The pair on the veranda clung together for an instant—one only.
"I must go to Becky," whispered Mrs. Orban, recovering herself.
But Eustace held her down.
"Oh, don't—don't for one moment," he implored; "wait and see what it is."
"Pad-pad-pad" came the steps, nearer and nearer. A shadow fell aslant the corner of the veranda—the shadow of a man thrown by the light from the drawing-room side window.
The shadow of a man fell aslant the corner of the veranda.
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Mrs. Orban," called a voice softly—a familiar English-speaking voice; "Mrs. Orban, are you still up?"
Mother and son fell apart, and Eustace sprang to his feet.
"Why, it is Bob!" he exclaimed in bewilderment.
"Bob!" cried his mother. "Impossible!"
"Not a bit," said Bob Cochrane, coming round into the streak of lamplight, carrying his boots in his hands. "I just strolled over to see if you were all right. When I got to the steps it struck me I might startle you if I came thundering up, so I took my boots off and crept round to find out where you were. You were so quiet I thought you must have gone to bed and left the lights burning."
"We were talking, nevertheless, when you arrived," Mrs. Orban said, "for I was telling Eustace a story."
"I didn't hear you," Bob said. "Probably my heart was in my mouth, and beating so loud that it deafened me; for, of course, I knew I carried my life in my hand."
"Your life in your hand?" repeated Eustace wonderingly.
"Certainly. I felt sure you would bound on me with a revolver the moment you heard me, shoot me dead, and then demand an explanation. It is the sort of ardent thing one might expect from a knight of your order, Sir Eustace."
Bob's chaff went deeper home than he meant it to. Eustace was in no mood for joking after the strain of the last few minutes. He hoped with all his heart that Mrs. Orban would not betray to Bob how terror-stricken he had just shown himself. Perhaps she understood, or it may be that she was half ashamed of her own unnecessary panic, for she only said,—
"It is really very good of you to have come in the face of that grave peril, and at such an hour too."
"Well, the fact is I wanted to," Bob said in his casual way, "and the mater insisted. I've left our old foreman sleeping in the house for to-night, and I thought I would just turn in with Eustace, if you don't mind."
"We shall be simply delighted," Mrs. Orban said, with a feeling of real relief.
"The mater wants me to take you all back to the Highlands early to-morrow," Bob went on; "you, Becky, and Eustace. She can't bear to think of your loneliness here. Do come and stay with us till Mr. Orban comes back."
It was the kind of thought good, homely little Mrs. Cochrane was celebrated for. But Mrs. Orban shook her head.
"It is just like your mother to think of such a thing," she said, "and just like her son to be her messenger so readily, but I can't do it, Bob. Icouldn't possibly leave the maids and the house to take care of themselves. Mary and Kate would be terrified."
"Oh, bother Mary and Kate!" said Bob.
"I should bemostbothered if they took it into their heads to run away and leave us, especially now that my sister is coming. No, really, I cannot leave home, much as I should enjoy it. Your mother, as an experienced housekeeper, will feel for me in that."
"We forgot the maids and the house," said Bob in a disappointed tone.
"It can't be helped," said Mrs. Orban lightly; "and, indeed, we are quite all right. There is nothing to be afraid of, and I have Eustace.—Which reminds me, old man, hadn't you better be off to bed? This is considerably later than I meant you to be."
"Oh but, mother," Eustace exclaimed, "what about Aunt Dorothy? I couldn't sleep without the rest of that story."
"Oh yes, do let's have the rest of the story first," pleaded Bob.
"There isn't much left now," said Mrs. Orban. "I was only telling him how we once lost Dorothy in a game of hide-and-seek when she was five years old. We had been hunting the house for hours; a sort of awful silence had fallen among us, as if we were expecting I don't know what—"
"When close upon midnight," quoted Eustace in a mysterious voice.
"There arose the cry of a terror-stricken child—shriek upon shriek—feeble because of the distance it was from the great hall, where we were all musteredin shivering silence, but distinct enough to be recognized as Dorothy's voice. I shall never forget it—it makes me shudder now—for the panic in that child's cry was appalling. What was being done to her? What awful pain was she in that she should shriek in such a way? Such were our thoughts as we hurried in a tumbling mass after father and mother. We reached the turret stairs, and father commanded every one with lanterns to go first and light the way. Right to the very top we went, into the little round room we called the Watchman's Nest, and here the sounds were loudest; but they were still muffled, and there was not a sign of Dorothy anywhere."
"Was there any furniture for her to hide in?" asked Eustace, looking puzzled.
"One table, one chair," said Mrs. Orban, "and a small black oak cupboard against the inner wall—it would have just about held Dorothy on the lower shelf. We opened it, flashed in our lanterns, but it was black and empty. One peculiar feature there was about it—when the cupboard door was open we heard the child more clearly. It seemed a stupid, senseless thing to do, but down I went on my hands and knees to feel those empty shelves, as if I imagined Dorothy might be there in spite of our seeing nothing—invisible but tangible. Of course there was nothing but wood to touch; but with my head inside there, I could hear Dorothy so well I might have been in the same room with her."
"How queer!" Eustace broke out excitedly.
"'Dorothy, Dorothy,' I shouted. 'Mother—I want mother, mother, mother,' she shrieked. 'Where areyou? Tell us where you are,' I called. 'I want mother, mother, mother,' was the only answer. 'Mother is here,' I said; and again, 'Tell us where you are.' Something made me feel the cupboard again, and this time I did not only touch the shelves, but put my hand right back. 'Quick, quick! a lantern,' I simply screamed, and half a dozen were lowered instantly. There was no back to the cupboard on the lower shelf. The blackness we had mistaken for the old oak was just nothingness—a deep, deep hollow into the wall."
"Mother," Eustace cried, "a secret chamber!"
"A secret chamber that no one had ever suspected; and Dorothy it was who had found it."
"But how?" The question came from Bob Cochrane.
"She was the most daring child I have ever known," said Mrs. Orban. "I don't think Dorothy knew what fear meant in those days. She knew that scarcely any one ever searched the turret, because it was difficult to get away from, and it entered her small head to creep up to the Watchman's Nest and into this cupboard. Whether she went to sleep waiting for us to find her, or whether she rolled over at once and fell down the little flight of steps into the secret chamber, to lie there stunned, no one knows. Dorothy could not explain herself. Anyhow, there she was, and the moment she came to her senses and found herself in the dark she began to scream with fright."
