oh! I daresay. You’ve had some decent meals here, haven’t you?”

“Never better in my life.”

“Well, you’ll go away to-morrow, fit and ready for as long a day’s work as ever you did. It’s almost a pity you’re having the Sergeant to dine. However, he’ll not stay late. I’ll send over and take your coach tickets. You’d better have everything packed and ready this afternoon. Cobb and Co. wait for nothing and nobody.”

“There’s no doubt (Mr. Blount told himself) that the conditions of life in Her Majesty’s colonies tend to the development of the individual with a completeness undreamed of in our narrow and perhaps slightly prejudiced insular life. What a difference there is between this young woman and a girl of her rank of life in any part of Britain. What energy, intelligence, organising power she has; I feel certain that she could rally a wavering regiment on a pinch, drive a coach, ride a race, or swim a river, in fact do all sorts of things, as well as, ay, better than, the ordinary man. This is going to be a great country, and the Australians a great people – arts of war and peace, and so on. How good-looking she is, too,” concluding his reflections with this profound observation, which showed that in spite of his subjective turn of mind, the primary emotions still held sway.

Mr. Blount betook himself to his packing with such concentration, that by the time he had finished his letters, nothing remained of his impedimenta, but such as could be easily carried out and packed in the coach, while he was finishing a distinctly early breakfast.

These said letters required much thought and preparation, it would appear. First there was a vitally necessary answer to Mr. Bruce’s warlike communication. To this he concluded to reply as follows:

“Bunjil Hotel, September– .

“Dear Sir, – While fully admitting that appearances are against me, I think that you might with propriety have suspended judgment, if not until the offences charged against me were proved, or, at least, until you had heard my explanation, which I give seriatim.

“No. 1. As a matter of fact, I did live with the O’Haras and two other men on the ‘Lady Julia’ claim. They were hardworking, and well-conducted miners. For all that I saw, they might have been the most honest men in Australia. I knew that cattle were brought to the stockyard late, and taken away early. I judged it to be the custom of the country, and accepted their statement that they were bought and sold in the ordinary way. I was cautioned not to go near the yard for fear of frightening them. I did not see a brand, or look for one – nor should I have known its significance if I had. As to the O’Haras, and their ‘mates,’ whatever might have been their previous history, no men could have worked harder, or more regularly; they could not have actively assisted in the cattle trade without my noticing it.

“No. 2. That I did not inform you of my position in the claim.

“It would certainly appear to have been my duty so to do under ordinary circumstances, after I knew of your suspicions. But the circumstances were not ordinary.

“And the question arises, Should I have been justified in betraying – for that would have been the nature of the act – the suspicious, merely suspicious circumstances, which I observed during my involuntary comradeship with these men? I had eaten their salt, been treated with respect, and in all good faith shared their confidences. Moreover – and this is the strongest point in my defence – the man known as Little-River-Jack – of his real name, of course, I am ignorant – certainly saved my life, on the dizzy and narrow pass, known locally as ‘Razor Back’ – of that I feel as certain as that I am writing at this table. In another moment, my frightened horse, unused to mountain travelling, would have assuredly fallen, or thrown himself over the precipice, which yawned on either side of him, while I was equally unable either to control him or to dismount. By this bushman’s extraordinary quickness and resource, I was enabled to do both. Was I to give information which would have driven him into the hands of the police?

“As a citizen, I may have been bound to assist the cause of justice. But as a man, I felt that I could not bring myself to do so.

“3. For the rest, I dissociated myself without more delay than was absolutely necessary to collect my effects, and return the borrowed horse, from such compromising company. I was offered my ‘share’ – not a very small amount – of the last gold won, but declined it, and riding late, reached this hotel at midnight of the day we parted. I heard that the senior constable of the nearest police station had instructions to take out warrants for the persons referred to, including myself, but, from some alleged defect in the evidence, that course was not persevered with.

“Circumstances (wholly unconnected with this unfortunate affair) compel me to leave to-morrow morning for Tasmania. I have entered fully into the ‘case for the defendant.’ If the jury consisting of yourself, with your amiable wife and her sister – whose kindness I can never forget, and on whose mercy I rely – do not acquit me of all evil intent, I can only hope that time may provide the means of my complete rehabilitation. Meanwhile I can subscribe myself with a clear conscience,

“Yours sincerely,“Valentine Blount.”

