Part 6

Fisher’s first thought was for vengeance, but his hand shook and his shot flew wide, and the other man, apparently giving no heed to him, flung himself from his saddle on to the ground beside the girl.

“Oh, Nell, Nell, little girl, and I trusted you.”

She put her little bloodstained hand on his arm, and smiled up into his face with such a world of love in the dying eyes, that Fisher looking on dared not for very pity mar her last moments by word or sigh.

Time enough when she was gone, for the two men to settle accounts.

“Jes’ so,” she gasped, her one idea strong in death; “I was--near, too late--don’--go--nigh the camp. Ben Fisher--will--shoot the ghost--on--sight.”

“But--but--”

Pity for the girl, dying misjudged by the hand she loved, impelled Fisher to speak.

How great had been his share in the tragedy he hardly as yet realized; that would come later.

“It wasn’t her fault this afternoon,” he said roughly; “it was mine, and this evening she never knew I followed her.”

“Oh, my God--my little girl, my poor little girl.”

He lifted her up in his arms and made a half effort to staunch the wound, but she was evidently dying fast--past all human aid.

“Jim--you--won’t--go--anigh--the--camp?”

“Nellie, Nellie, don’t die, my darling--don’t leave me; don’t let me have this on my conscience. I love you, Nellie--you are all there is to live for. I love you.”

“Better ‘n her?” she gasped.

He looked down at her in wonder, then covered the white face with kisses.

“Better a thousand times--better than any woman that ever lived. Forgive me, Nell, forgive me.”

She was going fast, but she understood him, and the man looking on saw peace and happiness on her face.

“I love you, Jim.”

“There never was a daughter of Eve, but once ere the tale of her years be done, Shall know the scent of the Eden rose--but once beneath the sun! Though the years may bring her joy or pain, fame, sorrow, or sacrifice, The hour that brought her the scent of the Rose--she lived it in Paradise!”

The horse’s hoof-beats kept time to the rhythm of the song. “The hour that brought her the scent of the Rose--she lived it in Paradise!”

“An’ I guess,” said the driver’s voice--breaking in on my reverie--“that’s about all there is to tell. Them’s the lights of Wongonilla over there. The rest of the story--Lord bless you, it all ‘us ended where the gal died. The men I guess did’nt feel much inclined for fighting after that. Anyhow I b’lieve Ben Fisher came back dazed like to camp an’ told ‘em what ‘d happened. But though they scoured the country, Gentleman Jim got clean away. Fisher? Oh, he weren’t no account after it, I b’lieve--gave him a sort a’ shock, same as if he ‘d killed her hisself. He was speared by the blacks on the Lachlan three years later, they say. He never took up with another gal. The other? Lord, yes--he did--Woa, mare, will you? She’s a bit tired, you see--we ‘ve come the pace. Yes, it was all along o’ a woman Jim Newton was taken--wanted for a bushranging job, over on the Queensland border--that was fifteen years after. I ‘ve heard my father tell the story. He was one of the troopers that took him, and it was a gal that sold him. Mighty set on her he was. She? Oh, she was gone on another man. A woman’s only gone like that once in a way, ye see, an’ then, Lord! she is a fool--same as Nellie Durham, an’ she was a mighty fool all through, for Fisher was a decent sort of a chap--while the other fellow was an’ out-an’-out blaggard. But ye see, if there’s a ghost at all, it ‘s the gal that walks, though they call the place Trotting Cob, and Trotting Cob it’ll be till the end of the chapter.”

CHRISTMAS EVE AT WARWINGIE

It was a comfortable place, the wide verandah at Warwingie, a place much used by the Warners on all occasions, save during the heat of the day--but the long hot day was drawing to a close now. Slowly the sun was sinking over the forest-clad hills. The heat haze which had hung all day over the eastern outlet to the gully cleared, the faraway blue ranges grew more distinct, and the creeper-covered verandah was once more a pleasant place to lounge in. From the untidy, half-reclaimed garden, came the sound of children’s voices, subdued by the distance, and the gentle lowing of the milkers in the stockyard behind the house. But no one came on to the verandah to disturb Tom Hollis and Bessie Warner, the eldest daughter of the house--perhaps they knew better--and yet these two did not seem to have much to say to each other. He leaned discontentedly against one of the posts, moodily staring out into the blue distance, and every now and again flicking his riding boot with his whip; but she looked happy enough as she swung herself slowly backwards and forwards in a rocking-chair, her hands clasped behind her head. Such a pretty girl, oh, such a pretty girl, she was--so dainty and pink and white. Her rosy lips were just parted in a smile; the long, level beams of the setting sun, falling on her through the passion vine, lingered lovingly in her golden hair, and made a delicate tracery as of fine lace work, on her pink gingham gown. Such a pretty picture she made, rocking slowly backwards and forwards, thought her companion, but he dared not say so. And then too it was so hot and so still it was hardly wonderful they were silent.

Silence seemed more in keeping with the quiet evening. They could not agree, and yet they could not quarrel openly. He brought his eyes back from the hills at length to the girl’s fair face.

“Oh, Bessie,” he said almost in a whisper, “oh, Bessie--”

“Now, Tom,” she interrupted, “now, Tom, do be quiet; whatever is the good of going all over it again?”

“If you could only like me a little,” he sighed miserably.

“Like you a little! I have liked you a good deal more than a little all my life--but there’s where it is. I know you a great deal too well. I like you, oh yes, I believe I may say I love you quite as well even as my own brothers, but--marry you, no thank you. I have lived all my life up here at Warwingie, up among the hills, and I ‘m just tired of the monotony of it. Nothing ever happens, nothing ever will happen, I suppose; it’s most horribly unexciting; but anyhow I don’t see I ‘d better matters by going and living alone with you at Tuppoo, even if you ‘d take me on such terms, which, of course, you wouldn’t.”