"But how was it no one had ever discovered the secret chamber before?" demanded Eustace. "It seems funny."
"You would not think so if you saw the cupboard," Mrs. Orban said. "It is a little, insignificant-looking thing—low and rather deep, and, as we then found, built into the wall. The back of the lower shelf was a sliding panel; and your grandfather's theory is that the last person who used the secret chamber left the panel open. Without nearly standing on one's head it was impossible to see the back of the lower shelf, and no one had ever suspected such a thing."
"O Bob, Bob, wouldn't you just like to see Maze Court?" cried Eustace. "I shall never be happy till I do."
"I tell you you will all be off on Miss Dorothy's broomstick one of these fine days," growled Bob. "She is a witch, and she has already bewitched you, for you can talk of nothing but England now."
"You had better go to bed, Eustace," Mrs. Orban said with a laugh. "Bob is getting quite fierce."
Bob left very early next day to get back to work. As Nesta and Peter were having holidays, Eustace, of course, did no lessons, but spent the day very contentedly helping his mother. She was busy rearranging furniture in the room that was to be Miss Chase's, and they scarcely sat down the whole day till evening.
"Early to bed this night, my son," said Mrs. Orban as they left the dinner-table. "I expect you will sleep like a top."
He was looking sleepy already, and a quarter of an hour later went very readily to his room, with a parting entreaty to his mother that she would not sit up late.
"Not I," was the laughing rejoinder. "I promise you I will only write one little line to father and begin my mail letter to grannie, and then I will go to bed."
This Mrs. Orban did, and being very tired she fell asleep almost as soon as her head touched the pillow.
For several hours a great silence reigned over the house; but even when it was broken by the soft pad-pad-pad of bare feet creeping stealthily round the veranda, the sleepers lay utterly unconscious. The stairs had not creaked under the weight of this figure; it cast no shadows, for there was no light either within the house or without. At every window it halted, listened, peered in, as if it had the eyes of a cat to see with in the dark.
First came the dining-room, and next it the room in which Eustace and Peter slept. Round the corner were Mrs. Orban's room and part of the drawing-room. At the other corner was Nesta's room, where Miss Chase would also sleep, and next to that the servants' room.
The strange visitor made a complete tour of the veranda and reached the stair again.
Eustace was dreaming vividly. He was out with Nesta and Becky. Becky had been specially entrusted to their care, and they had been told only to go a little way into the scrub. As a rule the children were not allowed to go into the scrub without a grown-up in charge, for there were dangers among the thick bushy undergrowth known by this odd name. For one thing, snakes abounded there; for another, it was only too easy to lose one's bearings, wander farther and farther into the wood, and eventuallydie of thirst and starvation, utterly unable to find the way home again. To Eustace's distraction, in his dream Becky would insist on playing hide-and-seek, and kept constantly disappearing and returning, flitting on in front of them now and again like a will-o'-the-wisp.
"We mustn't let her do it," Eustace exclaimed. "Run, Nesta; we must catch her."
But the faster they ran, the farther Becky went; it was extraordinary how fast she could go.
"I can't keep up," Nesta panted.
"Just like a girl," puffed Eustace back, for he was getting exhausted himself.
Then Becky disappeared right out of sight, and though Eustace called her till the echoes rang again and again with her name, there came no answer.
"Now I guess we shall all be lost," thought Eustace desperately.
He was rushing madly hither and thither, when suddenly he heard a blood-curdling yell not very far off. It was followed by another and another, till his heart stood still with terror.
"Of course," he said, pulling himself together with all his might, "she must be in the secret chamber. I never thought of that."
But even as the notion flashed into his mind he knew how silly it was to think of a secret chamber in the Bush. He was so paralyzed by the awfulness of the sounds that for a moment he could not move; but at last, with a mighty effort, he forced himself to dart forward in the direction whence the cries came.
A second later he was fighting blindly with some thing that clung unpleasantly to him. It took hima moment to realize that this was the mosquito net round his bed. He was out on the floor in his own room at home. He had been dreaming, and was now awake; but the screams continued, and were most horribly real. It was not Becky's voice—no child could have cried like that.
There was a door from his room into Mrs. Orban's, and through this the boy dashed.
"Mother, mother," he cried, "what is happening?"
There was a light in the room. Mrs. Orban was standing with a look of terror on her face.
"I don't know," she said unsteadily.
"It has been going on for ages," Eustace whispered.
But Mrs. Orban shook her head. "It has only just begun," she said. "I must go and see what is the matter."
Eustace was haunted by his dream—a second in a dream is equivalent to hours of real life.
"O mother, don't go!" he exclaimed in an agonized voice, and clung to her.
"I must," was the answer, and gently but firmly Mrs. Orban put the boy from her. "Perhaps one of the servants is ill. At least they are both frightened, and need me. Stay here with Becky."
The words were hardly out of her mouth when the door burst open, and in rushed Mary, followed by Kate. Both girls looked half mad with fear.
"O ma'am, ma'am," they cried, piecing out the tale between them, "there was a black-fellow in our room. He has stolen our watches from under our pillows, and everything he could find before we woke, and he was pulling the rings off Mary's finger when she felt him and jumped out of bed. But he got therings, and we don't know where he is—somewhere about the house—and maybe there are others with him. O ma'am, whatever shall we do? We shall all be murdered in our beds."
"Nonsense, you silly girls," said Mrs. Orban, with sudden sternness; "we can't possibly be murdered in our beds when we are all out of them."
Even in the stress of the moment Eustace could not help being struck by the humour of the assertion, but he was in no mood for laughing.
Creeping to the window, he peered out, to find that it was no longer pitch dark; there was a sufficient glimmer of light to have enabled their uninvited guest to do all that the servants described.
By this time Becky was awake and howling. Her mother took her into her arms and soothed her gently.
"As to what we shall do," Mrs. Orban said in that same firm tone; "we must all stay here till daylight together. If there are thieves about the house, we can do nothing to check them. They will not hurt us if we don't interfere. There is nothing to be done but to behave as little like cowards as we can manage."
"But black-fellows do such—" began Kate.
"Hold your tongue, Kate," said the usually gentle Mrs. Orban, with sudden anger. "What good can it do to scare yourself and us by talking in such a way? We are in God's hands, don't forget that."