Having with much thought, and apparent labour, concocted this conciliatory epistle, of which he much doubted the effect, he commenced another which apparently did not need the same strain upon the mental faculties. This was addressed to Mrs. E. Hamilton Bruce, Marondah, Upper Sturt, and thus commenced:

“Dear Mrs. Bruce, – To say that for your kind and considerate letter I feel most deeply grateful, would be to understate my mental condition lamentably. After reading Mr. Bruce’s letter, it seemed as if the whole world was against me; and, conscious as I was of entire innocence, except of an act of egregious folly (not the first one, I may confess, which a sanguine temperament and a constitutional disregard of caution have placed to my account), my spirits were lowered to the level of despair. There seemed no escape from the dilemma in which I found myself.

“I stood convicted of egregious folly, or dishonour, with the sin of ingratitude thrown in. I could not wonder at the harsh tone of your husband’s letter. What must he – what must you all – think of me? was the inexorable query. Suicide seemed the only refuge. Moral felo-de-se had already been committed.

“At this juncture I re-read your letter, for which I shall never cease to bless the writer, and, may I add, the probable sympathiser? Hope again held up her torch, angel bright, if but with a wavering gleam. I regained courage for a rational outlook. I think I gave a sketch of my imminent peril and the rescuer to Miss Imogen, as we rode away from Marondah on that lovely morning. Her commentary was that it was not unlike an incident in Anne of Geierstein, except that the heroine was the deliverer in that case. We agreed, I think, in rating the book as one of the best in the immortal series.

“I have fully explained the position in which I stand, to Mr. Bruce in my letter, which you will doubtless see, so I need not recapitulate. I have been recalled on important business (unconnected with this regrettable affair) to Hobart, for which city I leave early to-morrow. Meanwhile, I trust that all doubts connected with my inconsistent conduct will be cleared up with the least possible delay.

“In which fullest expectation,

“I remain,“Very gratefully yours,“Valentine Blount.”

The writer of these important letters, after having carefully sealed them, made assurance doubly sure by walking to the post-office, and placing them with his own hands in the receptacle for such letters provided. He further introduced himself to the acting postmaster, and ascertained that all correspondence – his own included – which were addressed to the vicinity of Bunjil, would be forwarded next morning soon after daylight, reaching their destination early on the following morning. “It’s only a horse mail,” said that official, “the bags are carried on a pack-horse. But Jack Doyle’s a steady lad, and always keeps good time – better, for that matter, than some of the coach-contractors.”

The rest of Mr. Blount’s correspondence was apparently easily disposed of, some being granted short replies, some being placed in a convenient bag, and others unfeelingly committed to the flames. About the time when the Sergeant and dinner arrived, Mr. Blount held himself to be in a position of comparative freedom from care, having all his arrangements made, and, except Fate stepped in with special malignity, everything in train for a successful conclusion to a complicated, unsatisfactory beginning. His city address was left with the acting postmaster aforesaid; all letters, papers, &c., were to be forwarded to Valentine Blount, Esq., Imperial Club, Melbourne.

He would probably return in three weeks or a month; if not, full directions would be forwarded by his agent.

The dinner was quite up to the other efforts of the Bunjil Hotel chef, an expatriated artist whom advanced political opinions had caused to abandon “la belle France.” So he said, amid the confessions, indirect or otherwise, made during his annual “break-out.” But his cookery was held to confirm that part of his statement, as well as a boast that he had been chef at the Hôtel du Louvre in Paris. Whatever doubt might be cast on his statements and previous history, as related by himself, no one had ever dreamed of disparaging his cookery. This being the case, and the time wanting nearly three months to Christmas, which was the extreme limit of his enforced sobriety, neither Mr. Blount nor any one else could have complained of the banquet.

Nor was “the flow of soul” wanting. The Sergeant was less didactic than usual; he drew on his reminiscences more and more freely as the evening grew late, and the landlord contributed his quota, by no means without pith or point, to the hilarity of the entertainment. The Sergeant, however, completely eclipsed the other convives by a choice experience drawn from his memory wallet, as he turned out that receptacle of “tales of mystery and fear,” which decided the landlord and his guest to “see him home” at the conclusion of the repast.

