Ghost Stories and Mysteries (7 page)

The Spirit, I thought, looked slightly crest fallen.

“You’ve no idea,” I went on, “how dull it is up here; and now to have you to read these charming little stories to me—really, old fellow, it will be delightful.”

“Don’t be so sure of that,” he answered. But I fancied that he seemed staggered.

“Now,” he said, opening his book again; “for the next, one of the real old sort—“How the King got his own again.”

“’Twas Christmas Eve, and a bitter cold one to boot. What of that? It but made the crackling log fire seem the warmer and snugger. ‘Be-shrew me!’ said mine host of the Holly Bush, as he stood with his back to it, warming his portly calves; ‘but if sad-colored garments and cropped heads are to be the fashion of the day, we shall scarce know Merry England.’”

He had got thus far before I could well stop him; then I interrupted him as blandly and politely as I could, “Excuse me; one moment. That promises to be a most interesting tale, but you will be tired and hoarse if you go on reading without pause. Now just to give you a spell I’ll sing you a song.”

“A what!” he said.

“A song—a carol.
A Christmas carol
.”

“You daren’t,” he said; but the blow had gone home I could see.

“No trouble at all, my dear fellow, just the reverse, and it’s one of my own composing too,” I added boldly, for I thought that I could see victory ahead.

I have no more voice than an alligator with a cold in its head, and scarcely know one tune from another, but without more ado I struck up:—

Come, your hands entwine, for this toast is mine,

A health to Christmas bold.

Round his head the leaves of the holly shine,

In his arms he does earth enfold.

“Patience! Grant me patience,” muttered the Spirit; but he seemed to clench his teeth firmly, as if with a determination to sit it out. I went on, and hurled the next verse at him like a boomerang:—

When over the ground he spreads around

The snow that he so does love,

The robin comes out, and he looks about—

With one wild yell of anguish that made every sheet of iron in the roof ring like a bullock bell, the Spirit of Christmas started from the chair.

“Man! man! You have conquered. I forego my revenge. That robin is too much for me. Live unharmed by me; but,” and here his voice softened into a tone of beseeching pathos, “as you have some charity in your disposition, as you may stand in need of consideration and forbearance yourself some day, do not add to the heavy woes of a tortured Spirit by casting your additional stone. Do not ever again attempt to write a Christmas story.”

I was deeply touched, there was such a look of heartfelt anguish on his face.

“You promise?” he asked.

“I do.”

“Then, we part friends; but, ah! that robin,” and, waving me a parting salute, he stepped out into the glaring sunshine, and passed away.

THE MEDIUM

(1876)

Chapter I

The end of a dry season; the roads foot deep in dust; the grass, what was left of it, as brown as grass could be; the waterholes dwindled down into puddles of liquid mud—in fact, everything looking just as it always does after an Australian drought, as though it only wanted a fire-stick put into it to burn the whole concern up, and forestall the last day.

It was just sundown one day, during this desirable period of the year, when a traveller came cantering along the road leading to the Stratford station. On he went, raising as much dust as a marching regiment would in any other country, until he pulled up at the slip rails, dismounted, let himself and horse in, and wended his way up to the homestead.

The house he was approaching was the usual style of thing in the bush: two or three rooms, and verandah, with smaller huts scattered around. A very tall man was leaning against one of the verandah posts, smoking. He turned as he heard the horse’s tread, and welcomed the horseman by the name of Jackson. They shook hands, Jackson unsaddled his horse, and they went inside.

The tall man’s name was Starr, and he was the owner of the place.

Jackson handed him a couple of letters, remarking as he did so that he heard he was mustering, and had come down to look after his cattle if it was the case. “No,” said Starr, as he broke the envelopes, “I was only getting some fat cattle for Blatherskyte; I start to-morrow with them.”

“The beggers told me you were mustering down here, so I’ve had my ride for nothing. Luckily I am not very busy, for one can’t do much till we get some rain.”

“Well, I’m glad to see you down here. Tea will be in directly.”

“I will just rinse some of the dust off,” said Jackson, stepping into one of the bedrooms.

A trampling was just then heard outside. Starr went out, and was immediately greeted by name by one of the new comers—a young and good-looking man. The other was dark-eyed, with a black moustache, and rather a theatrical looking personage.

“Why, Starr, you are looking jollier than ever. I think you have grown even taller since I last saw you.”

“Glad to see you back again, Harris,” returned Starr as they shook hands.

“Mr. Haughton,” said Harris, indicating his companion. Starr bowed, and Jackson made his appearance, giving his face a finishing rub with a towel. Harris and he were old friends, so his greeting done, and Mr. Haughton having been presented for the second time, they went inside.

“What is the news from Blatherskyte, Harris,” said Starr, when they were all seated at tea.

“Any amount of gold being got by some; nothing by others. Mr. Haughton is one of the unlucky ones.”

The other two glanced enquiringly at the stranger, who had scarcely spoken as yet. He remarked that he had been up there for the last six months, that he went on to the field with money, and had now scarcely enough left to carry him off; so his luck had not been in.

“Everybody drunk last night,” said Harris, taking up the thread. “We were going to have a concert, but the singers got too drunk to sing, and the audience to listen—so that it was a failure as far as the melody of the affair went. You are going up to-morrow, did you not say, Starr?”

“Yes, I start in the morning, with some bullocks, and expect to get in some time during the next day. Any water at the twenty-mile creek?”

“Yes, enough to do you, and that is about all. When will you be back?”

