Rolf Boldrewood
The Ghost Camp
To her, the feeling at first was painful rather than otherwise. She sympathised too deeply in all her husband’s mental conditions, not to share his grief for the sudden loss of a father and brother to whom he had been warmly attached. He would never be able to tell that father now how deeply he regretted the careless disregard of his feelings and opinions. Nor could he share with his brother, in the old home, those sports to which both had been so attached since boyhood’s day. The pride of proving that in a far land, and among men of his own blood, he had been able to carve out a fortune for himself, and to acquire an income, far from inconsiderable even in that land of great fortunes: even this satisfaction was now denied him. Imogen too, dreading always an inevitable separation from her sister, felt now that their absences must necessarily be greater, more lengthened, until at last a correspondence by letter at intervals would be all that was left to them of the happy old days in which they had so delighted.
Why could not Fate indeed have left them where they were, provided with a good Australian fortune, which they could have spent, and enjoyed among their own people, where Valentine would have, in time, become an Australian country gentleman, bought a place on the Upper Sturt, and lived like a king, going of course to Hobart in the summer, and running down to Melbourne now and then? Why indeed should they have this greatness thrust upon them?
So when Imogen was called upon by various friends, ostensibly to inquire, but really to see “how she took it,” and whether she showed any foreshadowing of the dignities, and calmness of exalted rank, they were surprised to see from red eyes, and other signs, that the young woman upon whom all these choice gifts had been showered had evidently been having what is known in feminine circles, as “a good cry,” and was far from being uplifted by the rank and fame to which she had been promoted.
This state of matters was considered to be so unwise, unnatural, and in a sense ungrateful, to the Giver of all good gifts, that they set themselves to rate her for the improper state of depression into which she had allowed herself to fall. She was enjoined to think of her duty to society, her rank, her position among the aristocracy of the proudest nobility in the world. Of course it was natural for her husband to be grieved at the death of his father and his brother. But time would soften that sorrow, and as she had never seen them, it would not be expected of her to go into deep mourning or to wear it very long. In the face of these, and other practical considerations, Imogen felt that there would be a flavour of affectation in the appearance of settled grief, and allowed her friends to think that they had succeeded in clearing away shadows. But she confided to Mrs. Bruce, in the confidence of the retiring hour, that Val and she would always look back to their quiet days at Marondah, and their holiday, lotus-eating season in Hobart, as part of the real luxuries and enjoyments of their past life.
“However, you will have to come and see me at Fontenaye! – how strangely it sounds – with Edward and the dear children, and we must get Mr. Tregonwell to make something happen to the Tasmanian Comstock, so that we will come out like a shot. But, oh! my dear old Australia! how I shall grieve at parting with you for ever!”
Then the sisters kissed, and wept in each other’s arms, and were comforted – so women are soothed in time of trial. On the next morning Imogen appeared at breakfast with an unruffled countenance, talking soberly to her husband and brother-in-law about the wonderful change in their future lives, and their departure by the next mail steamer.
This, of course, was imperative. The situation became urgent. Mr. Bruce agreed to remain until the P. and O. Rome, R.M.S. came for her load of so many thousand cases of Tasmanian apples, and with incidental passengers steamed away for Albany, Colombo, Aden, Cairo, and the East – that gorgeous, shadowy name of wonder and romance. Then would the Australian family return to their quiet home by the rippling, winding waters of the Sturt, and the English division return to become an integral portion of the rank and fashion, the “might, majesty and dominion” of the world-wide Empire which has stood so many assaults, and which still unfurls to every wind of Heaven the “flag that’s braved a thousand years, the battle and the breeze.”
It came to pass during one of the necessary conversations relative to the voyage, that Lord Fontenaye said to her ladyship, “Does anything occur to you, relative to Sheila Maguire, my dear Imogen?”
“Indeed, I have been thinking about her a great deal, lately,” said the youthful countess. “She can’t be married until Lieutenant Harcourt and the fleet return from the Islands. Till then, she will have to stay in Hobart.”
“Won’t that be a little awkward for her? She has no friends, that is to say, intimate friends, over here – though, of course, we could get her efficient chaperonage – eh?”
“I know what you are thinking of, Val! It would be the very thing – and oh! how kind of you.”
“What am I thinking of, and why am I so kind – have I married a thought reader, my dear Imogen?”
“Why, of course, you are intending to ask her to go home with us, and to be married from Fontenaye. It is a splendid idea. It would be unspeakably nice for her, and she would be such a help and comfort to me, on our travels.”
“The very thing! Do you think she will like the idea?”
