esmeralda walked slowly home in the moonlight.
she was startled and bewildered. it was the first time she had ever been made love to, for though no doubt every young man in the camp worshiped her, and would have gladly made her his wife, not one of them had ever dared to tell her so, or to even hint by word or sign at the state of his feelings, for the simple reason that she was regarded by the whole camp as a kind of queen. besides, it was well known that her guardian, varley howard, would not permit of any love-making, and that the man who should venture to propose marriage to esmeralda would far more probably be the chief personage in a funeral than in a wedding.
so that esmeralda had grown up as innocent of love and love-making—indeed, far more innocent—as nineteen out of twenty english girls.
lord norman’s avowal had come upon her so suddenly as to confuse her, and also to frighten her. she scarcely understood what he meant, certainly did not realize the full significance of his passionate protestations; and yet something of the meaning of the great mystery must have penetrated to her, for her heart beat rather faster than usual, and a faint color glowed in her cheeks.
what should she do? she asked herself. she liked lord norman; the mere fact of saving his life had given him an interest in her eyes. and then he was so handsome, and so gentle, and different to the rough men of the camp.
she fell asleep asking herself the question, and she woke the next morning with the question still unanswered. it was rather later than her usual hour when she emerged from the hut and stood, with her hand shading her eyes, looking down at the camp, which was already in the full swing of its daily work. she usually ran round before breakfast to see her horse, and to take it a slice of bread and a piece of sugar; but this morning she stood still at the door of the hut and looked dreamily about her, the horse forgotten for the first time.
“ain’t you coming in to breakfast, ralda?” said mother melinda’s voice, spoken through the fizzing of bacon in the frying-pan. “i thought you’s goin’ to sleep all day.”
esmeralda went in, but her appetite, generally of the most satisfactory kind, appeared to have deserted her.
[39]
“sakes alive!” exclaimed mother melinda, as esmeralda leaned back in her chair and gazed absently at the plate which she usually cleared so promptly. “air you ill, ralda? i never see you turn away from your food afore. what’s the matter with you?”
“i don’t know,” said esmeralda, with the faintest of smiles. “i’m not hungry, and it’s too hot to eat.”
she got up, and stretching her arms above her head as if she were trying to cast off some burden of thought, went out into the open air again.
lord norman loved her! it seemed so strange! why, he had only seen her a few days ago! what should she say to him? she had said “no” last night, and had forbidden him to follow her. would he think it very unkind of her? would he go away? she asked herself if she should be sorry if he did go—if she should never see him again—and she was too innocent to know that if she had loved lord norman as he loved her she would not have had to ask herself the question.
instead of going down to the camp, as was her custom each morning, she wandered along the trail that led up to the mountain. she followed the trail for a mile or two, and then seating herself upon a bowlder, leaned her chin upon her hand, and gazed down upon the camp below. suddenly she started to her feet; her sharp eye had seen a horseman riding along the valley toward the camp, and she recognized her guardian, varley howard. she hastened down the trail, and reached the hut almost at the same moment as he did.
“well, ralda!” he said in his slow, low-pitched voice. “no need to ask how you are—though, by the way,” he added, as the flush which his advent had caused left her cheek, “you’re looking a little off color!”
she said nothing, but drew her arm through his and led him into the hut.
“i’m glad you’ve come back, varley,” she said, putting her arms over his shoulders, and leaning over him. “i wish you wouldn’t go away so much.”
his quick ears caught the serious note in her voice, and he looked up quickly at her with his dark, mournful eyes.
“anything the matter, ralda?” he asked.
she took her arms from about his neck, and seated herself on the table, with her face turned from him.
“no,” she said; “what should be the matter?”
“all right,” he said. “any news? what’s been going on at the camp? by the way, i see that you’ve got a stranger;[40] i met a young fellow limping along the road—a good-looking young fellow. who is he?”
esmeralda poured out some whisky and water and set it before him before replying, and so gained time to control her voice, and answer with an assumption of indifference which the most innocent of eve’s daughters find so easy.