"Mother," Eustace said, "has father got his revolver away with him?"
"There are two in this room," Mrs. Orban replied. "Could you use one if necessary?"
"Oh, for mercy's sake don't let Master Eustace have a gun in his hands!" said Mary. "There's no saying which of us he might shoot in mistake if he began playing with one."
"Playing with one!" repeated Eustace scornfully; "why, father says my shooting is very good for my age."
Mrs. Orban took a revolver from a cupboard and gave it into the boy's hands.
"It is loaded," she said, and now there was the suspicion of a quiver in her voice; "but realize I am trusting you to be sensible. Don't shoot at random. Remember what Bob said last night. You are only to fire if terribly necessary. Now jump into Becky's bed, or you will be getting a chill and fever."
From beneath her own pillow she drew out a second revolver, examined it, and set it on a table within easy reach.
"Mother," said Eustace in surprise, "do you always sleep with a revolver under your pillow?"
"Only when your father is away," was the reply. "Now, Mary and Kate, get into my bed. I am going to sit in this cosy chair with Miss Becky. We will talk and keep the light burning; but it is my belief nothing more will happen to-night."
The maids obeyed, still looking terrified, and then Mrs. Orban seated herself, with Becky in her arms, near the table where the revolver lay.
Thus they prepared to face the remaining hour of darkness, powerless to do anything, utterly helpless, with nerves strung to the highest possible pitch, and hearts that beat wildly at every sound.
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Mrs. Orban's words were brave, her whole bearing courageous, but she was more frightened than she had ever been in her life before. It is doubtful whether she really believed her own assertion that nothing more would happen that night, though she tried to. As a matter of fact her prophecy was correct. Scared by the screams of the women, the unpleasant guest must have promptly run away. He was probably alone, and, uncertain as to who was in the house, had fled from the chance of being peppered by a revolver.
It was found in the morning that nothing was missing except the servants' watches, their few small trinkets that were lying on the dressing-table, and Mary's rings. The extraordinary silence with which he had perpetrated the theft, his skill in taking the rings off Mary's hand as it lay outside the coverlet, were not at all unprecedented—the natives were known to be silent and subtle as snakes in their doings.
Mrs. Orban sent Eustace down to the plantation as soon as she knew every one would be astir. Mr. Ashton, the field manager, was suffering from fever,so that it was useless to go to him; but on hearing the story, Robertson, the chief engineer, returned with the boy to look into the matter.
Investigations were in vain; the man had left no tracks around the house, no footprints on the veranda.
The servants were so terrified that they declared they would not stay another night in the house. They wanted to be sent to Cooktown immediately—a five days' journey by sea. Robertson, a big burly Scotsman, roughly told them that such a thing was impossible. They could not get away for another week, when the schooner might be expected to bring provisions. He lectured them on their cowardice in wanting to run away and leave their mistress alone at such a time, but the girls would not listen to reason; they said they would hire horses and ride all the way to the first civilized place they could find.
Then Mrs. Orban tried persuasion. Had they not better wait at least to see whether anything could be heard of their lost possessions? She would offer a reward to any one finding the thief or restoring the stolen goods to their owners—the offer should be made known all over the plantation.
The suggestion carried the day, and the bargain was made. Mrs. Orban felt that at all costs she must keep the maids until Mr. Orban's return, for the work and the solitude would have been too much for her to stand, brave as she had proved herself to be.
The offering of a reward was greatly against Robertson's advice. He pointed out that it would only prove an incentive to further robbery. Theplantation hands were an unprincipled lot, and if they discovered that they could get money by stealing things and bringing them back, as if they had discovered them in the possession of some one else, there would be no end to the thefts, and no tangible means of getting hold of the thieves unless they were caught red-handed.
But so anxious was Mrs. Orban to keep the servants that she disregarded Robertson's opinion, and the reward was duly offered. The engineer had one proposal to make, which was accepted. With Mrs. Orban's leave, he said, he, with his wife and two little children, would come up the hill and sleep in the house until Mr. Orban's return. There would be safety in numbers; and if the night visitor came again, some one to deal with him better than by screaming at him.
In spite of the fuller house, and the fact that Robertson's eight-year-old boy was sleeping in Peter's bed that night, Eustace did not feel particularly happy in the hours of darkness before him, after the party had broken up and said good-night.
The door between his mother's room and his own was left open, by way of companionship for them both, but the boy was so overtired as to be restless and unable to go to sleep. To his excited fancy there were unusual sounds about. The creaking of unwarping boards, the soughing of the night breeze round the house, even Sandy Robertson turning round in his bed, with an impatient but sleepy flump at the heat, were noises that set his hair on end and made him feel cold and damp all over again and again. Once or twice he stole from his bed topeer into his mother's room, but she always seemed asleep; or he would look stealthily out of the window, as if he could possibly have seen anything in the dark.
Robertson, with his wife and baby, was in Nesta's room at the other side of the house. It occurred to Eustace that if anything did happen—anything needing immediate action—Robertson was very far away and ungetatable. The boy sat up in bed hugging his knees, making feverish plans as to what he should do supposing the night visitor came again and he should see him.
Unknown to his mother, Eustace had taken the revolver he had been entrusted with the night before to bed with him. He meant to sleep with it under his pillow, but every time he got up to make his investigations he took it, gripped tightly in his hand ready for immediate use.
When the first gray light stole into the room at last, Eustace began to feel drowsy. Almost against his will he lay back on his pillow and fell asleep. He had determined to watch the night through, but a great heaviness overpowered him, and he lay like a log.
It seemed to him he had hardly closed his eyes—indeed, it cannot have been much later, for there was but little difference in the light—when a resounding pistol report rang through the silent house. Eustace awoke with an instant consciousness of having slept on his self-imposed sentry work. He felt queer and oddly shaken as, with a cry of dismay, he sprang out of bed and rushed into his mother's room.
"Oh, what is it?" exclaimed Mrs. Orban, frightened out of her wits by the noise.
She stared at Eustace, who stood, revolver in hand, gazing blankly round the room.
"I don't know," he began, stopped abruptly, and added in a choked voice, "Oh, look! look!"
He was staring towards the window. Outside on the veranda, crouching on all fours in the dusk, was a dark figure. With a strange, sudden movement it raised itself and stretched out an arm towards the room—standing lank, tall, and horribly sinister.
