Outlaw and Lawmaker/Chapter 7
CHAPTER VII.
"I FOLLOW MY STAR."
When Elsie Valliant set her heart upon doing any particular thing, she usually had her way. She had set her heart upon going to Goondi during the election week, and so she persuaded Lady Horace to take her. They rode to the Bean tree Crossing, as the Telegraph Station and German Settlement near them was called, and there picked up the coach to Goondi. It was only a one day's expedition, after all. Two coaches passed in the day, one in the morning and one at night.
Lady Horace was not very hard to persuade. Perhaps she was more excited about the chances of Hallett's return than she chose to show. Perhaps she was a little anxious about her husband, of whom they heard vaguely as "shouting drinks," to the electors, driving four-in-hand about the country, playing practical jokes upon his opponents, certainly flirting with electors' pretty daughters, and otherwise having what he described as "a good time."
Ina was so quiet that no one ever quite knew what she felt or thought, but Elsie had a shrewd suspicion that she was not perfectly satisfied with her handsome and excitable young husband, and Elsie had heard Lord Horace speak more crossly to Ina than befitted the short time they had been married. To be sure he had apologised very penitently afterwards, and had declared to Elsie that Ina was an angel, which she told him had always been perfectly well known in the family. Lord Horace had added that perhaps it might be better for him if she were not quite such an angel, as she would keep him in stricter order, and there Elsie had agreed. Anyhow, Ina seemed to think that he needed a little keeping in order now, and so she said that as she wanted to do some shopping, and as Goondi was the nearest place where she could buy a yard of silk or a reel of cotton, she and Elsie would go.
It was a queer straggling bush town, with a large and floating population, mostly of miners. The claims, with their heaps of stone and scaffolding of machinery, gave it a different appearance from the ordinary township. All day and night the machinery was at work, and all day and all night one could hear the dull thud of the blasting. There was only one street in the township, but it went up and down hill for nearly two miles. Goondi was all hills and little wooden houses and heaps of stone and mullock, which is the refuse from the crushing. There was only one hotel—a big two-storied wooden house, with verandah and balcony all round, commonly known as Ruffey's. Here the rival candidates were staying. Hallett harangued his mob from the north balcony, and Blake addressed his from the one on the south. Lord Horace was waiting outside the hotel to receive them when the coach drove up. His refined, Greek-featured face looked paler than usual from fatigue and late hours. He was very much excited, and could talk of nothing but the election. He began at once to tell Ina of how he had been making himself agreeable to the wives of the diggers and settlers, and of the bush balls, at which he had been assisting; of how the men had openly derided him for being a Lord, and of how he had entertained and impressed the ladies by his answers to their questions concerning aristocratic life in England. "Lord! I have crammed them," he said confidentially, "but I think we are doin' it, though it'll be a close shave. Puts me in mind of Waveryng's election—I fetched 'em last night, I can tell you, by describin' all that, and singing 'em the war-cry—I composed it myself—a sort of hash of the Marseillaise, the Star-spangled Banner, and Tommy Dodd. The worst of it is that fellow Trant has got a voice that takes the wind out of our sails, and then he appeals to their feelin's. Blest if he didn't give 'em 'The Wearing of the Green' last night—struck up when Blake began about the Irish wrongs—he's a Fenian is that fellow Blake, but he is not a bad sort for all that—and I really felt inclined to blubber, it was so pathetic."
Hallett came towards them. They were in the entrance hall, and he was coming down the stairs. From the other side of the hotel floated sounds of the mob he had been addressing. He too looked excited, and a little nervous. He went straight to Elsie, just shaking hands with Lady Horace as he passed.
"You see I said I would come," she said.
"I'm afraid you've come to see me beaten," he answered in a low voice. "I mustn't confess to defeat now, but I feel pretty sure of it."
"But he is a stranger," said Elsie. "What has he done? How has he got over the district?"
"The man has power," said Hallett bluntly, "and I haven't."
"Yes, he has power," said Elsie dreamily ; "I can see that."
"You've seen him then?" said Hallett surprised. He had not heard of that meeting by the creek. Elsie had not even told her sister. "Take care," he added in a low voice, "there he is." Aloud he said, "I think we had better go up to your sitting-room, Lady Horace. This isn't exactly the place for ladies."
A number of men had come in from the outside entrance. They were talking noisily. Trant's voice could be heard above the others. He stopped short at the sight of the ladies and lifted his hat to Lady Horace, who gave him rather a cool nod. All the men seemed to cluster naturally round the central figure, Blake himself, taller than the others, more erect, and altogether better-bred looking. He too raised his hat at the sight of Elsie, but with his left hand. She made a slight movement in his direction. It was more a gesture than a movement, but he interpreted it as she had intended, and came to speak to her.
