THE NOVELIST. THE LOST EARL - - OF ELLAN.

Otago Witness, Issue 2703, 3 January 1906, Page 63

THE NOVELIST. THE LOST EARL - - - OF ELLAN.

A STORY OF AUSTRALIAN LIFE. By MRS CAMPBELL-PRAED. PART I. CHAPTER 111 (Continued)— BY THE BUNYIP'S POOL. T was a little astonishing, per- • haps, that fc-usan should have recognised him immediately, for to-day Wolfe looked very different from the road-stained , tramp for v> horn ' she had wpighed out rations. He was spick ond span as any gentleman squatter coming over to pay a Sunday call — more attractive, indeed, than most of the squatters she had met so far, for he had a stamp of birth and breeding lacking in the greater number of them. He sat his horse in an easy, upright fashion, though it was clear that the hor?e, a young bay, not too well broken, needed the rider's attention. The horse looked well groomed, ;n I though the bridle and saddle were common station ones every buckle shone, and the bit was brightly polished. The man lnmself was well groomed also. His moleskins were new and spotless, his blue birds-eye shirt equally fresh ; he had on a red necktie, and round his vraisi, above the strap from which hung his poachy and bowie knife, he wore a crimson siik handkerchief arranged as a cummerbund. His short, pointed beaid had been clipped, and the ends of his moustache trimmed, and his hat was a new cabbage tree.

He came down the hill in quite o jaunty way, his head raised, his eyes shi.ii>iq as if with some glad anticipation, The Outlaw curvetting and prancing under him. You wart a

Steady, old boy. . . .

drink, do you? ... All right, yi-n shall have it," Susan heard him say, and he turned his horse round down the dry gully towards the end of the •naterhole, where there was a clear, shallow u:a<e almost opposite where Susan sat. In her position on the bank she was screened from him by a projecting shrub, and The Outlaw was fetlock deep in the water -wA pulling at the bit to go further before the man discovered that there was a beautiful young lady within a few yards of him. When he saw her, he looked utterly su--pnsed and delighted, and as he i 'a^e-1 his hold on the bridle to raise his hat to her The Outlaw plunged forward, and Susan was treated to a pretty exhibition of horsemanship, for Wolfe had some little difficulty in getting the animal tc the bank again. When the horse steadied Wolfe jumped from its back and approached Miss Ualbraith with apologies. "I hope I did not startle you. I had no idea that you were sitting there. I hope you weren't splashed. He's a young horse, as I dare say you know." "It's The Outlaw," said Susan, who had risen, and now came forward. "Yes, I know he is a young horse. He se^ms rather a troublesome one. Hadn't you better let him drink?"

"Thank you, I will." The horse was straining at his bridle, and now wanted to walk right into the waterhole. "You had better not let him go too far. I believe the hole is very deep," observed Susan. "The blacks say theie's a bunyip in it."

"Do you bdievs in the bunyip?" he asked, laughing. "Yes, in poetry The bunyip is a nice legendary monstei to write about." "Oh, do you write poetry about legendary monsters?" "I try sometimes." "Wa3 that what j-ou were doing? And do you come here for inspiration?" "I come here on Sundaj's because it is quieter than any other place near the bouse. All the men on the run nde in to the station for Sunday, you know."

"I am one of tLem."

She looked him up and down in a grav\ unabashed way, and said, as she would haro done to an equal, "I thank you ia&

(.nit ; :V -.- l ■■• i f !ic men on the run." ua'-I noticed before , vie is goo<i of you i. - . ,ii s.vcved. "I have to f.!t.. t \ -Hi j tuent dial."' -Ols, no. Win ?" ■ "ou aie tsc >,n!y huly to whom I have spoken for h lonij time." Ho laid a slight onphasis on the word "lady." "You m.;de nis fe-gl ihat in spite of my wr.etch.ed condition you recognised me for a gentleman ; so, naturally, you appealed to all that is best in ink You made mo wish to show you more plainly that really I am a gentleman. Ona can't be altogether robbed of that birthright," he added, "even though one may fling it away oneself." ""Why did you fling it away?*' she asked with the simplicity of a child, and with a child's eagerness.