“oh, he’s a young fellow that came on here from dog’s ear; his name’s norman druce; he’s a lord!”
“oh!” said varley howard. he spoke with an absence of mind and interest that would have disappeared if he had seen her face, which, for a moment, had grown crimson. she still kept behind him, and occupied herself in washing up the plates and dishes at a side table, but she glanced at him now and again as if she were tempted to take him into her confidence, and once she opened her lips as if about to speak, but before she could begin, the noise of shouting rose from the camp below, and varley howard got up and went to the door.
“it’s bill the postman,” he said.
she followed him and leaned her elbow on his shoulder.
“there’s somebody with him,” she said, shading her eyes, and looking at two horsemen, who had pulled up in the center of the camp, and were surrounded by the crowd of miners. she and varley watched bill distribute the letters from his leather wallet, then she said:
“he’s bringing the stranger up here.”
“so he is,” said varley howard. “i wonder who he is? looks like a town man, and rides like a tailor.”
“perhaps he’s the bank agent,” said esmeralda.
“no,” said varley, slowly. “i left him at good luck.” he did not smile, though he would have been justified in doing so, for the bank agent had played heavily, and varley howard had cleared him out.
“perhaps he’s the government surveyor,” said esmeralda.
“too old,” said varley. “they always die long before that.”
having exhausted conjecture, they watched the two horsemen as they picked their way up the trail from the hut, and presently bill caught sight of howard, and sent up a coo-ee, which esmeralda, as in duty bound, answered.
“well, varley, my boy,” said bill, as he pulled up, “how are you? miss esmeralda, i hope i see you well? varley, ’ere’s a gentleman as is anxious to see you. he’s been a-hunting for you from ballarat to dog’s ear. ’low me to introduce you. mr. pinchook, one of england’s limbs of the[41] law—mr. varley howard, the pride and ornament of three star.”
varley howard raised his sombrero. mr. pinchook lifted his london-made bowler; then he got off his horse stiffly, and, with a sigh of relief, wiped his face with a silk handkerchief.
“i have been looking for you for some time, mr. howard,” he said. “and i can not tell you how glad i am to find you.” he drew a breath of relief as if the prolonged search had been anything but a pleasant one. “i wish to see you on a matter of business, mr. howard.”
varley howard inclined his head. bill the postman rubbed his hand with an air of satisfaction.
“’aving brought you two gentlemen together, i’ll go back to the boys,” he said. “well, miss esmeralda, if i take anything at all, it’ll be just two fingers.”
esmeralda got him the drink, which he disposed of at a draught. he nodded round in a comprehensive adieu and trotted off. varley howard invited mr. pinchook into the hut, and that gentleman, after removing his gloves, and pulling down his waistcoat, which had got considerably rucked up during his ride, took a card from a case and handed it to varley.
it bore the legend “pinchook, pinchook & becham, solicitors, 119 grey’s inn.”
“i am mr. samson pinchook,” he said, “and i have come out on behalf of the firm and our late client, mr. gordon chetwynde—the gordon chetwynde—of course you’ve heard of him.” mr. pinchook coughed with a little air of importance, and settled his somewhat soiled and tumbled collar.
“no, i never heard of him,” said varley howard in his listless way. “who was he, anyhow?”
“dear me!” said mr. pinchook. “i should have thought all the world had heard of my famous client.”
“but this is out of the world,” said varley howard. “why was he famous? what did he do?”
“our late client, mr. gordon chetwynde, amassed over two millions of money.” mr. pinchook made this announcement slowly and with due solemnity.
varley howard raised his eyebrows slightly, and proceeded to roll a cigarette with extreme care.
“i should have liked to have met him,” he said, dryly. he added, mentally: “and to have played cards with him.”
“he was a very wonderful man,” said mr. pinchook. “and an ornament to any society—”
[42]
“people with a couple of millions generally are—gilt ornaments,” remarked varley howard.
“an estimable man,” continued mr. pinchook, “though, somewhat er—er—hard in his dealings.”
“people with two millions always are,” remarked varley howard.