"I hope your arm is all right now," she said. "No, I see it isn't. Why do you wear a sling?"
"The shoulder was dislocated," he said in an eager confused manner, "and Abatos pulled all the way to Baròlin, and made a nasty business out of what would have been nothing if I had kept quiet."
"Abatos!" she exclaimed. "You called him Osman."
"Abatos," said Hallett, " is the name of Moonlight's famous horse."
"I suppose I was thinking of that. Someone has just been speaking of Moonlight," replied Mr. Blake quietly. But Elsie had fancied when she spoke that his face had changed, and that he had grown paler. Was it the sight of her which had agitated him? The girl's heart thrilled with an odd momentary sense of triumph.
"The excitement of an election is apt to confuse one's faculties," Blake went on. "You have come into the thick of the fight, Miss Valliant. But I think on the whole"—he turned to Hallett—"that the warfare is conducted with as little rancour as could be expected, considering the sort of mob we have to deal with."
"Your mob," said Hallett, laughing. "Mine is decorous, compared with your wild Irishmen"
"My wild Irishmen? They are the best-natured and the best-behaved fellows in the world," Blake insisted, good-humouredly. "They can sing too, I can tell you."
"Yes—they can sing," Hallett admitted—"and they can cheer in their queer shrill sort of way—I can't always make out whether they are delighted or disappointed. It sometimes sounds to me like a death-wail, and then, by Jove, I am told it is a shout of triumph."
"You'll hear it to-morrow," Blake said carelessly, "and then you will know that it isn't a death-wail—and don't you forget it."
"I am very curious about it—I want to hear it," Elsie said in an abstracted sort of way, as if she were talking to herself.
"I don't," Hallett declared with a laugh. "Well, Blake, we shall know it all to-morrow. 'God show the right,' as the old proclamations of battle used to say."
"God show the right," repeated Blake abstractedly. "That's what they say in Ireland. Come what will, Hallett," said Blake, "you are a good fellow, and a gallant opponent." Then the little group dispersed.
Sounds echoed all through the wooden building, and Ruffey's was by no means a peaceful haven on this election eve. From the bar down below there came noise of revelry, hoarse callings for drink, snatches of song, rough laughter, and occasionally an oath. In the balcony, on which Lady Horace's sitting-room opened, all this could be distinctly heard. It was an odd place for a young lady to choose, but for the greater part of the evening Elsie Valliant sat there and listened to the din and watched the street below. There was a moon getting near its full, and the long straggling roadway, with its wooden houses, its odd-looking groups of passers-by—rough bushmen, diggers, Chinamen, blacks—presented a rather amusing spectacle. But Elsie did not seem so deeply interested in the street scene as in a low monotonous hubbub, with one voice distinguishable through the babel, which came to her from the other side of the building, and which she guessed to be that of Blake holding a meeting. There were interruptions every now and then. Sometimes his voice rose so clearly that she could almost make out the words. Sometimes another voice interposed, sometimes there were hoots from below, sometimes cheers; but through it all the one voice declaimed with a force and passion that Elsie felt to be real oratory. She would have given the world to hear what he was saying. She did indeed crane her head over the balcony, but after a minute drew it back, afraid lest in the moonlight someone should see and recognize her. By-and-by it ended. The street became quieter, but the noise in the hotel increased. Hallett came up and joined her in the balcony.
"Have you been listening to Mr. Blake?" she asked.
"No," he replied; "I have been orating on my own account. Why do you stay out here? It isn't fit for you, with all that noise going on in the bar."
"I will go to bed," she said listlessly. "I am tired."
"Stay a moment. Come round here; it is quieter. I told you I'd show you the ghost of your flower the next time we met. Here it is."
He opened his pocket book and showed her the stephanotis spray crushed between its leaves. "I have worn it," he said, "as one of the old knights you are so fond of might have worn his lady's token when he went to battle. It has been with me all through my battle."
"Give it to me," she said, in a strained sort of voice. He did so. Before he could guess her intention, she had crumpled it into a shapeless lump, and had thrown it into the street.
"Why did you do that?" he exclaimed, deeply hurt.
"Because it's worth nothing. It has not brought you luck. It never will bring you any good luck."
"Have you made up your mind, then, that I am to fail?" he said in a pained voice.
"Yes, I feel it, I know it. He has victory in his face. That man will succeed wherever he goes, and in whatever he chooses to do."