"I fell into a mess in England when 1 was quite a \oung man. I was in tiw wrong, o* course, but not so much in the T.'roiDg as was supposed. I have a demon of a, temper, and it got the better of me. There's th? long and short of the matter, without going into detail. ... I threw up my career in England — or, rather, it threw up me, — and I've never gone back there again. . . . There's nothing more to tell."

Ho spoke' in the recklesr yet reserved tone wbioh was peculiarly attractive to her. ' Z - - ~ ■ "Nothing more!" she repeated, in wistful wonder, eyomg him still in. that eager, interested way. "Oh, but surely ** She stopped and ' blushed, adding, "Of coivrse, I don't wish to be inquisitive."

"Nothing that you could say would be inquisitive. It is good of you to care enough " He, too, stopped abruptly, for The Outlaw, fretting at the bridle hold, roared as Wolfe jerked the bit,, and chic water dripping from' the animal's mouth' splashed over Susan's gown, making a muddy stain on the yellow tussore. Wolfe uttered a. dismayed ejaculation, and pulled the horsA back from the edge of the water-

"There, you've had plenty, . and you've done too much mischief !"' he exclaimed. "Excuse me for a moment, Miss Galbraith, while I tie up this brute. I'm so sorry."

He led .lv* . horse- up the bank tc a young *ree7 which grew not far from whcifc Susan had been sitting, and fastened " tho bridle round the stem of it, allowing The Outlaw just sufficient tether to crop the grass at his fret. Then he hastened to Susan, who had retreated up the rise, and was ruefully regarding th© damage done. Sire looked like a flower, the man thought, as she held up her befrilled y.ellow skirt, her plender form in its dain,ty .bodice bending slightly forward, hey charming face upraised. In the sudden spring tihal she made backwards her bat had fallen, raid her pretty, reddish brown hair was covered. "I'm so* sorry," he repeated ; •<• ~ don't mind, I think I '••"■ all right." He went to the liw^ buckled a pannikin from the dees ot the saddle. This he filled with clear water many times from the side of the pool' where the lilies grew., going to and fro, dabbed the stained part of Susan's gown, in the pannikin, changing the water till no soil was left. The stain was in a place where she could not very well have managed the operation herself, and all she could do was to gather up the folds of her gown and hold it for him to was-h. She could not help feeling that he derived" pleasure from - her laced frills and furbelows, and the sight of her pretty silk petticoat, her open-worked stockings, and buckled shoes. Indeed, he- gloated over her daintinesses like one to whom they had been once a matter oi course, but were now uniamiliar. As she watched him she noted how deft he was, and saw also that his hands, though even rougher than those of most^ bushmen, were extremely well shaped* and that he wore a signet ring with a crest upon it. Certainly, she thought, this was not the first time he had rendered a lady similar service. She made a remark to that effect.

He answered carelessly, "Oh. I iiao a cousin who was a bit of a tomboy, and she was always getting into the bad books .f a French governess and a cross )ld Swiss maid for spoiling her clothes chasing things through the woods. So we used to tidy her dress up between us after the two of us had been 'out on the scoot,' as you say here. That's how I'm pretty good at this sort of thing." A tomboy cousin who had a French governess and a lady's maid ! Susan saw that the man had spoken thoughtlessly, and that under her influence he was falling back upon the associations of his former life. She had made him forget that he was a stockman on an out station. Sh^ was restoiing his self-respect. The notion pleaded Susan. "Have you been long away V... I mean out here?" she asked. 1 "About seven years. No, not out iwrfe all the time. I've been in ever so many places, and have earned my grub in a variety of ways . . . mining in California and Venezuela, ranching in the Argentine, helping to work a syndicate for buried treasure in Mexico. i Breaking in horses. ... I learned liat in Texas. . . . Riding after brumbies up north here ; at Murrell's for a bit . . .« and then prospecting for goiJ, . . . The only tiling in a small way ■ that I haven't done, Miss Galbraith, is going before the mast, for 1 loathe the sea, and I can't even swim." . . . He had brought back his last pannikin of water, and now stretched out the piecj of the gown he had washed, contemplat* ing it with a satisfied air. "Come, when that's dried and ironed, t don't think anybody would guess what «J mess it was in." "Thank you very much," she said. 'TIE sit down again and let it dry." She placed herself on a shelving bit of the bank, and spread out her dre.ss in th« I westering sun, which came through rifts in the scrub, and made a dapple of shadow, and green «&on ilie ground beneath th«j tioe. He plucked cmc of. the yellow, blossonj*