“I intend to come straight back the day after I get in. I am going down to Imberwalla, to take down some gold I want to get rid of.”

“You will be worth sticking up.”

“Yes, I shall; for old Jawdon, the butcher, owes me for half of the last draft, which I shall get this time. I shall have about seven hundred, mostly in gold.”

“Well, that is not such a great sum, but many a man has lost his life for less.”

“I hope that is not going to be my case,” replied Starr; and after the usual bush talk about horses and cattle they rose from the table.

“Where is your old hutkeeper?” said Jackson, after the things were cleared away.

“I had a row with him this morning; he had been here too long, and was getting cheeky, so he went this morning. This man happened to be passing, and wanted a job, so he got the place.”

“I never did like that other fellow, he had an evil look about him,” remarked Harris.

“He was a very good cook,” returned Starr.

“Let us have a game at whist,” he said, rising. “Do you play, Mr. Haughton?”

“I don’t mind taking a hand.”

They sat down, Harris and Jackson against Starr and Haughton. They played for some time, but after the first game or two all the luck went over to Haughton and his partner. Harris, who was a volatile sort of fellow, after a great deal of restlessness, proposed changing the game to euchre. The game was changed, but not the luck; Haughton and Starr still won. It was about ten o’clock when they left off playing, the winnings then amounted to a couple of pounds or so. Haughton proposed to his partner that they should play off—who took the lot. They did so, and Haughton won. Starr rose, and, going into his room, brought out a couple of pair of blankets.

“You will have to be contented with a shake down to-night, Mr. Haughton; I have no spare bed to offer you.”

“Oh, I will do right enough,” said the other, smilingly. “I will sleep in the verandah; it is cooler.”

He went outside, after bidding the others good night. Jackson was sitting on the table, playing at patience with the cards.

“Well, I intend starting early to-morrow, so shall say good night,” said Starr.

“All right, but don’t go just yet; it is not so very late. I have any amount of news to tell you, but I cannot get it all out at once,” returned Harris.

“Well, let us hear some of it”

“You know Rowdy Jack, who was horse breaking for you?”

“Yes.”

“He has got bored and is lodging at the expense of the country for three years.”

“It is certainly news that he has got it, but none that he deserved it. Anybody else come to grief?”

“Yes, two or three married.”

“You call that coming to grief, do you?” said Jackson, putting the fourth story on a card house.

“In most cases I do,” said Harris. Jackson’s card house came down with a run.

“What do you know about it,” he said.

“I am a married man, and speak from experience.”

“You married, Harris! You are only joking.”

“No, unfortunately, I am not. You two fellows are old friends, so I will tell you all about it.

“When I came out here ten year ago a regular new chum, I went up to live at Bloomfield’s station, on the Wantagong. I had been up there about two years, and being only a raw, foolish boy found it very dull after the first novelty wore away. The place is all cut up into farms now; it was pretty well selected on even when I was there. I got very intimate with one of the selectors, an old fellow named Delaney, who used to live upon his wits I suppose, for it was very little I ever saw growing on his selection. I said that I got intimate with him. I ought to have said with his daughters. They were the attraction. The eldest I thought a regular beauty. Looking back on her now with the utmost detestation, I must admit she had remarkable good looks. She possessed a great deal of tact, too, and concealed her defects of manner and education admirably. I fell over head and ears in love with her; she was two or three years older than I was, and could do anything she liked with me. One day I called just as the priest, one Father Carroll, was leaving. I went in and found Mary crying, sobbing at least. Of course I was up in arms directly, and when we got by ourselves I insisted upon knowing the cause of it. After a great deal of feigned bashfulness and reluctance, she told me that Father Carroll, whom the Lord confound, had been warning her, telling her that my visits were becoming common talk, that I was only trifling with her, meant nothing serious, and all the many hints you can imagine. I am convinced now that this was nothing else but lies from beginning to end. Father Carroll, who was much respected in the neighborhood, knew too much of her to talk in that strain; repentance was the subject he would be most likely to choose for his homily. I confounded him just now, for if his name had not been introduced I do not think I should have been worked upon like I was. How I could have been such a mad infatuated fool is incredible to me now. But I was only a boy, and she and the devil had regularly ensnared me. I had a little money, not much; rumor had greatly magnified it, and they thought they had a prize. Anyhow, to make short work of it I married her that day week. I left the cottage immediately after the priest had married us, and hastened home to prepare a place to take my wife to. When within two miles of home I met a man on horseback. He pulled up at we came together, and I recognised a young fellow who had left the station shortly after I arrived on it.

“I was looking for you,” he said. “They told me I should find you down at old Delaney’s. I am looking for some horses of mine that are running down this way. Mr. Morgan (the superintendent) told me that you knew where they were running.”

I was in a hurry, but the horses were no distance away I knew, so I turned off to show him the place. He commenced asking me about the people in the neighborhood as we went along; he said that he had been in Queensland ever since he left the station, and only came back two or three days ago.

“You have been down seeing the Delaney, girls,” he went on to say; “how is Mrs. Morgan?”

“Mrs. Morgan,” I said. “I don’t know her.”

“Why Mary Delaney, of course. Did you not know that she consented to be Mrs. Morgan for six months or more? She might have become Mrs. Morgan in reality, for she was making a regular fool of him, but old Bloomfield in Sydney heard of it, and he saw that he had either to lose her or his billet, so he sent her away. That is not the first trial she has had of married life, and her sisters, I suppose, are running the same track. They say that you are down there pretty often.”