“Would you mind putting that in writing, sir? Of course, as a Holy Brother, I trust you, but while it’s not in writing I can hardly believe it.”
“I will do more than that,” said Huey. “I will give you a post-dated cheque—that is, a cheque dated for payment after the race, and should the horse lose you can cash it, and should it win it might be stopped. At any rate, I could not do so much for you, but depend on me, I shall always take an interest in you. There are too few young men with your good sense.”
The Golden Bar looked brighter, more burnished, more glorified than usual. The gilt mouldings and inlaid work on the walls shone with added splendour. The yellow statuettes beamed down from their brackets like old-time graven images, and on every hand vast mirrors of bevelled glass reflected and re-reflected the well-dressed habitués, the bar and shelves of sparkling bottles and gleaming decanters, and, above all, the graceful and trim forms of those twin goddesses of this spiritual fount, Ruby and Florrie.
As drinks were for the nonce only casually called for, and Bertha was away at tea, the moment was a precious one. They could have a nice long talk.
“Did you hear the news, Ruby?”
“No; is it about the Cup?”
“Oh, bother the Cup! I hear about it till I’m sick. No; Bertha is going to leave here.”
“You don’t say?”
“But she is. I heard the boss say so. This is her last week.”
“Well, I never! Who’d have thought it? What is she up to? Going to marry that old squatter, I’ll bet sixpence. Anyhow, it’s a good riddance.”
“And so say I, the mean thing! We shall be comfortable again when she has gone!”
At this moment if the girls had not been so busy talking they would have noticed the entrance of Bertha, who stood in a little recess before a mirror adjusting her hair. What was wrong with her hair no masculine mind could ever have divined; it looked as neat and trim as a coiffure by the best artist could look, yet it took Bertha at least ten minutes to re-arrange certain tresses to her satisfaction.
“The bar has never been the same since she came,” continued Florrie. “If the men were not such fools they would see through her airs and her graces, for I’m sure her looks are no better than other peoples!” And Florrie tossed her head significantly.
“And the way she carries on is just scandalous. Old men, young men, it’s all the same to her, with her simpering look and Chinaman’s eyes! I would not throw myself at a man like that if he was the only one left in the world. What I say is, that for a girl that respects herself there is a limit.”
“That’s it, Ruby, there’s a limit; and girls that put on the dying duck style to anybody and everybody ought to be shot.”
“I wonder who she is off with now; for sure enough she is not going to leave here for nothing. One of those young sporting fellows she drives out with I should not wonder.”
“Or that old squatter who is rolling in money; that is about her dart!”
“Now I would not be surprised if it was that old shabby Professor she goes out with sometimes. Although she looks so clever she is no better than a fool.”
“Well, I wish the Professor, or whoever it is, joy of his bargain. And the boss has got no more sense than the others; he pretends her going will be a big loss to him, and offered to raise her wages; but she would not stop at any price, she said.”
“Then it’s the squatter right enough. Of course she would not stop if she had caught him. Men with ten thousand a year are not picked up in Sydney every day.”
Bertha, who had been a silent listener to this conversation, now came forward, and was received by her two helpmates with sweet smiles of amiability.
“How nice you look to-night, dear. Is it true you are leaving us?” asked Ruby.
“Yes,” said Bertha, “I’m afraid I must leave you. That old squatter does bother me so to go and see his station on the Barcoo that I am really tired of refusing.”
“So it is the squatter?” inquired Florrie.
“Oh, I don’t say that. There are those two young sporting men. I think one of those might be better, don’t you?”
“It’s a matter of taste, of course,” replied Florrie. “The squatter would make you a real lady, while those sporting fellows never come to much.”
“Well, I don’t know,” said Bertha. “I fancy somehow that money does not always make a ‘real lady,’ as you call her.”
“What does then?” inquired Ruby and Florrie, with astonishment.
“Sugar and spice and all that’s nice—that’s what real ladies are made of!” said Bertha, laughing.
“Now do be a love,” whispered Ruby, “and tell me who it is, and I will not whisper it to a soul.”
“Well, promise to be as silent as the grave.”
Ruby nodded.
“If I don’t change my mind, the shabby old Professor!”
“What do you choose that old fright for?”
“Perhaps because he is the only one that did not ask me!”
* * * * *
The evening began to wear on, and the bar to fill with an ever-increasing crowd. The drinks were called for more and more frequently, and a mingled buzz of conversation and cigar smoke filled the air. The one subject of conversation was to-morrow’s Cup, and the merits of the competing horses. The name of Revolver was in every mouth, bookmakers and backers. A few spoke of Bertha, and a voice here and there championed an outsider; but the vast majority of the public had gone solid for Revolver. In the words of one, “He was a moral,” and his performances were counted up, what he had done, what he had beaten; and if public form was to be relied on, then without doubt Revolver was one of the best of good things.
Books and pencils came out, and wagers were booked, and all the time drinks, plenty of drinks, and the toast was ever the same, “To Revolver, good luck to him.”
If whisky-laden prayer is attended to by the geni that presides over sport, and the incense of tobacco is grateful to him, then the hopes of to-morrow were assured.
As time went on, a species of delirium possessed this crowd. From talking they had got to shouting; from modest doubt of assertion to positive assurance. Some were florid and blatant, others jolly and hilarious, and when news arrived from the stable, Revolver’s stable, of course, that all was well, a perfect roar of satisfaction went up.
The news necessitated more drinks, and still more, the cigars were now puffed by many a happy smoker, oblivious of their being unlit, and all this time the weary barmaids served and smiled, served and smiled, with a smile so automatic it might have been worked by a string.