"In whatever he chooses to do!" Hallett repeated. "Don't say that. I cannot bear you to say it."
"Why? I only say what I feel. I never knew any man who gave me that impression in the same way."
"Do you know why I cannot bear you to say it? It is because he may choose to influence you."
"Well!" said Elsie with an odd smile. "That might not be an unpleasant sensation. Don't be angry," she added hurriedly, seeing the look of pain that came into his face. "I didn't mean to vex you. Nothing in the world is more unlikely to happen."
"As that he should influence you, or that he should choose to do so?"
"Both, or either—as you please. Good-night, Mr. Hallett. We have had a thirty miles' journey to-day, and Ina has gone to bed."
They went in. He gave her a candle, and bade her good-night.
"Do you know where your room is?" he asked.
"Yes, it is a good way along the passage—horribly far from Ina's. I shall lock my door."
"Don't be frightened if you hear noises. They are not likely to shut up the hotel very early. I think it was a mistake your coming here just at this time."
"I don't think so at all. I wouldn't miss it for the world. But I should like to know who has the room next to mine. Where are you?"
"On the ground floor. I am very sorry. I will find out who is next you, if you like." He went out. After a minute or two he came back.
"Mr. Dominic Trant has the room next yours."
"I don't think I like Mr. Dominic Trant," said Elsie. "He has such odd eyes. I think he believes he can mesmerize people. All the time we were standing in the hall downstairs, he was looking at me. Tell me—is he going to Tunimba?"
"I suppose so: Edith says it will be the greatest mistake to get up a coolness on account of the election. She has asked Mr. Blake to come too."
"I suppose she is right."
"Yes, Edith has a good deal of tact in these matters, but it would be odd if he should come as the member for Luya."
"Very odd," said Elsie. She took her candle and left him. He went down the stairs, and she to her room.
It was, as she had said, a long way down the passage. It was in a wing that had been added to the main building, and there was a bend in the corridor that made it seem more isolated still. She was a little dismayed when she saw that Mr. Dominic Trant was fumbling in his keyhole.
"They've locked my door," he said. "It's a queer sort of shop, isn't it, Miss Valliant?"
"Yes," said Elsie shortly. "Good-night."
"You are next me. These wooden partitions are confoundedly thin. Don't be frightened if you hear me coming in and going out. Blake and I are going to amuse ourselves."
"I hope you will do so. Would you let me pass, please?"
Trant drew back. "I intend to make you like me, Miss Valliant. You don't now, but I intend that you shall. Do you know that I'm coming to Tunimba?"
"Yes, I know that. Please bring some songs with you."
"Blake is coming, too. He will be the member for Luya, and Mr. Hallett's nose will be out of joint. Look here. Miss Valliant, I have got something to say to you."
"I don't think I want to hear it now, Mr. Trant."
"I shall not be a minute telling you. I know you are a flirt. Everyone says so. You'll be wanting to flirt with Blake. Take my advice, and don't. He is a nasty customer, is Blake. There is nothing he enjoys so much as compromising a woman. He has got no more heart than this key."
"I don' t see what that matters to me, Mr. Trant—or to you."
"It does matter to me. I know Blake's ways. I don't want to see you let in. I think a great deal of you—a great deal more than you know."
"I am very much obliged to you." She turned the handle of her door, and went into her room, leaving him outside. Then she tried the door after her, but to her dismay she discovered that there was no key, and that the bolt was frail and unreliable. She tried to reason herself out of her terror of Trant.
"He has probably been drinking," she said to herself, "though he looked cool enough."
She sat down without undressing. It seemed to her that there were all kinds of disquieting sounds about. The roar of the machinery, which she could not at first understand, was uncanny, and so were the occasional detonations from the blasting works. By and by the noise in the bar subsided a little. The hotel itself was fairly quiet. It was now about midnight. She heard steps along the corridor, and they set her trembling again. The steps paused at Trant's door. Some one went in.
Yes, the partitions were horribly thin. She could hear the voice distinctly. It was the voice of Blake, and yet she was conscious that he was speaking almost in a whisper.
"Are you ready?"
Trant murmured something. She could not distinguish the words.
Blake went on, still in the same low clear voice, and with an accent of contempt. "Naturally you don't understand. One must follow one's star."
Again a murmur from Trant, of which she only distinguished the words "eight thousand."