Without a moment's hesitation Eustace raised his hand and fired. There was a splintering of glass, a wild howl of pain, and the figure dropped like a stone.
"Eustace," cried Mrs. Orban in a horrified voice, "what have you done?"
"I had to fire first," returned the boy in an odd, sullen tone.
The figure outside moved, and with a succession of dreadful yells began rapidly crawling along the veranda towards the stairs.
At the bedroom door appeared the entire household, Robertson leading the way, his usually ruddy face ghastly with astonishment.
"What on earth is happening?" he asked, staring at Eustace and his mother.
"I've shot something," Eustace faltered. "It is going down the steps—"
Robertson waited to hear no more. Seizing the boy's revolver, he took a short cut through the house for the veranda steps.
"What was it?" asked the frightened women, as they huddled together in the doorway.
"I don't know," Eustace answered—"a black-fellowof some sort. I wonder if I—I killed him."
There had fallen a sudden silence outside; the awful howling had ceased.
Eustace sat down on the edge of his mother's bed feeling sick and shivery. To have killed a man—a white fellow, black-fellow, any sort of fellow; it was horrible!
The most extraordinary sounds arose from the veranda. Had Robertson gone mad, or what could be the matter with him?
"Ho-ho-ho! ha-ha-ha! ho-ho-ho-ho!" he roared.
Every one stood as if paralyzed. There was something terribly uncanny about the laughter. It seemed so ill-timed, so jarring and unkind.
Robertson appeared at the broken window.
"Upon my word, Eustace," exclaimed the Scotsman, "it's the best joke ever I heard or saw. Come and look at your black-fellow and be proud of yourself."
"I can't!" said Eustace, his knees knocking together as he attempted to stand, and he fell back on the bed.
"Oh, what is it, Mr. Robertson?" asked Mrs. Orban.
"Why, it's nothing but a miserable, half-starved dingo-dog that must have prowled up to the house in search of food," Robertson said. "You marked him well—I will say that for you, Eustace. He was dead before I could reach the steps."
"Thank God it was not a human being," exclaimed Mrs. Orban.
"A dingo!" cried Eustace, sitting up suddenly with a perplexed expression in his eyes. "Then who fired the first shot? I mean the one that woke me."
The relief faded from Mrs. Orban's face. It was a startling question, an uncomfortable reflection that the first shot had not been accounted for.
"Yes, by the way," she said, "there was that other shot. It seemed to come from Eustace's room, and I was frightened out of my wits. I was thankful to see him safe and sound a minute later."
"I heard two shots distinctly," Robertson said, looking grave; "but of course I fancied Eustace had fired twice at the dingo."
"Not I," said Eustace. "I never saw the beast till I came into mother's room; and I didn't fire till it stood up against the window and looked like a human being."
"H'm," said Robertson. "It strikes me I had better have a look round. Just stay here till I come back."
The women all looked scared. It was not a pleasant idea that the person who fired that first shot was possibly lurking about somewhere in the shadows. They listened breathlessly as Robertson made the tour of the house, momentarily expecting a fresh commotion, the firing of shots and a struggle. Mrs. Robertson was dreadfully upset, and held her two children close; the maids huddled together in a corner. Mrs. Orban stood, revolver in hand, near Becky's bed with such quiet dignity that somehow Eustace was steadied.
The chances were that, finding himself hunted by Robertson, the man would try to effect an escape on to the veranda this way as a short cut to the steps.
If the visitor were the same as that of the night before, it was all important he should be captured—otherwisethis disagreeable night raid might be repeated.
But no shots and no sound of a scuffle were heard. Robertson returned to say that he had investigated every nook and cranny that a man might have hidden in, and found no trace of any one having entered the house anywhere.
The little gathering stared about with questioning, bewildered eyes, and no one felt any happier for the news. The fact remained that a shot had been fired by a mysterious being who had apparently vanished into air. For what purpose had that shot been fired? At what? At whom?
"I can't make it out," said Robertson. "There seems no sense in a fellow coming and letting off fireworks in the middle of the night for nothing."
"Perhaps it is a trick of some sort," suggested Mrs. Orban; "some one trying to frighten us. But I don't see that that is possible."
"Nor I," said Robertson. "People aren't in the habit of playing practical jokes without some purpose in them hereabouts. All the same, it doesn't seem much good all of you staying up like this. If you'll just get back to your beds, I'll watch for the rest of the night. It may be a better way of trapping a chap, if he hasn't got clean away by now. That is the most likely thing, of course—his firearm probably went off inadvertently as he was coming round the veranda, and he knew he had done for himself, so made tracks at once. He might come back as soon as he thought the house was quiet again, but I don't expect him."
No one felt much inclined to take Robertson's practical advice. At the same time it seemed foolishto stay up and exhaust themselves for nothing, and Mrs. Orban agreed that every one should go to bed.
Eustace went very reluctantly. He would have liked to stay up and share Robertson's watch like a man; it seemed so childish to be sent to bed after taking part in such an excitement. He wondered what Nesta would have thought of it had she been there.
"Goodness, wouldn't she have been scared!" he reflected. "I do wonder what she would have done."
At least there would be plenty to tell her when she came home. She might be having a jolly time; but Eustace guessed, when it was all over, she would be disappointed at having been out of such adventures as these. There was a sort of glow about the realization that they were such very real adventures—experiences that did not come every day and to every one. The only stupid part about it was having to go to bed.
Mrs. Orban felt no glow in her realization of the situation. She longed for her husband, and wondered how she was going to bear his absence much longer. If this sort of thing were to go on she felt that it would break her nerve entirely.
Having kissed Eustace and sent him away, she felt too restless to get into bed. Sleep she knew would be impossible; and taking a book, she was just sitting down with the set purpose of making herself read awhile, in order to quiet her mind, when a sharp cry reached her from the next room.
"Mother! mother!" Eustace cried, "come here—quick!"
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She found Eustace standing beside his bed staring at it in utter bewilderment.
"My dearest boy, what is it?" she asked.
"Why, look at that!" Eustace exclaimed, pointing down at the coverlet.
From about the centre of the bed on the right side, down almost to the foot, was a long brown streak like a burn: the coverlet was cut and charred.
Mrs. Orban stared at it in astonishment
"What can it be?" she said.