This duty having been completed, Mr. Blount was moved to remark upon the fineness of the night. It was certainly curiously mild and still. “Quite like spring weather.”

Mr. Middleton looked up and expressed himself doubtfully as to its continuance. “It’s too warm to be natural, sir,” he said, “and if I was asked my opinion, I’d say we’re not far from a burst up, either wind or rain, I don’t say which, a good way out of the common. If you’re in a hurry to get to Melbourne, you were right to take your passage by Cobb and Co., or you might not get away for a week.”

“I wouldn’t lose a week just now for a hundred pounds.”

“Well, of course, it’s hard to say, but if the creeks and rivers come down, as I’ve seen ’em in a spring flood, and we’re close on the time now, there’ll be no getting to Warongah in a week, or perhaps a fortnight on top of that. But I think, if you get off to-morrow morning, you’ll just do it, and that’s all.”

When they returned all traces of the symposium had been removed, and the cloth laid ready for the early breakfast, which Blount trusted nothing would occur to prevent him from consuming.

On the plate at the head of the table, near the fire-place, was a half-sheet of notepaper, on which was written in bold characters:

“Dear Sir, – The groom will call you at five sharp, breakfast at 5.30. Coach leaves at six. I’ve got you the box seat.

“Yours truly,

“Sheila.”

“That’s a fine girl,” said the landlord, “she’s got ‘savey’ enough for a dozen women; and as for work, it’s meat and drink to her. The missus is afraid she’ll knock herself out, and then we’ll be teetotally ruined and done for. I hope she won’t throw herself away on some scallowag or other.”

“Yes! it would be a pity. I take quite an interest in her. But she has too much sense for that, surely?”

“I don’t know,” answered the landlord, gloomily, “the more sense a woman has, the likelier she is to fancy a fool, if he’s good-looking, that’s my tip. Good-night, sir. I’ll be up and see you off. Old George will call you.”

“Oh! I shall be up and ready, thank you.”

The landlord, however, having exceptional opportunities of studying human nature, warned old George to have the gentleman up at 5 a.m. sharp, which in result was just as well. For Blount being too excited from various causes to sleep, had tossed and tumbled about till 3 a.m., when he dropped into a refreshing slumber, so sound that George’s rat-tat-tat, vigorous and continued on his bedroom door, caused him to dream that all the police of the district, headed by Mr. Bruce and Black Paddy, had come to arrest him, and were battering down the hotel in order to effect a capture.

CHAPTER VI

A dip in the creek, and a careful if hasty toilet, produced a complete change of ideas. The morning was almost too fine, the leaves of the great poplars were unstirred, which gave an unnaturally calm and eerie appearance to the landscape. This was not dispelled by the red sun shedding a theatrical glare over the snow-peaks and shoulders of the mountain range.

“My holiday’s over, Sheila!” said he, moving from the fire front to the table upon which was such an appetising display that he wished he had gone to bed a little earlier. However, the savour of the devilled turkey reassured him, and he felt more drawn towards the menu which was to form the sustaining meal of the day. “Now, what do you think of the weather? Shall I have a safe journey to the station?”

“Well, you may, and you may not, sir. We all think there’s a big storm coming; if it’s wind, it may blow a tree down on the coach and horses; if it rains hard, there’ll be a flood, which will rise the Kiewah and the Little River in a few hours, so as they can’t be crossed under a week.”

“That’s a bad look out!” said the traveller, making good time with the scrambled eggs and toast, which succeeded the devilled turkey, “but we’ll have to go straight at it, as your friend and philosopher, Gordon, has it. By the way, I bought a copy at the post-office store, so I can read it on the way down and think of you when I come to the lines ‘Kindness in another’s trouble,’ and so on.”

“Oh! I daresay,” replied the girl, “a lot you’ll think about me when you’re on the road to Melbourne and wherever else you’re bound for. But we’ll all remember you here, never fear! And if you ever come back, you’ll see how glad all hands will be to welcome you.”