and smelled it, looking down, upon her as she sat, amid the greenery, so that she Seemed a big flower herself in her yellow frilleries, with her slender neck and the coils of her golden brown hair ; her head, as it were, a big pistil rising from the heart of a blossom. The fancy struck him, and he was about to give it utterance, but pulled himself up with a jerk. "Oh, I oughtn't to stop and bore you. I came over to see if I could get" any sort nf a lamp or some sperm candles at the Jtores. You can't do much reading or writing with a bit of old moleskin stuck in a jam tin of bullock's fat." "You read and write in the evenings? But have you any hooks?"

"No, except one or two paper-covered fmes that I managed to stuff into my swag, md they're technical. I'm a bit of a geologist and naturalist, and like making Eotes in a n.ew country." "How interesting! But doa't you care \o read other things?" "Novels and poetry, you mean? Yes, Vhen I can get the chance." "You know there's a sort of men's library up at the house. . . . And, besides^ I could lend you some of my books." "Would you really do that?" "I've a good many books, and so had .Oora." ' ,' "Oora? • , . Oh, I beg your parSon- 1 " : "%ly sartor. She's gone away. Would you like some books?" "Better than anything in the world — almost-. If you would kndi me some of your books you would add immeasurably to the debt* of gratitude I already oto you." "But I have done nothing. What have J. given you?" "A week's rations " "Oh! You worked out that. I knew that my father would engage you. Nothing eke?" "Two cigars — and you can't realise what ihose cigars meant to me." J "No? . . . And then?" j "Something else . . . something very precious, which it is not possible to explain." "No?" she repeated vaguely. "And your sympathy. ... I knew j bom the first moment that yoir felt for

"Of course, T could not help feeling for you. I saw at once that you were quite different from the ordinary sort of men who go about in the bush. As for the rest. ... I don't know in fche least what that precious thing you spoke of could be ... but really I give you nothing." I "Well, I can sum it up in on© word, ' /whichi means everything to a man like me. j (You gave me back what I had almost lost | ;* . . my idsal." j : : His voice had a ring of repressed feeling, and his dark face and eyes were fixed , on her face in a fierce compelling look. >Hh eyes fascinated Susan. Sb? could not jtake her own from them; they were so -,vild~and earnest. The man; seemed to her ffate-hunted — that was how sh© exvpcessed it to herself. Sue could not "^e4ievo him guilty of any misdeed bad enough '(for his own class to have ostracised him. 'Whatsoever he had done she felt sure '•was the result of boyish folly or sudden temptation. Such as that, perhaps, to ■which hei own brother Harry had sucenmbed. In her gentlest methods she tried to think so of Harry. No doubt, dike Harry, he had taken the bit in his ieefch and liad run away in preference to ' coming home disgraced. She began to j >yonder if Wolfe were his real name. | Then, a little abashed under his bold j "gaze, she dropped her eyes,, and the red ' eanvs> into her cheeks, making her look still prettier. "I'm very glad if I did that for you, Lhough I can scarcely believe it," she said fioftly. "It seems such a great deal." "I told you there was a great deal. And if there had been nothing else," he exclaimed, "it's a tremendous thing to hear a woman like you say that she's glad about anything which concerns a wastrel who hasn't a soul in the world to care jvhafc becomes of him." "Your cousin?" she ventured. He laughed in a way that contradicted fche tender suggestion her tone implied. "Oh- my cousin! We were chums of ,iort6, but she didn't care — after her goverlaess days. She got engaged to be married, - and, naturally, there were heaps of things • for a lady of some importance — as she foecaroe^ — to be interested in outside a scapegrace cousin. You see, I was the most insignificant member of the family — fear one or two. perhaps — and, therefore, t didn't matter." "Insignificant!" she repeated. "But how didn't it matter?" "This way — though my brother had died before then — I was the younger son of a Jrounger son " '"Ah !" She interrupted him with an interested gesture. He looked up. "Why?" I "Ob ! nothing. But the words and the ;way you said them leminded me suddenly of a man I knew in Sydney who once said £3 most • exactly the same thing to me." "Well, the fact is not an uncommon, or (particularly desirable one. - Anyhow, It jput me quite out of the running. I was •a beggar, that's all. But I doa't want-to-rake up things I'd made up my mind were done with. I can't understand how it is «SFve said so ?mich to you. I suppose it's you've been so good to me. You jnay take it. however, Miss Galbraith, that there never was anyone to care — any jyroman .at least who was related to me." He spoke the last words as if compelled to veracity. "But surely Had you no mother?" fche ventured again. His face darkened. "I never saw my TDiother after I was three years old — when 'they sent me home from India. She died out there during the mutiny — died of grief. My father was killed at Delhi. But I don't want to talk of my family history — Tvhich happens to be rather a tragic one." tThere was a short silence. Susan's eyes (beamed sympathy, but she did not dare ta