"I can't think," Eustace replied.
"You had better fetch Robertson," Mrs. Orban said. "There is something very odd about this."
"Don't you mind being left alone, mother?" Eustace asked, looking round anxiously, as if he thought an explanation of the mystery might jump from under a bed or out of a cupboard.
"Of course not, dear," Mrs. Orban replied gravely.
It amused her even in her anxiety that this slender scrap of fourteen should assume such an air of protection, but it touched her also, and she would not for worlds have let him fancy she could smile at him.
Robertson hurried to the spot immediately, and when he saw the condition of the coverlet he looked utterly nonplussed.
"Well, this is a queer state of things," he said, rubbing his head meditatively. "I never saw anything to equal it."
Further examination proved that not only was the coverlet burnt right through, but the under clothes were scorched and crumbled like tinder at a touch.
"It looks like the track of a shot," Robertson said; "but how could it come there?"
"I don't know," Eustace said, "unless some one was kneeling on the floor at the foot of the bed and tried to shoot me without raising his hand. The shot sounded most awfully close."
Robertson took a quick survey of the situation, ending with an examination of the wall at the head of the bed.
"No," he said, "that couldn't be. The bullet would have gone into the pillow or lodged in the wall, but there isn't a sign of it. Seems to me it went the other way by the mark. It is broadest in the middle of the bed."
He followed the line with his eye, then glanced across the room.
"Why," he exclaimed, going over to the opposite wall, "here is the mark of the bullet—here is the bullet itself, deep in the wood. That shot went off from the middle of your bed, lad."
Eustace looked incredulous, Mrs. Orban horrified. It was awful to think that the boy had been in such danger. The man who had fired that first alarmingshot was close to him, perhaps bending over him, when inadvertently the weapon had gone off! The mother could picture it only too vividly, and she felt sick at the thought of the ghastly peril.
"But what happened to the man?" questioned Eustace. "I was awake in a minute, and must have seen him."
"Not if he ducked under the bed," suggested Mrs. Orban. "He must have been there when you came to me, and made his escape the instant you were out of the way."
"Much more likely if he had knocked the youngster on the head to silence him," argued Robertson, as he stood toying with Mr. Orban's revolver. "I don't think that story will wash."
Quite suddenly the man threw back his head and laughed aloud.
"I have it," he said. "Eustace, you young rascal, what a scare you have given us!"
"I!" exclaimed Eustace, with a touch of indignation in his tone.
"Yes, you," was the reply. "Why, you fired that first shot yourself; I'll bet you anything you did. You only shot once at the dingo—there are two chambers empty in this revolver. Come, own up; where was the revolver when you went to sleep?"
Eustace flushed crimson as the realization flooded his mind.
"It was in my hand when I jumped out of bed," he said. "I—I do believe I went to sleep holding it. I dropped off suddenly."
He remembered how inexplicably queer and shaken he had felt when he awoke. Now he came to thinkof it, he had been strangely jarred. A mere sound could scarcely have accounted for the feeling.
"Well, that clears the whole mystery, then," said Robertson. "There is no one lurking about the house, and there hasn't been anything to be frightened about—except that you might have shot your own foot through, and lamed yourself for life."
"He might have killed himself," said Mrs. Orban seriously. "It was a terribly dangerous thing to do."
She said nothing more, for it was evident Eustace felt very small and uncomfortable. It was the tamest possible ending to what had promised to be such a stirring adventure—such a tale to tell!
Presently, when he was left alone to try and get a little sleep before it was time to get up and dress, the full humiliation of it overcame him. What would his father say? and Nesta? and, worse and worse, Bob Cochrane? How he would be laughed at—teased! He would never be allowed to forget the dingo he had mistaken for a black-fellow; and he felt hot all over when he thought of that foolish shot—the cause of all the commotion.
It was a very depressed Eustace who appeared at breakfast. He took Robertson's unabated amusement so gravely that the engineer stopped laughing at him, and wondered if the youngster were sulking.
Mrs. Orban felt a good deal distressed to see how pale the boy was, and that he could hardly touch the food set before him. But every one showed signs of exhaustion, as was natural after two nights of such unusual strain. Mrs. Orban kept Eustace with her all day, setting him small jobs to keep himoccupied. They all went to bed early that night, and the household slept without rocking.
Next day, in the cool of the morning, Bob Cochrane rode over to inquire how the Orbans were getting on. Eustace heard him come—the boy was on the lookout for this particular visit—and as Bob walked round one side of the veranda, Eustace disappeared along the other, left a message with Mary that he was going down to the mill, and started away from the house at a run. The truth was, he felt he simply could not be present while Bob listened to the story of his absurd adventures; he wanted the narration to be over before he faced the fusillade of chaff with which the young fellow might pepper him. "He'll think me a silly little fool, I know he will," Eustace told himself again and again; "and he'll say, 'What did I tell you about shooting recklessly?' I expect he'll think I'm a baby, not fit to be trusted with firearms. It's disgusting, just when I was hoping he might begin to think me worth taking out shooting with him soon."
Thoroughly out of conceit with himself, Eustace wished he need not go home at all until Bob was certain to be gone. But no sooner did he reach the mill and begin wandering about the rooms full of machinery than it struck him it had been rather cowardly even to run away for a time. Bob would know he had not felt equal to facing him, and perhaps he would despise that as much as he was bound to be amused at the other. The lad had a sharp tussle with himself, and at last started back up the hill with the feelings of a most unwilling martyr going to the stake.
He was about two-thirds of the way up when he caught sight of Bob Cochrane coming swinging down towards him. Bob was just the kind of fellow every boy wants to grow into—big, well-made, splendidly manly; he looked jolly in his riding-suit.
"Hulloa!" he called as soon as he came within speaking distance.
"Hulloa!" Eustace called back tonelessly, his heart thumping hard, his colour coming and going ridiculously.
Bob waited till they met. Then, "Well, youngster," he said gravely, putting a big hand on the lad's shoulder and walking on beside him, "you've had a rough time since I saw you last. I don't wonder you shot at that dingo in the way you did; I should have done it myself, I believe, under the circumstances."
Eustace's heart almost stopped beating, he was so surprised; he could not speak a word.
"Of course that chap coming the night before put you all on edge," proceeded Bob, "and you were flurried by the first shot. That might have been a nasty business too. Glad you didn't hurt yourself."