A laugh—an odd mocking laugh. "The member for Luya. Droll! There's a certain humour in the situation." And then a sentence in French. She could not make it out. A sound as of some one moving about and opening and shutting things followed. Presently one went out—both she imagined at first, for there was a complete silence. Elsie could bear it no longer. She must go and find Ina, and ask her to stay with her. She did not know what had frightened her. And why should she be frightened either of Trant or of Blake? But she was frightened for all that. Her nerves were like stretched wires. To remain there till morning seemed an impossibility. She took up her candle and opened her door. The passage was all dark. She would go to Lady Horace's room. A window in the passage was open and a gust blew out the candle. She gave a faint cry. At that moment the door of Trant's room opened and a man came out—a man in riding dress, with a black sort of poncho covering his coat. He drew back as he saw her and heard her exclamation. He had no candle, but at that moment the moon came out from under a cloud and shone through the uncurtained window. She saw that it was Blake.
He came towards her. "Miss Valliant, I'm afraid I frightened you. I did not know that you were so near."
"I am in the next room. I heard you."
"You heard me!" His eyes were full upon her. How bright they looked! They had an odd intent expression. There was something wild in their gaze. "Then you must have preternaturally keen ears, for I spoke in a whisper."
"I heard you say that one must follow one's star. What is your star? Where is it taking you?"
He continued looking at her in that strange rapt manner.
"Where it has always led me—to danger and to misfortune."
"To misfortune!" she repeated. "Oh, no, no. Why do you say that?"
"Because fate has been against me, and because I'm in a reckless mood to-night. Does the full moon affect you, Miss Valliant? Does it make you feel that you could do any sort of dare-devil thing? I've got the music of Berlioz's 'Faust' in my head. Do you know it?"
"No. How should I know it?"
"True. They haven't performed it in Australia, I fancy. Well, if you ever hear it, note the description of Faust's wild ride with Mephistopheles. I think Mephistopheles is always abroad when the moon is at the full. That's how I feel."
"You are not going to ride to-night?"
"Yes. I am going for a gallop. That's my way of working off my excitement."
"You don't seem as if you were excited. You are quite pale and cold and resolute. It is only your eyes that have a wild look."
"They look wild, do they? They ought not to look wild when they are fixed on you." They were fixed on her now searchingly. "Go back to bed, Miss Valliant. Nothing will disturb you. You may sleep as soundly and peacefully as a child."
"I am frightened. I was going to find my sister's room," she said falteringly. "I don't like being here alone—so far from everyone."
"You should not be frightened. No one will hurt you. What frightens you?" he said.
"I don't know. It's very stupid, I suppose. Things seem odd and eerie—it's so odd my standing here talking to you at this hour."
"There's nothing so odd in that. Go back to bed. Don't wake up your sister. I'm sorry that I told you about my wild mood. The truth is that I come of a hot-headed race. I love adventure—violent exercise—all sorts of things that stir one's blood, and make life worth living. I love solitude, and for weeks I have been living in a crowd and putting a curb on myself"
"But there is Mr. Trant. You will not be alone."
"Oh, Trant understands me, and lets me have my fling. To-morrow I shall be as meek as a lamb, and you won't recognize the spurred and booted desperado of to-night." He laughed as he spoke and made a movement with his arms which caused his cloak to fall back. In the moonlight Elsie saw the gleam of something at his waist, and realized that it was the shining handle of a pistol.
"You look like a desperado. Why do you carry that pistol."
"Oh, that—I had forgotten. Moonlight may be about, you know. It is as well to be armed when one scours the country at full moon."
A clock struck twelve. He held out his hand. "Do as I tell you. Sleep well, and look upon this midnight meeting as a dream."
His touch gave her a curious sensation. "Your hand is quite cold," she said. "What is the matter?"
"Nothing is the matter."
"It is as cold as death," she repeated.
"Death—what do you know of death? Go to bed, go back and sleep. Dream happy dreams. Good-night."
He opened her door for her, and waited till she had gone through and had closed it behind her. She heard his steps going softly down the corridor. Then she shot the bolt and quietly undressed. It was very strange, but she had no thought of disobeying him, no thought now of going to Lady Horace. She felt soothed and satisfied, and yet through all there was a certain thrill of excitement. His eyes with their bright intent look seemed to be gazing at her in the darkness. There was something compelling in the look. It haunted her and gave her a strange dreamy feeling. She did not sleep for a long time. She pictured him scouring the plains on his black horse Osman, and working off the fever of his blood, the hilt of his pistol gleaming as his cloak flew back in the wind. In her fancy he seemed like some mediaeval knight. What a contrast to the dull prosaic bushmen round her, with their eternal talk about cattle and horses, their petty interests and low aims! This man spoke of his star. How strange that he should have used that phrase! She thought of her talk with Hallett, and of how she had said that the man she loved must have a purpose and a destiny, and a star.