The hero of the hour, next to Revolver, was his owner, known to Ruby and Florrie as the “Squatter.” He was in strong evidence in the bar to-night. Many the questions he answered, many the drinks he shouted, and it was always champagne, or so the bottle was labelled, and the sparkling liquid flowed down many a brazen throat in a vain effort to quench the unappeasable drought.
Alec Booth was there, beaming with hope and assurance, the centre of a little coterie that listened with silent contempt to his confident prediction of Bertha’s winning. But they found their tongues when he offered to “shout,” and assured him that if any man knew a horse he was the man.
“A real sportsman, and no mistake.”
Amidst this excitement there was one man who said little or nothing, but watched from the corner of the room all that was going forward with a derisive smile on his face, Huey Gosper.
“What fools!” he seemed to be saying to himself, “to talk of public form, of private trials, and all that kind of rubbish, as though that had anything to do with who was going to win! Why, if merit counted in horse-racing, how could a smart man live?”
The Squatter was getting minute by minute more joyous. The glassy shining light of alcohol shone from his eyes. He was mellow, unctuous, benevolent. All men were his brothers, more particularly this crowd of wolves and lambs; and all women were his sisters, all excepting one fair maid, and for her he felt more than a brother’s regard.
“I’ll tell you what it is, my dear,” he said, leaning over the bar and addressing Bertha, “I’ll tell you what it is. To-morrow night in this bar you shall drink Revolver’s health out of the Sydney Cup, and what’s more, I’ll make you a present of it. Now, mark my words, and what I say I stick to. To-morrow night the Cup shall be yours.”
Bertha laughed at the offer, but graciously, neither assenting or dissenting. In any case, it was useless to argue with a man who had drunk three bottles of champagne. Presently the Squatter subsided. He wanted to sleep on the floor; “sleep at the feet of beauty,” he murmured, but his friends hurried him to a cab, and that night he was no more seen.
With less demonstration Alec approached the bar, and seizing a moment when Bertha was not busy, said to her—
“Don’t you mind that old fool, Bertha. I’ve got Revolver’s measure. Your namesake can make a common hack of him. Don’t you put a penny on Revolver. Bertha’s as right as rain, and bar accidents she’s bound to win. But you shall have the Cup to-morrow all the same. As that old fool says, you shall drink the winner’s health, but the name will not be Revolver, for Bertha will come in first.”
Huey had heard some of this talk; heard with an inward chuckle of derision, and the smile of amused thanks had not passed from Bertha’s face before he too had edged his way to the front, and speaking very low, so that only she could hear, he said—
“Pay no attention, Miss Summerhayes, to all this foolishness. Revolver and Bertha are very good horses, no doubt, but there are plenty better, and one of them for certain will be running to-morrow. Neither the Squatter nor Alec Booth will win the Cup, for there is another who means to defeat them both, and have the pleasure of presenting you with the Sydney Cup.”
“And who is this kind person?” inquired Bertha.
“Your very humble servant,” replied Huey.
“Thank you very much, Mr. Gosper, for your kind intentions, but all this talk is not serious. There is many a slip between the Sydney Cup and the lip. I hope you may all win, if it be possible; and if you all lose I shall think of you all just the same.”
“But I am serious. To-morrow night it is I that will bring you the Sydney Cup.”
“We shall see, we shall see,” laughed Bertha, incredulously. “It is nearly to-morrow now, and closing time. So good-night to you.”
“Decidedly,” said Bertha, as she hurried, tired, to bed, “to-morrow I bid fair to own the Sydney Cup. Do I care who wins—the Squatter, Alec, or Huey Gosper? Do I care?” And she paused as she asked herself the question again. “No, I don’t care a silver sixpence! What good will the money do them? It will go as it came. And if some win others lose, and all the pleasure of the one must be paid by the pains of the many. Decidedly, old Pro is right; it is a dirty business, this horse-racing, as bad for a man as a bar is for a woman, and I’m glad I’m going to leave it all. And to think of Ruby and Florrie talking of me like that! It shows what they are, and what I should come to, no doubt, if I stopped here. Oh, why can we not live honestly and comfortably in this world without having to meet such a lot of horrid people?”
So she rambled in her thoughts till sleep came to rest her weariness. And over the silent city no sound could be heard but the hasty rumble of some night hansom as it sped over wood-blocked roads, laden with midnight travellers.
Cup Day was one of unbroken sunshine and brightness, one of those days, so frequent in Sydney, when only to breathe and respire is a pleasure and a joy.
At an early hour the trams and ’buses were loaded with sightseers bound for Randwick. A stranger might regret, at the sight of these orderly and well-dressed groups, the absence of that abandon and camaraderie between rich and poor that is so distinctive of a great racing carnival in conservative England.
For all outward sign to the contrary, this demure throng might be going to attend a prayer-meeting; not even a “drunk” to relieve their intense respectability. At Randwick itself, the same decorum. The spieler and the sharper were there, it is true, but in subdued, unpoetic form—the fear of the “copman” in their eyes and movements. Law and Order presided over all. Now, Law and Order, however admirable in themselves as abstract entities, are, for the being overflowing with pent-up animal spirits, profoundly dull.
* * * * *
In the vast crowd that filled the grandstand it would have been difficult to detect Huey Gosper; but there he was in a sheltered corner, quiet, sardonic, and watchful of all.
His eyes were everywhere, and particularly did their glance follow the big check suit worn by Alec Booth as this individual, uneasy and excited, wandered from place to place, from paddock to lawn, from lawn to stand, in fretful uneasiness.
* * * * *
The following account is taken from the Evening Times—
“The preliminary events of the day caused little excitement. All minds were eager for the big event. The favourite, Revolver, hardened, if anything, in the betting, as the eventful moment drew nigh, and his name was buzzed about on every hand; but the second string of the public, the mare Bertha, was not lacking in friends. Seven to one was readily snapped up by the backers of the filly, and a whole lot of outsiders had a small following. But as far as the bulk of public money was concerned, the race was reduced to a match between Revolver and Bertha.