There was another pause, but Bob did not seem to mind. He went on again presently,—
"It is just this kind of thing, I always think, that gives one a bit of a useful warning: first, to be cautious; and second, to keep a cool head. You'll never go to sleep with a revolver ready cocked again, and another time you will give yourself a second's deliberation before you fire at anything looking like a man. It might have been Robertson making a tour of the house, you know."
Eustace felt suddenly rather sick.
"I never thought of that," he said.
"Of course not," was the cheery response. "One doesn't look all round a question in a hurry, but one has to learn to remember there may be two sides to it. You'll get the hang of the idea one of these days. I know it was a long time before I gave up wanting to shoot down everything I didn't quite like the looks of. Sometimes it turns out well, sometimes pretty badly."
He ended with a little laugh. Eustace, looking up into the merry, kindly face, knew that the awful time he had so dreaded was over, and it had not been an "awful time" after all. Bob did not think him a fool; he might have done the same himself, he said. He only warned him to be more careful another time, and gave him the reasons why he should.
The boy had always admired this friend of the family; he positively glowed with pride at this minute that Bob was a friend of his own. Whatever might happen now, whoever might snub or laugh at him, Eustace had this comforting knowledge always at heart—Bob understood, and Bob was a man no one would laugh at.
"He is a brick," thought the lad warmly. "I wish there was anything, anything in the world I could do to show him what a brick I think him. If ever there is, won't I just do it! The more dangerous it is the better."
"I remember once having a pretty gruesome experience," said Bob, chatting on easily. "I expect you've never heard about it, because you were nothing but a kiddy at the time, and it has been forgottenlately. I was going home across our plantation with two other fellows late at night—much later than the mater liked us to be out. In order to be as quick as possible, when we got to the little line running to the mill we hoisted the trolley on to the rails and began pushing ourselves along at a great rate. It was the sort of darkness one can peer through, making things look weird and distorted, often much bigger than they really are."
"Like the dingo."
"Like the dingo. Well, we were getting along finely, when we got to rather a steep gradient and had to go slower up it. Near the top one of us suddenly caught sight of something unusual to the left of the line. It looked like a huge cowering figure, wide but not tall. Whether four-legged or two-legged it was impossible to say because of the gloom. It wasn't a nice feeling to have this thing silently waiting for one. We all boo'd and shoo'd first, thinking that if it were a beast of any sort it would scoot at the noise; but it didn't stir an inch or make a sound. We felt pretty creepy by then, for black-fellow tales were even commoner in those days than they are now. From the size of it we guessed it might have been a group of three men. Then we shouted, 'Hands up and declare yourself, or we fire!' But still the creature didn't move or speak."
"My hat!" exclaimed Eustace sympathetically.
"We had got to get past it somehow to reach home, for it wasn't likely we could stay there all night. We gave it two more chances, and then we fired for all we were worth. There were instantlyshrieks, groans, and such horrible sounds that we waited for nothing more, but pushing our stakes into the ground, sent the trolley flying past the awful spot and down the next hill. How we didn't turn over and get killed down that incline I don't know—it was the one nearest home, you know, where one has to be so fearfully careful about putting on a brake as a rule. However, we got in all right, and gave a detailed account of our adventure. Every one was interested and puzzled. Father was a little inclined to laugh; he said it was probably the stump of a tree, but of course we had evidence against that in the genuine shrieks and groans following our shots. 'Well, we must just go first thing to-morrow,' father said, 'and look into the matter by daylight.'"
"And did you?" asked Eustace eagerly.
"Rather! I should just think we did—father, a friend of his who was staying with us, and the two boys I had been out with. We rode, and when we got to the spot the first thing we saw was the huge stump of a newly-felled tree, right in the very place we had seen the gruesome object."
Eustace whistled.
"But a tree couldn't shriek and groan," he objected.
"Sowesaid when father began minutely examining the bark; and to our satisfaction there wasn't a single shot mark in the tree, though we must have fired half a dozen between us. 'We can't have seen this,' I said, feeling rather cock-a-hoopy; 'it must have been something nearer.' We were just all puzzling our heads over the matter when a Chinkee came running towards us from a group of huts not very far off. He was gesticulating and making a fearfulfuss. We followed him in a fine state of excitement, and he led us to a little low shed with a railing before it. We looked in, and there lay two dead pigs!"
"Two dead pigs!" cried Eustace.
"Yes. It was pretty humiliating, for it just proved we had aimed at the tree and missed it. Instead, we shot the Chinkee's inoffensive pigs. It was many a long day before that joke was forgotten against us. Moreover, amongst us we had to scrape a pound together to pay the Chinaman for his loss. I never felt so small in my life."
Eustace could well appreciate the sensation after his own experiences.
Bob took a very light view of the real visit the Orbans had had from the black-fellow two nights before.
"He wouldn't have hurt any one," said the young fellow. "He was nothing but a cowardly thief, or he wouldn't have behaved in the way he did. I'm only sorry you've offered a reward for the things; it will be an incentive to other fellows to do the same. However, I dare say, with Robertson sleeping up here, no one will venture again. I shouldn't worry if I were you, Mrs. Orban."
"I will try not to," Mrs. Orban answered bravely.
They had a quiet enough night again to warrant confidence, and every one felt rested and refreshed next day.
Just after breakfast Kate appeared to tell her mistress that a Chinaman from the plantation wished to speak to her. His name was Sinkum Fung, and he was the plantation storekeeper, a man who thought a good deal of himself, but for lying andtrickery, Mr. Orban declared, was no better than his neighbours the coolies who dealt at his shop.
As soon as Sinkum Fung was shown on to the veranda, he did a good deal of bowing and scraping by way of politeness, and he had so much to say on the subject of his own unimpeachable integrity that it was a long time before Mrs. Orban could bring him to an explanation of his early visit. Both she and Eustace guessed he must be wanting to sell something, and probably hoped to drive a good bargain in Mr. Orban's absence, the cunning of the average Chinese being unsurpassed.
After a considerable preamble, Sinkum began the following remarkable tale, all told in such strange Chinkee patter, and with so much self-praise interspersed, that it took the listeners' whole attention to unravel it.