“our late client, mr. gordon chetwynde”—he pronounced the name as if it produced a pleasant flavor in his mouth—“became a widower soon after his marriage, and was left with an only daughter—an extremely touching position, mr. howard.”
“for a two-millionaire—yes,” assented varley howard. “if he had been a curate he would have had half a dozen daughters and three or four sons thrown in.”
“er—er—just so. my client, mr. gordon chetwynde, was extremely devoted to his daughter, and er—not unreasonably desired to see her suitably married. unfortunately, although she had several brilliant offers, she fell in love with a quite ineligible young man with no—er—settled occupation or prospects, and with not the best of characters.”
“daughters of millionaires are generally given to that sort of thing, aren’t they?” said varley howard.
“our client did all he could to separate the young people, but, i regret to say, that his well-meant efforts only resulted in a clandestine marriage.”
“they always do,” said varley howard. “what’s the use of being a daughter of a millionaire if you can’t marry whom you please?”
mr. pinchook looked rather shocked by this sentiment, and, with another dry cough, continued:
“our client was so justly incensed by the undutiful conduct of his daughter that he refused to see her, and—er—in fact, disowned her. she and her husband—who, by the way, was a distant connection, and bore the same name, chetwynde—disappeared. our client for some time did not permit her name to be mentioned in his presence, but during the illness which resulted in his death he relented.”
“it’s a way fathers have,” said varley howard.
“er—yes,” said mr. pinchook, who had never, in the whole course of his professional experience, met any one quite so cool and listless and altogether immovable as this mr. varley howard, the professional gambler. “he completely forgave his daughter, and instructed us to make inquiries respecting her. we learned that the husband was dead, that a[43] child was born, and that—er—mrs. chetwynde had left england with it soon after. the child was a girl.”
varley howard leaned back in his chair, and smoked on with impassive countenance.
“on hearing that there was a child, our client, mr. gordon chetwynde, executed a will, leaving the whole of his immense and colossal fortune to her.”
“ye—es,” drawled varley howard. “they always do relent when it’s too late.”
mr. pinchook made another attempt to straighten his collar, coughed, and went on again.
“our firm, as executors and trustees under the will, at once proceeded to search for the missing heiress. availing ourselves of the best professional assistance, we succeeded in tracing mrs. chetwynde to australia.”
varley howard crossed his legs, and deliberately knocked the ash off his cigarette.
“quite recently we discovered that mrs. chetwynde, with her child, had arrived at a camp called—er—dog’s ear—yes, that is the extraordinary name. in fact, she wrote a letter, dated from that place. i myself at once came out, and—er—learned that she had left the camp one day to walk to another, called three star. i identified her by a photograph which i possessed.”
he took a photograph from his pocket, and handed it to varley howard. varley howard looked at it listlessly, then laid it on the table.
“at dog’s ear camp yesterday,” continued mr. pinchook, “i met a person called ‘bill the postman.’ i—er—do not know his other name—”
“he doesn’t know it himself,” said varley howard in the most indolent of voices.
“he gave me an account of his finding a woman lying dead on the road between here and dog’s ear, and—er—informed me that he had brought the child he had found lying on her bosom to this place, and that he had intrusted her to your care.”
“quite right,” said varley howard. “i cut for her at cards, and won her.”
“er—er—so he informed me,” said mr. pinchook. “now, mr. howard, i shall be extremely obliged if you will render me every assistance you can in this matter, and—er—tell me where i can find the daughter and heiress of our client, mr. gordon chetwynde.”
varley howard passed his white hand over his little less[44] white brow, and looked at the dry man of law with an impassive expression. “over two millions, i think you said?” he remarked.
“over two millions,” assented mr. pinchook, with unction.
varley howard got up.
“i’ll call her,” he said.
he went to the door of the hut. esmeralda was seated on a log of wood mending a stocking. he laid his hand upon her shoulder, and looked at her with a strange smile.
“come inside with me, ralda,” he said. she rose at once, and he took her hand and led her into the hut.
“allow me to introduce you, mr. pinchook,” he said in his slow and languid way, “to miss chetwynde.”