“At the very last moment there was a hasty rush on The Vengeance, a colt never before mentioned prominently in the betting.
“At last they faced the starter. One, two, three breaks away, and then the almost perfect silence was dissipated by a great roar from the crowd as the flag flashed down to a magnificent start.
“They are off!
“Up the straight it is hard to separate them. They are a moving mass of colour and horseflesh. Passing the stand Country Boy, taking advantage of his light impost, shows the way, but not for long. At the tan crossing Isabel shot to the front, and already the field is beginning to spread out. The favourite, going easily, can be seen well in the van, with Bertha and The Vengeance in close attendance. At Oxenham’s Isabel came back to her field, and here Bertha shot to the front. She was pulling hard and fighting for her head with her jockey. In the end he seemed powerless to restrain her, for she came away like a shot from a gun, leaving her field standing. There was a great shout from the ring—‘Bertha’s beat!’ ‘She’s bolted!’ ‘Twenty to one Bertha!’ ‘Forty to one Bertha!’ But there were no takers.
“In the meantime the field was creeping up. Opposite the stand fifty yards separated Isabel (now second in command) from Bertha, Revolver, at her girths, third, and Country Boy fourth, the rest of the field in a pack. The pace so far was a cracker, and at the rising ground already quenched the hopes of the backers of most of the outsiders, who tailed off like a procession. At the five-furlong post Bertha still led, and at the half-mile the struggle commenced in earnest. Isabel here melted away, and was seen no more in the front division. Country Boy once again flattered his admirers, and led a gallant, stern chase after the errant Bertha. Here Double Dutchman came out from the ruck, and showed the way to a whole host so far considered his betters. At the half-furlong the whip was drawn on Revolver, who, responding gamely, drew up to within a length of Bertha. A cry went up, ‘The favourite wins!’ but it died away, as did the horse named, in the next hundred yards.
“Now the supporters of Bertha found voice, and there were loud cries of her name. At the home turn Double Dutchman came on like an express, but Bertha still led, though evidently nearly done. At the half-distance a new champion appeared on the scene, as though fallen from the clouds. The black colt, The Vengeance, coming with a wet sail, passed everything on the course like so many mile-stones. In the straight he fairly caught the flagging Bertha, and there was a roar from Israel as though they had just sighted the Promised Land.
“But the race was not yet over, the sound of a competitor seemed to wake Bertha up, for with a new fire the plucky filly disputed the way inch by inch. It was now easy to see that her jockey had no part in her efforts, and was quite outmastered by her.
“On The Vengeance the whip was falling like a flail, and from the stand it was impossible to pick the leader as they passed the post. But a great shout of relief went up when Bertha’s number appeared on the board, and it was known she had won by a head.
“It may be truly said such a Cup race was never run before, for the winning jockey now admits that early from the start he lost all control of his mount. She is notoriously bad-tempered, so that whip and spurs are never used with her; but of her thorough gameness there is now no question.
“The surprise of the meeting was the running of The Vengeance. His display of form is a revelation, and it is to be inferred a most unwelcome one for somebody’s apple-cart.”
* * * * *
The result being known, Alec Booth was fairly delirious with joy. The whole earth was Heaven to him now and for evermore. All and everybody must drink his health, and the mare’s health, and in champagne of the best, and he was surrounded by a throng eager to praise and congratulate him.
Never in his life before, never in his life again, would Alec feel the fierce joy of that moment. He had dared all, tossed up Ruin against Fortune, and Fortune had come down right side up. And he swelled with pride as he thought how he, an ignorant country lad, had bested the smart Australian turfites at their own game.
No thought at this moment of Soft Sam, not one; it was he, Alec Booth, who had planned, designed, and carried out all.
But a far different man was creeping away on the outskirts of that crowd. Huey Gosper had the face of a suicide. With an execration on his lips he left the course. So nearly to have won, and yet lost? And he had made so sure of it. Who could have foreseen that that brute of a Bertha would have run her own race, despite all the pulling jockeys in the world? And now the true form of The Vengeance was given away. He might as well be shot for all the use of him. It was as Soft Sam had said, Bertha was a bit the best of the pair. Why had he not followed the old man, and not been a fool? But he must take his gruel like a man, he told himself that, and there were other means open for a man of brains and resolution.
Alec had not married Bertha yet, and Alec, curse him, would have to fight once again to win her. If he had only Soft Sam to help him it could be managed, but there was no hope there, for Soft Sam, as he knew, would take no side in the quarrel. Sam, he remembered, had wanted to know that Sunday on the Domain why he had not asked Bertha to marry him. He would take the advice. She might say Yes; then all would be well. Alec might keep his cup, and good luck to him.
So he schemed and hoped and feared, wandering about, a bitter, blighted man.
It was the day following the great race. Huey, who was seeking an interview with Bertha, had come to the Botanic Gardens. He knew it was her afternoon of liberty, and that was her favourite walk. So he strolled about waiting and hoping a good hour before the expected time.