“Like it? She will be charmed. He will come to England with the men of the Orlando, who are to be replaced, and they can be married as soon as she can get her trousseau together. We shall go to England much about the same time as the Admiral, so that Mr. Harcourt will be on full pay the whole time. I dare say it will be two or three months before he gets another ship. Poor dear Sheila, she never dreamed of being married from a castle, any more than I did of living in one after I was married.”
“Or that I should give her away, as I suppose I shall have to do,” rejoined her husband. “‘Giving agreeable girls away,’” he hummed – “I shall feel like the Lord Chancellor in Iolanthe.”
When this deep-laid plot was unfolded to Sheila, she entered into the spirit of it with enthusiasm, expressing the deepest gratitude, as with tears in her eyes, she thanked her tried friends for their thoughtful kindness. “I was rather down about being left alone here,” she confessed. “It was all very well when I belonged to your party, but being here by myself till the fleet returned, and fancying all sorts of things in Mr. Harcourt’s absence, was different.”
“The advantage is not altogether on your side, Sheila. You will be company for me when my husband is away. We’re both Australians, you see, and there are many things in common between us; old bush memories and adventures, that an English friend, however nice she was, wouldn’t understand. Really I feel quite cheered up, now I know you’re coming with us.”
“And what do I feel?” cried Sheila – “but I won’t describe it.” Her colour deepened, and her dark grey eyes glowed, as she stood up and looked at her benefactress with passionate emotion in every line of her expressive face. “Yes! I feel that I could die for you” – she clasped Imogen’s hand as she spoke, and kissing it again and again, rushed from the room.
“Her Irish blood came out there,” said Blount; “how handsome the girl has grown, and what a figure she has! She’ll rather astonish our untravelled friends in England. You’re quite right, though, as to her being a comfort to you in foreign parts, and you can talk about the Upper Sturt, and dear old Marondah together, when you feel low-spirited.”
“Dear Marondah!” said Imogen, softly; “I wonder when we shall see the old river again, and the willows, dipping their branches into its clear waters.”
“Oh! you mustn’t let yourself run down, that way. Bruce will be home next summer, if bullocks keep up and the price of wool. Think how they’ll enjoy coming to stay with us, and what shooting and hunting he and I can have together. Sheila can hunt too. I’ll smoke a cigar in the garden, and you’d better go to bed, my dear.”
But little more remains to be told concerning the fortunes of Imogen and her husband, now Lord and Lady Fontenaye. They decided on a month’s sojourn in Cairo, where they revelled in the mild climate, and the daily marvels and miraculous sights and sounds – the enchanted Arabian Nights’ surroundings, the veiled women, the Arab horses, the balconies, almost touching across the narrow streets. The old-world presentment of the East was inexpressibly fascinating to Imogen and Sheila, seen for the first time.
They “did” Egypt more or less thoroughly, as they planned not to reach England before April – Imogen declaring that “the cold winds of March” would lay her in an early grave. So they went up the Nile as far as Philæ, filling their minds with such glories and marvels as might suffice for the mental digestion of a lifetime. They rode and explored to their hearts’ content, “Royal Thebes, Egyptian treasure-house of boundless wealth, that boasts her hundred gates”; Luxor, with its labyrinth of courts, and superb colonnades; Karnak, that darkens the horizon with a world of portals, pyramids, and palaces.
“Perhaps we may never see these wonders again,” said Imogen. “But I shall revel in their memories as long as I live. What do you say, Sheila?”
“I feel as if I was just born,” said the excited damsel, “and was just opening my eyes on a new world. Awakening in Heaven, if it’s not wrong to say so, must be something like this.”
“What a charming way of getting over the winter,” said Imogen. “One sees so much of the world in the process, besides meeting people of mark and distinction. Val tells me we may have a fortnight in Paris, for hats and dresses, before arriving in dear old England some time in April, which is a lovely month, if the spring is early. And this year they say it is.”
“‘Oh! to be in England, now that April’s here’,” quoted Lord Fontenaye, who now joined the party; “we shall be comfortably settled in Fontenaye, I hope, before the ‘merry month of May,’ when I shall have the honour of showing you two ‘Cornstalks’ what a London season is like.”
“Oh! and shall we able to ride in the Park?” quoth Sheila, with great eagerness. “I do so long to see the wonderful English horses that one hears so much about – the Four-in-hand and Coaching Clubs too! What a sight it must be! I must have a horse worth looking at, price no object – new saddle, and habit too. Oh! what fun it will be! And you’ll give Mrs. Bl – I mean, her ladyship – a horse too, won’t you?”
“You’re a true Australian, Sheila,” said he. “I believe you all care more about horses, than anything else in the world. Now that the ‘Comstock’ is so encouraging in the way of dividends, I believe it will run to a hundred-and-fifty-guinea hackney or two – with a new landau, a brougham, and other suitable equipages.”