put it into words. Her interest in Wolfe "was growing stronger every minute. Presently he said, changing the subject, "Might I ask when your mail comes in?" "On Wednesdays," she answered. "There have been no letters foi you, Mr Wolfe. I generally open the bag when my father is out on the run." "I did not expect any yet," he said. "But I hope there may be one before very long.* . . . Steady, boy — steady," he called to The Outlaw, who, ■having eaten all the green stuff within reach, was tugging at his bridle. Wolfe went up to the beast's head, soothed him, and returned to Susan. "I ought to go up to the station now, Miss Galbraith. I can't thank you enough for having let me imagine for a bit that we were meeting on equal terms. I musn't forget again though that I have no right to bore you with my personal views and experiences." I "But I like hearing them," she answered eagerly. "I should like you to tell me j about your experiences. You must have had a great many interesting adventures. And, of course, it is nonsense — that about your not being my equal. Please, don't ever say such a thing again." "Very well ; I take you at your wox-d, and, since you bid me do so, I shall consider myself your equal." "Very likely you are better born than I," she said, with a conscious little laugh, for she felt perfectly safe on the score of her own birth and breeding. Somewhat to her surprise he answered her literally. "It is possible. But I don't see that 'Burke' or 'Debrett" and tables of precedence are of much consequence in the bush." "No," and she added, "perfeaps you will tell me about your adventures in those strange countries some day?" "I wish tint. I might have the opportunity — cot that I've ever played the hero. My record is a sorry one. I've always been a reckless spendthrift and good-for-uothing, with the curse on me of a violent temper that makes me 'see red' when I m provoked, and brings the Fime& round aft/r the Fates have been kind. I never had a strcke of luck that wasn't followed by a tragedy." "Really?" * "Yes; it's true. Either I gpjnbled away my luck, or something happened that forced' me to run away -from it. Even row "' "Yes." "I was going to say that I scented' fort tune in front of me at Yallaroi, if I could have gone en prospecting. But the Furies dogged me as usual, and I 'had to leave it all to the- chance honesty of a mate." "Oh ! But you will go back again and find fortune?" "Perhaps. It depends on tho honesty of my mate. Life's a big, gamble — some might call it a big swindle. At anyrats, so far the prizes haven't fallen to me." "No, but they will — they will," she eaid emphatically. "If anything could make me believe that it would be your saying so. Who knows? Good angels do cross men's paths sonietimes, axwl if ein&r ' tfc-^re -ur-er-e an* anjjel in human guise treadinig this rough tracks ot the bush, I think, Miss Galbraith, that angel would wear your shape." Again there was the emotional stop in his voice. "Fongive me," he added in a different tone — "and good-bye. I shall be late getting back to the Eore if I don't hurry up with my business. Fortunately, there's a bit of a moon, though it isn't at full yet." She rose slowly, seaming desirous to keep him a minute or two longer. "Is the road to the Bore a rough one?" she asked. "Oh, no ; enly I'm not used to this country. It's just the ordinary thing — through gum and gidya and dead finish, and a biggish stretch of plain. But there's a nasty crossing half way, with a treacherous hole each side of it." "Some day, perhaps, I shall ride out there," she said. "I haven't seen it yet. How far is the Bore?" " ' "Not far — seven miles at most. Do you often go for rides?" "Oh, y.?*, ; I love riding through tho bush." "I daresay just now that they're mustering you don't .find it easy to get an escort," he said. "I can take Tommy George, the black boy, and there's little Pintpot at the camp. He can ride barebacked on anythiug." "Not much of an ,°scort that." "l£'s only in case of accidents. Dad doesn't' like us to be quite alone. But my sister Oora rides about a-nywhere by herself — that is, with her dog and her revolver When she was her.? they wou'.d get her to ride ovei with rations for the shepherds and campkeepers when we were short handed at tiv» station. " "I wish I'd been here then, and perhaps, you would have ridden over with my rations. Anyhow, I shall look forward to your coming borne day. Good-bye, Miss Galbraith." "Good-bye, Mr Wolfe," she said, and impulsively put out her hand ; "I'm very glad we've had this talk." '"So am I. Haw glad yoa can't even guess." To Lc-r .surprise he flushed detply as he took her hand, and then, to her still ! greater surprise, he bent and kissed it as if s)'. 1 had been acjueen. She stood tongue - tied,, ashamed of her own bushes. Men don't often kiss women's hands in the } ush. He hardly looked at her, but once more lifting his hat, -turned round to nis horse, unbuckled its bridle, mount/rd, and lode away through the gidj-a trees. Susan watched him till he had disappppred, then sank down again on the bank, and remained for a quarter of an hour oi' so in a dreamy meditation. Siie Mas so still that birds which had be-;n scared' by the stranger and his horse caiae back and hopped about quite close to her. The pelican, joined by his mate, returned to his fishing in the-mud_of the waterhole. Up in a tn?e close by a io'/kooburra burst into T>eals of diabolical laughter. The noise "j an ed on Susan ; it seemed as though tho bird were icocking her for fancies of which she herself was half ashamed. She had iwtwn i^d all ever at the thought