Perhaps there are no such gardens in the world. A horseshoe bay, perhaps half-a-mile across; its shore terraced and shut in by slight rising hills, whose slopes are turfed with verdure, and dotted here and there with tropical foliage, flower-beds of many patterns, sweet-smelling shrubs, and bowers of rattans and giant grasses. Paths wind about in surprising curves, and lead to sequestered summer-houses and lovers’ seats that invite to wooing, even though the voice of the cooing doves were hushed that call aloud from every grove. And when the mind wearies of the green foliage, the bright-hued flowers, and landscape of ever-varied plants, there is the sea. Farm Cove the bay is called. Trim yachts are anchored there, the warships of the nations lie at friendly anchorage, and from time to time over the blue water the music of their bands is wafted, or the shrill pipe of the boatswain’s whistle. Clean, dainty ships that bask there in the bright sunshine on the lazy tide, as though peace on earth and sea was decreed for evermore. And beyond the men-of-war, and across the wide stretch of harbour, there are the blue-grey shores of Neutral and Mosman Bays, the rugged heights of Cremorne and Bradley, all dotted with embowered villas, half-hidden cottages, and covered with a haze like a bloom.
And over all a cloudless sky, pale-blue and distant, with an unveiled sun that shines down its vivid light on land and sea. It is such a view as fairyland might offer, and the artist with his crude pigments and paints abandon in despair as hopeless of depiction.
No wonder that Bertha came there from week to week, arrayed in her best, all smiling and sweet. She did only as the wild birds do, who find no safer haven than this oasis of Paradise in the city’s midst.
Huey Gosper looked again and again at the watch he carried, and at last his waiting was rewarded. He could see her plainly, all unconscious of his presence, coming towards him. With a look of unconcern he went to meet her, and so it came about that presently they were pacing side by side.
“I am very sorry,” said Huey, “that it was not I who brought you the Cup last night. My horse lost it by a head, and I counted on it as a certainty.”
“Oh, don’t speak any more of it. I am utterly tired with the Cup and the talk about it. I am sorry for you that you have lost, and all the others whose money has gone. Perhaps they will be wiser next time.”
“I know you value these things very lightly, Miss Summerhayes. You are not like other girls, taking all that glitters and glares for the real metal, and, poor as I am, I make bold to speak to you as I have never spoken to woman before. From my first seeing you at Windsor—do you remember the time?—I have been mad for love of you. If I came to Sydney it was to follow you; if I have striven to make money at a detestable calling it was for you. And if I strove and planned for months and months to win yesterday’s race, you were the prize always in my thoughts that the horse was to win. I know I am not worthy of you; no man is. I am full of faults, yet it maddens me to see you slaving in that golden hell, with two trollops unworthy to lace your shoes. I would like you to lead a different life, for I am sure your present place must be hateful to you. I would do anything, everything if you would only say the word, and be my wife. Bertha, will you marry me?”
Bertha had listened silently. His words could not have been quite unexpected; her woman’s eyes must have learned his secret many a long day since. Yet she hesitated, perhaps to frame her words, perhaps to frame her mind. Huey, of all her suitors, had much to commend him to her. He had great intelligence, and to her judgment he was a clever man. If he had not wealth, neither was he poor, and he had youth and good looks on his side.
But then, on the other hand, she had seen a look glower from his eyes at times like the glance of a fiend, a hard, merciless gleam that froze all tenderness or thoughts of tenderness. So she might have reasoned, if women so placed were apt to take a mental inventory and figure out a character balance-sheet. But doubtless she did nothing of the kind as she fidgeted with her sunshade, and stepped tranquilly along. It was not her reason but her heart that must answer, and instinctively she paused for its response. At last she spoke; Huey Gosper all silent in hopeful expectation.
“What a pretty boat!” pointing to an 18-footer with coloured sails that skimmed across the bay.
“Yes, it is pretty,” said Huey absently; “but you have not answered me.”
“Oh, about getting married!” replied Bertha, as though the question had slipped her memory. “I don’t want to get married—at least, not yet,” correcting herself. “It seems to make one so old all at once, this getting married; don’t you think so?”
“I do not say now, at once, or next week; but promise me, give me your word, and let there be a bond between us, and we will marry when you like; so only that you are mine, all else may be as you wish.”
“Thank you very much, Mr. Gosper; it is very kind of you to think so highly of me. I am not worth it, I am sure; but, really and truly, I do not wish to be engaged. It is so easy to lose your freedom that never comes again. Don’t think me hard-hearted. I feel more, much more than I can say; but my freedom is yet dear to me.”
Had Huey been a patient man, or one versed in feminine ways, he might have taken this neutral reply as one of good augury, and left the further pressing of his suit till time and patience had overcome her maiden wilfulness. But Huey was combustible, suspicious, jealous. The fierce, bad light shone from his eyes as he answered—
“You are mocking me. It is because I am poor, because I have no grand home to offer you; and you are thinking of Alec Booth and his thousands.”
“That is not fair of you, Mr. Gosper,” retorted Bertha sharply. “You have no right to say such things. I am my own mistress, to do as I like; and a jealous, spiteful man shall never be my friend!”
With that she turned about with the sweep and step of a tragedy queen, and so left him. Huey was half sorry he had so spoken, and even yet had he followed her and pleaded pardon, his crime of jealousy might have been forgiven; for Bertha was one of those who, even while they resent, feel the covert flattery of jealous accusation. But he did not stir, but stood there angry and raging, cursing his fate, cursing his fortune; and, above all, cursing Alec Booth. Without doubt Alec was his happy rival, that brainless trickster, that vain, boasting bully had scored again; and he, Huey, was to lose all—money, race, wife, all were taken from him.
“No! It shall not be!” he declared to himself. “While I live I will struggle—I will fight! She is rightfully mine. I saw her first, loved her first, and she is foolish and dazzled by his winnings. But out of defeat I will learn success, fairly if possible; then, if not, in such a way as may be necessary,” he added darkly.
And he turned on his heel and walked moodily away.
A day later. It was ten o’clock at night. Bertha was busy serving the crowd of customers with drinks, when a lad came into the bar and asked for Miss Summerhayes. Bertha spoke to him. He said a gentleman outside wished to speak to her on a matter of great importance. Without hesitation Bertha took her hat and went to the door. Here she was accosted by a bushy-whiskered man, who demanded in a gruff voice if she was Miss Summerhayes?