These rose-coloured anticipations were duly realised. A wire was sent from Paris, and the “wandering heir” was duly received and welcomed in the halls of his ancestors. The time-honoured feasting of tenants and “fêting” of the whole countryside was transacted – a comprehensive programme having been arranged by the land steward, a man of great experience and organising faculty. The younger son of the house, it was explained, had always been the more popular one. And now that he had “come to his own,” as the people said, their joy was unbounded. Everything was done on a most liberal scale. Correspondents came down “special” from the great London dailies, by whom full and particular descriptions were sent through all Britain and her colonies, as well as to the ends of the earth generally.
The beauty and gracious demeanour of Lady Fontenaye, and her friend Miss Sheila Maguire, an Australian heiress of fabulous wealth, were descanted upon and set forth in glowing colours. Archives were ransacked for the ancestors of all the Marmions, from the days of Flodden and those earlier times when Robert de Marmion, Lord of Fontenaye in Normandy, followed the Conqueror to England, and after Hastings obtained a grant of the castle and town of Tamworth, and also the manor of Scrivelbaye, in Lincolnshire. Harry Blount, Marmion’s attendant squire, was, according to the custom of the day, a cadet of the house, and being knighted with FitzEustace for gallantry at Flodden, attained to wealth and distinction; eventually through marriage with one of the co-heiresses of the house of Marmion, extinct in default of male heirs, became possessed of the title and estates. Hence, Robert Valentine Blount, the present Lord Fontenaye, has duly succeeded to the ancient tower and town, amid appropriate festivities and rejoicings. We are not aware that his Lordship presented a gold “chain of twelve mark weight” to the pursuivants, or the gentlemen of the press, but that the hospitality was thoughtful, delicate, and unbounded in liberality, no one honoured by its exercise will deny; while the beauty and gracious demeanour of the Lady of the Castle, so efficiently supported in her duties by her friend, the handsome Australian heiress, Miss Maguire of Tumut Park, lent additional lustre to the entertainment.
There for a while we may leave them, in the enjoyment of youth, health, and historic rank. If such gifts do not confer unclouded happiness, it must be admitted that but few of the elements of which it is supposed to be compounded were wanting.
Some delay in Sheila’s marriage, however, took place. The Orlando, after having been ordered to China, to the dismay of the captain, and at least two of the senior officers, who had private reasons for not desiring to explore the Flowery Land, either in peace or war, was as suddenly recalled, and the cruiser Candace ordered to take her place. The Orlando was paid off, and the Royal Alfred, with a new crew and officers put into commission, and despatched to the Australian station at short notice. A telegram from Fontenaye caused Commander Harcourt, R.N., to betake himself to that vicinity at once. He had been promoted to the rank of Commander for a dashing exploit in bringing off a boat’s crew at Guadalcanar, in the teeth of tremendous odds, and a shower of poisoned arrows. There was no need for delay now – Sheila had her trousseau ready weeks before, and the Lieutenant – I beg his pardon, the Captain – didn’t require much time to make his preparations.
So there was another entertainment at Fontenaye, of comparative splendour and more true kindness and genuine friendship. All the neighbouring gentry were bidden to the feast, as well as the brother officers of the bridegroom. Lord Fontenaye gave away the bride, and made a feeling speech at the breakfast. When Commander Harcourt, R.N., and his lovely bride – for Sheila, in a “confection” from Paris, looked beautiful exceedingly – walked down the aisle of the old Abbey church, a girl of the period said “it put her in mind of Lord Marmion and Lady Clare, only that Marmion was a soldier, and not a sailor, and (now that she remembered) he turned out badly, didn’t marry Clare after all, was killed, indeed, at Flodden, and ought to have married poor Clare, who did not do so badly, nor Lord Wilton either, after recovering his lands, his lady-love, and his position in society.”
After this momentous function, Lord Fontenaye one fine morning looked up from the Times, which, after the fashion of secure husbands, he read during breakfast, with a sudden exclamation that caused Imogen to inquire what it was about.
“The death of Mrs. Delamere, poor thing! That will make a difference.”
“Difference to whom?” inquired Imogen. “Oh! I see – now, those two can get married. Have you heard from them since they went to West Australia? Yes, I know, you showed me her letter.”
“I heard of them later on, from a man I knew, that the Colonel had bought into the ‘Golden Hoof,’ or some such name, and was likely to make a big rise out of it, as he expressed it. What a turn of the wheel it would be, wouldn’t it? He was ‘dry-blowing’ after they got to West Australia.”
“What in the world’s that?”
“A primitive way of extracting gold from auriferous earth, partly by sifting it, and then by blowing away the lighter dust particles, when the gold, if there is any, remains behind. Then, their tent caught fire one day, when she was away for an hour marketing (fancy Adeline buying soap and candles at a digging!), and everything they had in the world was burned, except what ‘they stood up in,’ as my informant phrased it.”