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Some nights before Sinkum Fung was sitting in his store waiting for customers. His best trade was always in the evening, when the coolies' work was over, and they had time to do some shopping. But it was getting late, and Sinkum thought it about time to close the store and go to bed. Suddenly there fell a shadow across the threshold, and a big black-fellow entered—a stranger whom Sinkum Fung had never seen before. What had he come to buy? Sinkum asked politely. But the black-fellow had come to buy nothing—he had a fierce, wild face, and his voice made Sinkum tremble when he said he had not come to buy, but to sell. He declared his name to be Jaga-Jaga of the great "Rat clan" now living in the Bush not far away. He had found, he said, a white man hanging in a tree, caught and held fast by the dreadful "wait-a-bit" cane that will swing round man or beast at a touch, and hold them fast till they die of exposure and starvation. This man was dead, and on his body, Jaga-Jaga said, he discovered sundry things which he now brought to the store to sell. What would Sinkum Fung give for them? The payment must be made in food, for thetribe were nearly starving. Food was difficult to procure in the intense heat; the ground was arid and unproductive.
Sinkum examined the goods; he made his offer; whereat the wild man swung his boomerang disagreeably, and indicated that he must have "more, more." Tears of self-pity flooded Sinkum's eyes. He had no choice but to obey, and at last the black-fellow left with a sack containing ten times the value of the goods the storeman had been forced to buy. He had been cheated, cruelly used; he was a poor man, and could not stand such losses. The things were of no value—none; but if he had not bought them he would have been a dead man.
Sinkum's hands were no longer in his sleeves—he had made dramatic passes, illustrative of the fearful fate that might have befallen him.
It presented to Eustace's mind a vivid picture—the black-fellow with poised boomerang standing over the shrinking Chinkee, threatening his life if he did not obey the exorbitant demands.
To Mrs. Orban came another thought. There apparently really were black-fellows in the neighbourhood—a whole tribe living in the Bush.
The story of the poor white man strung up in the wood made the listeners shudder. Such a thing had never come into their experience, but they knew the terrible possibility of it. Many a man has been so detained in the Bush, riding inadvertently against the "wait-a-bit" or "lawyer cane." It springs round its victim like a coiled spring, and he is helpless to free himself if his arms happen to be pinioned. Who could this particular poor fellow have been, foundnot far from the plantation? No one would ever know, Mrs. Orban reflected pitifully.
"And what were the things you had to buy, Sinkum Fung?" asked Eustace, with intense interest.
Sinkum searched amongst his curious garments and produced a handful of things, which he set solemnly down upon the table beside Mrs. Orban, watching her narrowly, to see what effect his action produced.
She gave a start of surprise.
"Why," said Eustace, springing to his feet, "this is the servants' jewellery, and their watches. The black-fellow never got them off any dead white man at all; he stole them straight out of our house."
Sinkum nodded drearily.
So he had discovered, he said. When too late he had heard of the reward for the catching of that black-fellow. He could only claim the reward for returning the goods; but surely the good missee would not let him lose so much. He had given ten times the value of those things, and thus only had he saved them from the black-fellow.
In his endeavour to point out that it was due to him, and him alone, the jewellery had reappeared, Sinkum Fung next fell into raptures over his own deeds. Had he but known that missee wanted the black-fellow too, he would have given his greatest treasure—his fine long pig-tail—to have detained him. He made the statement with a great air of devotion—a Chinaman does not part lightly with his pig-tail.
But no amount of assurances would prevail on Mrs. Orban to give the man more than the promised regard. Any further claim he might have to make, she said, must be made to Mr. Orban on his return.Sinkum Fung went away in a transparently aggrieved frame of mind.
"Mother," Eustace said, as soon as the man's footsteps died away round the veranda, "did you believe his story about the black-fellow?"
"At first, yes," Mrs. Orban admitted. "I dare say such a thing is quite possible. I pictured the black-fellow bringing in a wallet containing the poor traveller's kit, a worn leather belt, with perhaps some money in it, a pipe and pouch."
"Yes, that is what I expected," said Eustace.
"Then one could have believed that Sinkum Fung might be taken in by the tale," Mrs. Orban went on; "but never tell me he believed it when he saw those trinkets. They are not the sort of things a Bushman would be carrying about with him, and Sinkum knows that as well as I do. He is no simpleton. His mistake was that he thought I might be one, and he overreached himself in his description of the ferocious Jaga-Jaga."
"You don't even think Sinkum was terrified into buying the things?" Eustace asked.
Mrs. Orban shook her head and smiled.
"I very much doubt it," she said. "Indeed, I am inclined to fancy the thief was no black-fellow at all now. It is just as likely he was a Malay or Manila boy from the plantation, and Sinkum Fung is in collusion with him. They will probably go shares in the reward; but Sinkum meant to make as much more out of me for himself as he possibly could."
"My word! if the other fellow comes again," said Eustace, "don't I just hope we shall catch him."
"I am sure I hope and trust he will not comeagain," said Mrs. Orban gravely. "We have had quite as many disturbances already as I feel inclined for."
Mary and Kate were delighted to get back their belongings, and made no further reference to running away. They felt more secure with the Robertson family living in the house. Besides, a letter from Mr. Orban stated that he was getting through his business quicker than he had expected, and he should only now wait for Miss Chase's boat from England, because she would need an escort up country.
This cheered every one immensely. It was something to look forward to, and the days began to go quicker and more brightly.
Then Nesta and Peter came home full of all their doings at the Highlands, and this made a great difference to the house. Eustace did not know he could have been so glad to see his brother and sister; it was not till they came back that he realized how dull he had really been without them.
The Robertsons still stayed. Nesta slept with her mother, and the three boys were in the next room.
Nesta knew a good deal about the excitements that had been taking place at home. It was thought useless to try and hush the matter up. Something was bound to slip out in the course of conversation, and so she was given the lightest possible version of the theft, ending with an amusing account of Sinkum Fung's visit.
Of course Bob brought the children over, and to Eustace's intense gratitude, when it came to the story of the bogus scare, and Nesta seemed inclined to giggle, Bob said gravely, "Older people have made worse mistakes," and then proceeded to tell thestory against himself about the tree stump and the pigs.
There was something so big and nice about Bob's nature that, without meaning to, he always made people ashamed of being petty and ill-natured when he was present.
"You made a good shot at the dingo, old man," he said. "It won't be long before you are out shooting with me, at this rate."