“Yes, to be sure. But what’s the matter?”
“A Mr. Norris sent me for you. He is very ill, and must see you at once. Look, I have a cab; there is no time to lose, hurry in!”
Before she had time to think Bertha was in the vehicle, and it was plunging off at a rapid rate. Bertha was full of questions, and her interrogations came so quickly one after the other that for a time her companion had an excuse for not replying.
“What is the matter with him? What has happened to dear old Pro? He seemed all right yesterday. I never remember his being sick before.”
“It’s what they call a stroke,” the bushy-whiskered man replied gruffly.
“Oh, dear! Oh, dear!” sighed Bertha hysterically. “Tell the man to drive fast! But where is he going? This is Oxford Street—not the way to Church Hill. I tell you he has made a mistake! Stop!” And Bertha tried to lift the little door in the roof of the cab above her head.
“That’s all right,” said her companion; “we’ll be there in a few minutes. The Professor was at a friend’s house up at Darlinghurst.”
For the time Bertha’s suspicions, now aroused, were silenced, but soon the horse, who was travelling at great speed, arrived at Darlinghurst, and without turning off the main road, continued his course to Paddington.
“We have passed Darlinghurst. You are deceiving me! Stop the cab, or I will cry out!”
“It’s all right, I tell you! Just keep quiet for a few minutes.”
But Bertha, fairly alarmed, and noting some passers-by at hand, stood up in the cab and sang out—
“Help! Help! He—”
The third cry was stifled, for a silk muffler was placed round her head, an odour, strange and unfamiliar, gradually stupefied her senses, and caused her to sink unresistingly on the cushions of the vehicle. The passers-by, alarmed by the cry, had paused a minute, but hearing nothing more, and the cab speeding on, had resumed their walk.
A policeman standing apathetically at a street corner was startled into activity by the furious approach of the hansom. It was clearly a case for a summons, so he rushed into the roadway waving his arms, and cried—
“Stop! Stop!”
But the driver, instead of stopping, cleverly dodged him and his attempt to seize the rein. The horse dashed by, and the enraged constable, who was no mean sprinter, started in pursuit. At least he would find the number.
But the light from the first lamp they passed lit up the back of the cab only to show him the number was hidden.
On sped the cab, with no impediment, for the road at this time of night was clear and deserted.
The policeman to his surprise was fast losing ground, for he was ignorant that the black horse he was pursuing was within a head the winner of the Sydney Cup. On sped the cab, now unpursued, through Paddington, past Woollabra, past the Tea Gardens, and on, on into the darkness, where lamps and houses were few, and scrub lined the road; on till the sound of the ocean beating the high cliffs of Coogee and Bondi was audible in a monotonous roar.
Inside the cab the man with bushy whiskers had removed the muffler, and gazed with a look of gloating reverence on the pale and corpse-like features of Bertha.
“Did I give her too much chloroform?” he said to himself, as he felt her pulse. His look of anxiety passed away. There was still a feeble beat.
“Mine at last!” he cried, with an accent almost of worship, as he raised the lifeless hand to his lips.
“Mine, now and for ever!”
* * * * *
When the night passed and the following morning without bringing news of Bertha, surprise and astonishment began to trouble her friends and employer at the Golden Bar. A message was sent to Professor Norris, who was known to be her friend, but he knew nothing, and he returned with the messenger, his mind filled with dread and dismay.
To Ruby and Florrie the mine of speculation and scandal thus opened up was a veritable God-send. Every caller as he came in was posted up in all the latest particulars. One of the first to be so informed was Alec Booth, and it met him like a knock-down blow. He was, however, soon on his mental feet again, and sifting, by examination, the list of crude rumours with which the two barmaids inundated him, he learned successively, first, that it was a lad (a well-known habitué of the side walk) who had called Bertha out. Next, having found the lad, he heard from him that on the evening before a bushy-whiskered man had driven up in a cab, and giving him a shilling, had told him to go in the Golden Bar and tell a Miss Summerhayes that she was wanted. The lady had come to the door as requested, and after some words with the bushy-whiskered man, which the lad did not overhear, they both got in the cab and drove rapidly away.
This was all the information Alec could gather. Neither a description of the cab or cabman, nor the number of the same was to be had. A hansom in a main Sydney thoroughfare is too common a sight to attract even passing attention. Doubtless if Alec had been endowed with half the imagination of a French detective he would have found his clue ample for the prosecution of an immediate chase. But imagination was distinctly not his forte. He could weave no theory, spin no web of conjecture; only in a vague and ill-defined way he told himself that Bertha’s disappearance was not natural, and probably not voluntary. She was certainly not the sort of girl to elope at a minute’s notice, and even Alec, slight student as he was of feminine human nature, felt that she was above all not the girl to thus abandon her wardrobe.
Mixed with these feelings, that Bertha had met with foul play, were a host of jealous doubts. Of her own accord she had stepped into this cab. Why had she done so? Passion boiled up in the man, and he raged impotently. At last his mind received an inspiration.
“Why not go to Soft Sam?”
He acted on the thought at once, and in a few minutes found himself in the Domain at the old gentleman’s accustomed seat.
As Alec approached a group of children he heard the familiar voice calling out amongst them—
“Now, knuckle down properly; don’t fudge.”
It was Sam teaching his pupils the mysteries of marbles, and Alec had to wait some few minutes while a chubby youngster of six was inducted into the mysteries of holding his blood-alley in the most scientific and approved method.
“Well, my lad,” said Soft Sam at last, “what’s the trouble?”
Then Alec told him all he knew of Bertha’s disappearance; how eager he was to seek her out, and how helpless he felt himself to do so.