“You’re only too good to me, but why should the other people have this sort of feeling towards me?”

“Well, one reason is that you never put on any side, as they call it. You’ve been free and easy with them, without being too familiar. The country people hereabouts, and in the bush generally, may be rough, and haven’t seen much, but they know a gentleman when they see one, and besides, there’s another reason – ” And here she seemed to hesitate.

“And what might that be?”

“Well, it came out somehow, I don’t know how, that when you were ‘pinched’ (that is, nearly arrested and tried for being ‘in’ with the O’Haras and Little-River-Jack in the cattle racket), that you wouldn’t give them away; never let on that you’d been with them in the claim, or seen cattle in their yard or anything.”

“But, my dear Sheila! I heard nothing and saw nothing that the town-crier at the market-place (is there one in this droll country, I wonder?) might not have proclaimed aloud. I didn’t know there was any ‘cross’ work (is that right?) going on. I certainly guessed after I visited Mr. Bruce that I might just as well not advertise the O’Haras, and as Little-River-Jack certainly saved my life on Razor Back, how could I give him up to the law? Now, could I?”

“Not as a gentleman, sir, I should say. I suppose Mr. Bruce is pretty wild about it, after you being at his house and all that. He’s a fine man, Mr. Bruce; all he’s got he’s earned. His brother and he worked like niggers when first they came from home. Now they’re well off, and on the way to be richer still. But no man likes to be robbed, rich or poor. He’ll have Jack yet for this if he don’t mind, sharp as he is.”

“Well, I suppose it serves him right.”

“I suppose it does,” said the girl, hesitatingly; “but I can’t help feeling sorry for him, he’s so pleasant and plucky, and such a bushman. He can find his way through those Wombat Ranges, they say, the darkest night that ever was, and drive cattle besides.”

“‘’Tis pity of him, too, he cried,

Bold can he speak, and fairly ride,’

as the Douglas said about Marmion, who, though more highly placed than poor Jack, was but indifferent honest after all. Do you read Walter Scott?”

“Well, I’ve read bits of the Lady of the Lake and Marmion too. We had them to learn by heart at school. Only I haven’t much time to read now, have I? It’s early up and down late. But you’d better finish your breakfast; it’s getting on to six o’clock, and I see Josh walking down to the stable.”

“So I will; but tell me, how do you write out a receipt for a horse when you’ve sold him?”

“Oh! easy enough. ‘This is to certify that I have sold my bay horse, branded “J. R.” (or whatever he is) to Job Jones for value received.’ That’s enough; you’ve only to sign your name and put a stamp on.”

“Nothing could be simpler. Get the landlord to receipt my bill while I write out a cheque, and ask George if he’s put my saddle and bridle into the coach.”

The girl ran out. He wrote the cheque for the account, which he had seen before breakfast. Then more carefully, a receipt for the cob in the name of Sheila Maguire, in which he enclosed a sovereign. “Isn’t that your side-saddle? Where’s your horse? You haven’t got one, eh? Why, I thought every girl in this country had one.”

“Mine got away; I’m afraid I’ll never see him again.”

“What will you give me for the cob? he’s easy and safe if you don’t try the Razor Back business with him?”

“I wouldn’t mind chancing a tenner for him, sir.”

“Would you, though? Well, I’ll take it. There’s the receipt. You can pay me when I ask for it.”

At that moment, the coachman having drawn on his substantial gloves, mounted the box and called out “All aboard!” Mr. Blount pressed the receipt and the sovereign into the girl’s reluctant hand, who came out of the room with rather a heightened colour, while the driver drew his lines taut as the passenger mounted the box and was whirled off, if not in the odour of sanctity, yet surrounded with a halo (so to speak) of cheers and good wishes.

Once off and bowling along a fairly good road behind a team of four fast horses, specially picked for leaving or approaching towns, a form of advertisement for the great coaching firm of Cobb and Co. (then, as now, famed for speed, safety and punctuality throughout the length and breadth of Australasia), Mr. Blount’s spirits began to improve, keeping pace, indeed, with the rising of the sun and his own progress. That luminary in this lovely month of early spring was seen in his most favourable aspect.