“But you will send them something, poor things! How I pity them. Oh! how stupid I am! You did– I know you.”
“Yes! and she sent it back – a decent cheque too.”
“Quite right – they couldn’t take it from you —you of all men. What did you do then?”
“I ‘worked it,’ as ‘Tumbarumba Dick’ would say. He was one of the partners in the Lady Julia claim. I sent Dick the cheque; told him to get the diggers round about to form a relief committee, and to let them subscribe their share, then spread mine out in small amounts among the genuine ones. They couldn’t refuse the honest miners’ and their wives’ assistance. No people are so generous in cases of accident or distress. Thus my money ‘got there just the same,’ and helped to give the forlorn ones a fresh start.”
“Quite another romance – I suppose you have a slight tendresse in that direction still?”
“Not more than a man always has for a woman he has once loved, however badly she treated him; and that is a very mild, strictly rational sentiment; but you ought to have.”
“Why, I should like to know?”
“Because, of course, when she broke my heart, and sent me out into the world drifting purposeless, I fell across one Imogen Carrisforth, who towed the derelict into port – made prize of him, indeed, for ever and ever.”
“Well, I suppose she did shape our destiny, as you say – without the least intending it; and now I suspect she’ll shape the Colonel’s for good and all. They will be remarried quietly, live in the south of France, and the gay world will hear no more of them.”
Fontenaye was always reasonably gay and truly hospitable; to the Australian division notably. Not unduly splendid, but comfortably and reasonably fine, on occasion. The nearest pack of hounds always met there on the first day of the season, when sometimes Lady Fontenaye, sometimes Mrs. Vernon Harcourt, appeared, superbly mounted and among the front rankers, after the throw off. Sheila was a frequent guest in her husband’s necessary absences at sea. Imogen was a little slow to accustom herself to be addressed and referred to as “your ladyship” and “her ladyship” at every turn, but took to it by degrees.
“Now, what became of Kate Lawless and her brother Dick?” asks an eager youthful patron of this veracious romance (not by any means wholly untrue, dear reader, though a little mixed up).
“And the roan pony mare ‘Wallaby’ that carried Kate ninety miles in a day to warn the police about Trevenna,” screams a still younger student. “You mustn’t leave her out.”
As might be expected, my dear boys, they came to a sad end. Dick and his sister disappeared after the fight at “the Ghost Camp.” They were rumoured to have been seen on the Georgina River, in the Gulf country. There were warrants out for both, yet they had not been arrested. But one day, word came to the police station at Monaro, that near a grave, at a deserted hut between Omeo and the Running Creek, something was wrong. The Sergeant, taking one trooper who drove a light waggonette, rode to the spot. “This is where Mrs. Trevenna’s child was buried, the little chap that was drowned,” said the trooper, “under that swamp oak. I was stationed here then and went over. She was wild, poor thing! I wonder if that’s her lying across the grave.”
It was even so. A haggard woman, poorly dressed, showing signs of privation and far travel, lay face downward on the little mound. “Lift her up, Jackson!” said the Sergeant; “poor thing! I’d hardly have known her. She came here to shoot herself, look about for the revolver. Just on the temple, what a small hole it made! Shot the mare too! best thing for both of ’em, I expect. So that’s the end of Kate Lawless! Who’d have thought it, when that flash crowd was at Ballarat! Handsome girl she was then, full of life and spirits too!”
“She never did no good after the boy was drowned,” said the trooper.
“No! nor before, either. But it wasn’t all her fault. Let’s lift her into the trap. She don’t weigh much. There’ll be the inquest, and she’ll have Christian burial. They can’t prevent that in this country. And she’s suffered enough to make a dozen women shoot themselves, or men either.”
So the dead woman came into the little township, and after the coroner’s jury had brought in their verdict that the deceased had died by her own hand, but that there was no evidence to show her state of mind at the time, poor Kate Trevenna (or Lawless) was buried among more or less respectable people.
There was a slight difference of opinion as to the identification of the woman’s corpse, but none whatever as to that of the mare, among the horse-loving bystanders around the grave, which was several times visited during the following days. “That’s old Wallaby, safe enough,” deposed one grizzled stockrider. “Reg’lar mountain mare, skip over them rocks like a billy-goat; couldn’t throw her down no ways. Ain’t she dog-poor, too? Kate and she’s had hard times lately. What say, boys, s’pose we bury her? the ground’s middlin’ soft, and if she don’t ought to be buried decent, no one does.”
The idea caught on, and a pick and spade contingent driving out next day, a grave was dug and a stone put up, on which was roughly chiselled —