Of course no one could laugh at Eustace after that. Bob saw nothing funny about what he had done—Bob actually praised him—and when Bob praised it meant something.
"I say," Nesta asked when the twins were alone together, "weren't you most awfully scared?"
"Well, I guess I was rather," Eustace admitted; "but of course it was silly to be. Mother thinks it was only one of the plantation hands now, and not a black-fellow at all, you see."
"But a plantation hand might have knifed somebody," Nesta said, with a shudder. "I hope he won't come again. I know I should scream like anything."
"I believe it would be the worst thing you could do," Eustace said gravely. "He would be sure to try and shut you up if you made a row—any thief would, if he wasn't such a coward as that one. But I wouldn't think about it if I were you, or you'll be fancying things, just as I did."
In spite of which advice Nesta did suffer a few qualms at night, if she happened to wake in the dark; but sleeping with her mother was comforting, and the panics never lasted long.
Lessons began again, and the days passed in their usual routine, but with the added joy of something to look forward to in the arrival of the new aunt.
It was a nightly annoyance to Peter that he was put to bed at the same time as Sandy Robertson, while the twins stayed up to late dinner. Becky went to bed still earlier, and was generally fast asleep as soon as her head touched the pillow.
"You might shoot pistols in the room after Becky is asleep," was a favourite saying, "and you wouldn't wake her."
Which statement she almost verified the night Eustace caused such an excitement; she really did not wake until the second shot was fired.
But Peter was not a heavy sleeper. Moreover, he had heard something about the black-fellow stories too. Sandy Robertson gave him a good deal of information as they played together, and the little fellow got into a thoroughly nervous state.
Mrs. Orban often sat with him till he was asleep, and then left a shaded light burning both in his room and her own.
It did not startle her very much one night as she sat at dinner with the twins to see Peter tear into the room yelling for her at the top of his voice. She guessed he had awakened from a dream, and was just frightened at finding himself alone with no one but Sandy.
He sprang into her arms and lay there trembling, panting only "Mother—mother—mother," over and over again.
"Well, sonny, what is it?" said his mother soothingly, stroking back his hair from his forehead.
"O mummie," he gasped, "there's something moving in your room. I heard it."
Eustace and Nesta started, and exchanged frightened glances. But Mrs. Orban answered quite calmly,—
"I dare say, darling. It is probably Mary turning down the beds."
She rose as she spoke and went towards the door.
"Oh, don't, mummie! don't go," Peter pleaded eagerly; "perhaps it's a black-fellow."
"Nonsense, darling," Mrs. Orban said. "You can stay here with Eustace and Nesta if you like, but of course I must go and see what the noise was."
"I'm going with mother," said Eustace sturdily.
"So am I," said Nesta.
"We'll all go," said Mrs. Orban cheerily; "and I am quite sure Mary will think us mad when she sees us."
So down the passage they went, Peter trembling and clinging to his mother. Straight into Mrs. Orban's room they all trooped, and of course, when they got there, there was no one to be seen—not even Mary turning down the beds.
On they went into the boys' room, and all was peaceful there; for Peter had been too frightened to yell till he reached the dining-room, and Sandy had not been roused.
"There, you see," said Mrs. Orban; "what did I tell you? There are far too many of us in the house now for any one to dare to come."
She went on into the kitchen still holding Peter, and Mary and Kate certainly did look surprised.
"Master Peter has been having a nightmare," Mrs. Orban explained, "and I want to reassure him. Were you in my room just now, Mary?"
"No, ma'am," Mary said; "I haven't been there since dinner."
"Oh, well, then, he must have been dreaming," Mrs. Orban said, still in the same cheery way. "We will just go all through the house and show him everything is all right, and then I will sit by him till he gets to sleep again."
Eustace took a lantern, and on they all went right through the house, very naturally finding no one. Robertson, who was smoking on the veranda, declared that no one had been up or down the steps since he had been out, and Mrs. Robertson, who was in her bedroom lulling the baby to sleep, said no one had been that way either.
After all of which Eustace and Nesta began to breathe freely; but, to tell the truth, at first they had both been a good deal scared by Peter's announcement. They guessed their mother was just making all this show of bravery for Peter's and their sakes, for another visit from the thief was not at all unlikely.
But when Robertson laughed at the notion of any one having been able to pass him unseen where he stood near the veranda steps, when every nook and cranny had been looked into and no one was forthcoming to prove Peter's tale, every one was certain he had had a bad dream.
"You are a little silly," Nesta said bracingly. "Of course there are always noises in the house."
"But this was a big noise," Peter objected; "something banged."
"Why didn't you say that before?" said Eustace with superiority; then added, out of the vastness of his recent experience, "Nobody ever bangs when theywant to rob a house; they try to be as silent as mice."
"Besides," said Nesta, "there is nothing for any one to steal now, since we keep all our things hidden away."
This was a rule Mrs. Orban had made—that everything of value must be put away under lock and key. She had no fancy to be perpetually paying away rewards for recovered goods. She believed Sinkum Fung to be quite capable of setting people to do these little pilferings just in order to obtain the rewards. Disagreeable as was the idea, it frightened her far less than the thought of genuine black-fellows lurking about the place; they were really dangerous, cruel, and lawless.
Mrs. Orban took Peter back with her into the dining-room, and he sat cuddled up on her knee while she finished dinner.
They were all sitting listening to just one "good-night" story before going to bed, when Mary came into the room, gave a frightened glance round, and exclaimed,—
"Lor', ma'am, haven't you got Miss Becky here? I made sure you had."
Every one stared at Mary, and thought she looked rather white and queer.
"Did you, Mary?" asked Mrs. Orban rather hurriedly. "Why?"
"Well, ma'am," said Mary in an unsteady voice, "because she isn't in her bed."
Mrs. Orban sprang to her feet.
"Not in her bed?" she exclaimed. "My good woman, what do you mean?"
Setting Peter down on the ground, she turned swiftly and left the room.
"I just went in to turn down the beds," explained Mary to the twins as they hurriedly followed, "and went over to Miss Becky's corner to take a look at her, and she wasn't there. I didn't stop a minute, I was so took aback, but came straight off to see if maybe she was in the dining-room. You might have knocked me down with a feather when I saw she wasn't."
Mrs. Orban rushed to Becky's bed. She was standing beside it as if petrified when the others entered. The bed was empty. This was no dream. Becky really and truly was not there.
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