“More trouble about that girl! Why can’t you leave them alone? Mark my words, you’ll come a cropper over them before you are done. But there, what’s the use of talking, the pairing season is death to common-sense.”
“But where has she gone, Sam? Where shall I find her?”
“That depends on who has done the job. He may be a tradesman, in which case you may as well say ‘good-bye’; or only a botch of an amateur, in which event you have a very good show. Advertise in this evening’s paper for the cabman. Offer ten pounds reward and no questions asked, and you will probably get an answer.”
“But suppose the man has been squared, is it likely he will give himself for a sum like that?”
“That depends, as I said at first, who put up the job. Let us suppose it was a mug’s plant. He would probably give the cabby a fiver for the night’s work, and he is not the average cabman if he would not tell where he drove to for a tenner, particularly if you undertake to ask nothing else, and keep the cops out of the affair.”
Alec jumped at the suggestion at once, and he was just in time to get the following notice in the second edition of the Evening Times—
TEN POUNDS REWARD.—If the cabman who drove a lady and gentleman from the Golden Bar last evening will call on Alexander Booth, King Street, he will receive the above. No foolish questions asked.
Alec went to his office and waited there impatiently for further developments. About six o’clock a seedy-looking man sidled into the office and asked for Mr. Booth. He was shown into the inner room, and Alec, at the first glance, felt that something was coming.
“Are you the cove wot advertised?”
“That’s me,” said Alec. “Are you the cabman I want?”
“No, I’m not the bloke; but I think I could find him, or what you want to know, if it was worth my while.”
“Do you know where he drove his cab last night?”
“Perhaps. Is that all you want to know?”
“That’s all. I’ll give a fiver down, and another fiver when you take me to the house. And I want no other questions answered.”
“That’s the kind of talk! You can ante up the blunt, and we will start right away.”
Eagerly Alec Booth counted out five notes to the man, and then together they left the office, and jumping into a cab at the door, drove rapidly towards the eastern suburb.
It was a long, silent drive. Alec, as he had promised, asked no questions, and the man by his side volunteered no remark, except from time to time to give the requisite notice to the driver.
Up Oxford Street, along the Old South Head Road, mile after mile, past Paddington, Woollabra, the Tea Gardens, and then out in the scrub towards the sea to the open stretch of desolate ground round about Bondi. The houses were getting fewer, and at last at a signal the cab pulled up.
“Here we are, boss. That’s the crib there across the paddock,” and the man pointed to a little cottage a few rods away, and standing back from the road. “Now you can brass up.”
A doubt crossed Alec’s mind. It might be “a have.” But he resolved to chance it. Ten pounds would neither make him nor break him; so paying the guide, who quickly walked off, he bade the cabman to wait for him, vaulted over the fence, and strode towards the house that had been pointed out.
The place appeared to be unoccupied, yet there was not the usual notice, “This House to Let,” in the window. The front gate was fastened, but was easily stepped over. There were blinds to the windows of the front rooms, but otherwise from an outside view they appeared to be empty.
Alec knocked at the door, a loud resounding knock.
There was no answer, no sound of movement within.
He tried the door. It was a common two-inch, fastened by a common lock. Without thought of possible consequences, in case his information was unreliable, Alec put his shoulder to the door, and putting forth his great strength, was pleased to find the staple give way.
An empty passage, an empty house, quiet, desolate. Yet stay! One of the four doors before him was fastened. He turned the handle. It was also locked. Impatient, eagerly he shouted out—
* * * * *
The day following the abduction was one of nervous excitement to Huey Gosper. He called in at the Golden Bar, and feigned a very natural astonishment at the great piece of news Ruby had for him. He quite supported her opinion that “The Squatter” must be at the bottom of it. “The Squatter” was evidently “gone” on her; he was the possessor of untold wealth. What more likely than that he had used the power of his money to serve his own ends.
So spoke Ruby, and her tone was neither one of great commiseration for Bertha, or great condemnation to her supposed abductor. Perhaps the prospect of being carried off under these conditions did not appear so terrible to her.
Huey wandered about the town restlessly. He took an unaccustomed number of drinks, but they failed to act as a sedative. He answered a large number of letters addressed to “The Tinman,” but if his correspondents were pleased with the tips he sent on this occasion they were mortals easily satisfied. One question was ever uppermost in his mind, “What should he do next?” His plan, while yet in perspective, had appeared simple enough. Disguised he would cage her, and later, in his own proper person, he would come to her rescue with a tale of how he had discovered that Alec Booth was her abductor. In this way he hoped to gain the gratitude of Bertha, and the overthrow of his enemy.
He would go the following morning. It would look suspicious to go too soon. This was his plan, and he had only to wait quietly; but quiet he could not be.
How was Bertha getting on in that lonely house? Could he trust the cabman? Was there some fault in his plan, some weak point in the tale he meant to tell? So his mind dwelt and doubted. It was about six o’clock in the evening that, carelessly turning over the evening paper, he came to the following—
TEN POUNDS REWARD.—If the cabman who drove a lady and gentleman from the Golden Bar last evening will call on Alexander Booth, King Street, he will receive the above. No foolish questions asked.
“My God!” cried Huey, “I have no time to lose! That devil will be on my track. Why did I trust the cabman? Why did I not follow Soft Sam’s advice, always to work alone? Never mind, there is time yet. To-night or to-morrow morning, what does it matter, I will take some tools and be off.”
In five minutes a bundle already prepared was in his hand, and he was seated in a cab, speeding rapidly to the eastern suburbs. He was nearly at his destination when he signalled the driver to stop. Getting out he bade him wait. Proceeding on foot he came to the solitary cottage. Avoiding the front entrance, he walked along the side fence, climbed it, and approached a window covered on the outside with venetian shutters.