that Wolfe might have considered her forward. No, no, that was impossible ; he was a gentleman, and he had admitted, quite as a matter of fact, ths possibility of being better born than she was. No doubt ta did not know that her grandmother had 1 been Lady Susan Galbrailh. Or it tras equally likely that Lady Susans — speaking figuratively — were plentiful enough in his own family tree? Sh? put on her hat, gathered up her belongings, and walked by the *rack he had taken back to the head station. When she reached the house, howtvei, there was no sign of Wolfe. Presumably he- had gpt what he wanted from the stor. a aud had gone to the hut, or perhaps he was there waitine Mr Galbraith' s convenience. Susa« could hear in the garden the voices of her father, Patsy, and the children, who were choosing ripe melons m the Chinaman's patch by the lagoon. Sunan did rot join them, but went tc her room, where she looked in her shelves for books that she thought might please Wclfe. Sli?> picked out one or two novels — Browning's last and <wo paper-covered story books printed in India, which she got in Sydney — the work of a young writer whom pwplc v ere beginning to talk about — Rudyard Kipling by name. Th/=se she made up into a parcel and then sought Ah Hong in the kitchen verandah, asking him if he had seen Wolfe and could take him the books.

"No savvy Wolfe, missee. . . . Teily fine Englisheeman, belong tai yat (Xo. 1). See mias&a and gette° things out of store, then rid© away again." Susan smiled to herself. Clearly Ah Rang had not reoo-gnised in the "v.elly fine Englisheeiuan" the tramp of a foitnight ago, and that fact was in itself a tribute to her own discrimination. At supper that evening her father spoke a g.od <?eal of Wolfe. He had been pleased vita bis report of things at the camp, and still more struck by the man's manners, appearance, and education.

"Upon my soul, Patsy," he said, "the nest time he comes in I shall ask him into the house. Fd lit.? to get at the bottom of who he is. The fellow's a gemtleman, there's no mistake about that. He let out accidentally that he'd been at Eton, and though I understand that nowadays tailors and candlestick makers send tlvur sons to Eton when they've made their pile, it's the exception— not the rule. Besides, Wolfe comes, of pure stock. He's got a pedigree marked on him as plain as you see.it on any thoroughbred. Wolfe!" added Mr Galbraith, ruminatively. "I'll look out the name. Su, you might fetch me my old 'Burke.' " But the consultation of "Burke s Peerage and Baionetage" did not result in much. "I can only find owe Wolfe," said Mr GaJbraith. closing the book, "and she's a peer's daughter who married a clergyman. It don't ssern to hang, as Patsy says."

(To be continued.)

— The boot and shoe trade finds employment for 250,000 people in England. — Returns of the Railway Clearing House show that 1000 parcels a day are lost on tH« railways of th-o TTnifcecl Kingdom.