“Are you there, Bertha?” he whispered, poking a stick through the shutters and tapping the glass.
No answer.
“Are you there, Bertha?” he cried, still louder.
Still no response. With a cloud of anxiety on his face he hastily took a short crowbar from his bundle, prized open the shutters, prized open the window, and stepped in. With one glance he had eyed every nook and corner of the room.
It was empty.
“Damnation!” cried Huey, as he passed through the open door into the hall, where the front entrance itself was open to the world. “The bird has flown, and the sooner I disappear the better.”
Three minutes later he was in the cab again, raging with disappointed hopes, full of doubt as to what had happened. Had the cabman “split”? Had Alec, with that cursed luck of his, foiled him again? Or had Bertha, more ingenious than he had thought her, and despising the written warning he had left, effected her own deliverance. Clearly he had failed, but while he had life and liberty he would try again, and Bertha should be his—yes, she should be his, or he would swing for her!
* * * * *
When Alec Booth called the name of Bertha at the inner door, he was gladdened to hear the sound of feet on the floor, and a welcome voice cry—“Alec! Is that you, Alec? Save me!”
With one strong drive from his shoulder the door burst in, and there, standing with tear-stained face and imploring eyes, in the midst of a daintily-furnished room, was Bertha Summerhayes.
“At last! Thank God!” exclaimed Alec. “How did you get here?”
She almost fell into his arms. Her eyes lighted up with joy, and her bosom heaved with emotion.
“Oh, take me away from this! Take me away! It feels to me like a tomb!”
And Alec noted as he looked about that the room must have been in semi-darkness before the opening of the door, for the lattice shutters of the window were closed.
“Have you anything to take?” inquired Alec, as Bertha almost pushed him forward in her eagerness to hasten away.
“No, there is nothing. Yet, stay a moment, there is that paper on the table; take that, it may be of use; it may help to explain. But come, do come! I shall faint if I stop in this place a minute longer!”
Alec picked up and placed in his pocket a written paper that lay on the table, and, careless of further concern about the house, quickly left it with Bertha on his arm, and it was not till they were seated side by side in the cab that Miss Summerhayes seemed to draw her breath freely.
As the cab bowled along, they were too busy with mutual congratulations to remark, on another road parallel to their own, a second cab hastening in the direction from which they had just come. Without recognition these two cabs passed each other not four hundred feet away, the riders in each having their eyes closed to that which would have interested them so much.
It was in disjointed fragments that Bertha related her experience, and, pieced together, Alec found it came to this—
She was enticed into the cab by a bushy-whiskered man, who said he had been sent to take her to Mr. Norris, who was seriously ill. The cab, she remembered, came up Oxford Street, when she pointed out that they were going in the wrong direction. The man then told her that Mr. Norris was at a friend’s house at Darlinghurst, but very soon the cab passed that place, and then she called out and wanted to stop the cab or summon assistance. After that she could remember nothing till she came to her senses, feeling very sick and faint, in the room where Alec had found her.
Looking about in the half-darkened room she found a written paper on the table, the same that Alec had in his pocket. Alec took it out and read as follows—
“Miss Summerhayes is warned for her own safety to make no effort to escape or noise of any kind, as it will only force those who watch her to do again what was done in the cab. On these conditions no harm shall happen to you.—A Friend.”
“Reading that made you keep quiet, I suppose,” said Alec.
“Yes,” said Bertha. “I did not want to be smothered again, and I was terrified almost to death, sitting there alone all day, not knowing what was to happen next. Perhaps they were going to murder me, or throw me over the cliffs, for I could hear the noise of the surf. But noise in the house I heard none, till you came and broke open the door. How did you find me out?”
Then Alec gave his account, how he had gone to Soft Sam, and acting on his advice, had advertised for the cabman, how a man had replied, and in spite of his assertion to the contrary, most likely the cabman himself. The rest Bertha knew.
“How can I ever thank you enough, Mr. Booth?” said Bertha, as she stepped once more on the pavement fronting the Golden Bar. “How can I ever thank you enough for your kindness and courage?”
“Give me this hand to keep and take care of,” replied Alec with a sudden burst of emotional fervour, “and no scoundrel in the future shall dare to touch you!”
Bertha did not answer him as she stepped lightly to the doorway; then, half turning her head, she threw him one word as she disappeared.
“Perhaps!”
It was Sunday morning. Bertha, with her old friend the Professor by her side, was walking in the Botanic Gardens. For the third or fourth time she had re-told the tale of her abduction, for a third or fourth time they had speculated as to who the author of the outrage could be, and as to the identity of the bushy-whiskered man.
“Has Mr. Booth been to the cottage again?” asked the Professor.
“Yes, he went back at once, but it was empty, all but the one furnished room I was in, and no one was there. He inquired of the neighbours, and found that the place had been empty and to let for some time, and it was only a few days ago the board was taken down. Then he went to the house agent. This agent said that a bushy-whiskered man, giving the name of Brown, had taken the place and paid a month’s rent in advance. The furniture he happened to know, for it was part of his business to keep his eyes on new tenants, was obtained on the time-payment system. He told Alec—or, rather, Mr. Booth—the shop. The furniture man had seen this Mr. Brown, who had paid him a deposit on one room of furniture. He could say no more than that he was a middle-aged, bushy-whiskered man.”
“And has no more been found out?”
“No, nothing else. Alec wanted to put it in the hands of the police, but I would not have it. I would rather die than have to go in a police-court.”
“And so the villain is to escape?”
“Well, he did not do me much harm after all, Pro, and he will get his desserts some day. All bad people do.”
“That is a very consoling theory for injured people who can obtain no redress, but I am afraid experience hardly warrants it. The stage villain may walk to the scaffold during five acts, but the every-day scoundrel is more often carried to Parliament by a carriage and pair. Have you no suspicion in your own mind as to who it was?”
“The girls in the bar think it was an old gentleman we call the Squatter. He certainly asked me to marry him, and offered me several rich presents at different times; but I hardly think he was the kind of man to have planned an outrage of this kind. It is strange, though, that he has not been seen in Sydney since the day I was taken away. But there, I am weary to death of talking on the subject! Let us speak of something else, Pro. I have left that horrible bar for ever, and I have some news for you. Now guess what it is?”
“You have found a new and wonderful dressmaker!”
“You horrid thing, as though I cared twopence about dress!”
“Then it is a new admirer who has told you that you are the prettiest girl in Sydney, and you have believed him.”
“That is really cruel of you, Pro? As though I cared what people said. You do not deserve to be told anything!”
“I will give up guessing then. Tell me what it is.”
“Alec—that is, Mr. Booth—has asked me to marry him.”
“And you have consented?”
“Not exactly. I thought I would ask you first. I hardly know what to do.”
“He is brave, and strong, and kind. And then it was so good of him to come and rescue me from that horrid place. I really think he loves me, yet he is not just the sort of man I have fancied in my mind. But somehow I am afraid this ideal man of mine will never come along; perhaps he would not have me if he did come. And then Alec loves me, and he is very nice when he likes—and I don’t know what to do or what to say!”
“You have not mentioned another of his advantages, Bertha. I hear that since he won the Cup he is quite a wealthy man.”
“Now you want to scold me. You think I like him for his money. But I am sure a man is no worse because he has means of his own. Why, the Squatter was ten times as rich as Alec, and I never even looked at him. It is not fair to expect every one to be poor like you, Pro, and I am sure it is better for those to have it who will enjoy it than rusty old misers who hoard it up.”
“And about the horse-racing, Bertha. I thought you hated all connected with it?”
“Oh, Alec has promised to give up betting altogether. He says the consultation, or sweep as they call it, pays better. There is no risk, and he means to go in for that.”
“And you find this Mr. Booth a man after your own mind—not the ideal, as you said, but an every-day representative you will be willing to live with till death do you part?”
“I have thought it over, Pro. Of course Alec is not clever. He has read next to nothing, and can talk of very little outside his business, but all the same he might be pleasanter to have about a house than some one who was very clever. I fancy these clever people are not very nice to live with, particularly if you are not so clever as they are.”
“But then, Mr. Booth is not like you in any respect, either in taste or ideas?”
“That is one of the reasons that makes me think we might do very well together. Two people who were much alike would soon be tired of one another, don’t you think so?”
“I think, my dear Bertha, you first made up your mind, and then found all these fine reasons to support you afterwards. You ask my advice, but what you really want is my approval. I give you, instead, my congratulations. The wife of a poor man you might have been, as you know, any time these two years, but I saw clearly that in such case you would always have been regretting that fortune which you might have had. Now you are marrying a man of money. I hope it will turn out as you wish, that the gold will gild your future; but, as in a marriage of poverty I clearly foresaw on your part a life of regrets, so in this other union I have the same misgiving.”
“Then what am I to do, Pro? Shall I remain single?”
“No, my dear, by no means. For a girl above all it is better that she should marry if she can wisely do so. I cannot give you my wisdom, no one can. Wisdom can be bought only by experience. There is no other price. So marry, my dear; be happy while you can, and remember if troubles and trials come that they are your life lessons, to be met bravely, not as evils, but as disguised friends.”
“You ought to have been a parson, Pro,” said Bertha, with tears in her eyes. “You are always so serious. Now, tell me honestly, don’t you think Alec is a fine-looking man?”
* * * * *
Alec Booth was not the man to hide his good fortune. All his friends, more particularly those at the Golden Bar, were soon acquainted with the news of his proposed marriage to Bertha Summerhayes.
Ruby wished him joy, and hoped very kindly he would not be deceived in the object of his affections. And when he inquired what she meant, replied—
“Oh, nothing! Of course, Bertha is an angel—a little chipped, perhaps. It’s about time she settled down, and, like a wise girl, she knows it.”
Florrie was diffuse—
“How kind of you to marry her! You must be a real good sort, Mr. Booth! There’s not many men would have your pluck, if what they say is true!”
“What do they say?” inquired Alec hotly.
“Oh, you have heard nothing? You dear, simple man! Then I’m sure I shall not be the one to tell tales out of school. Besides, it may not be true; people do tell such lies. And Bertha’s not a bad sort, though she does hold her head up. You just shut your eyes and do as she tells you, like a good boy!”
Alec, never fluent of speech, did not know how to reply to his tormentor. He knew their ways too well to take them altogether seriously; but the poison of their malice left a sting behind. His only defence was a hearty “Ha! ha! ha!”
The unanswerable reply of a small head with a big stomach.
* * * * *
In his turn Huey Gosper was not slow to hear the news, and Ruby even gave him the details of “the lark,” as she called it, they had had with Alec.
“And he just was mad when we rubbed it into his angelic Bertha! You should have seen how red he got in the face! Why, the fool is fairly crazy about her! It would only serve him right to play a trick or two on him—the conceited fool!”
A gleam of malicious joy shone in Huey’s eyes as though a sudden unholy hope had sprung up. He whispered words to Ruby and she to him, and by their pantomime it might be understood that a plot, mutually agreed on, was arranged.
“You’ll keep your word?” interrogated Huey as he left.
“Like a book, Mr. Gosper! Never you fear! I’m not the girl to back out!”
And as he passed into the street Huey’s melancholy face bore the first smile it had worn for many days.