After the events described in the preceding chapter it was a new life
that Sheilah opened up for me—one as different from that which had
existed before as could well be imagined. Every moment I could spare
from my work (and I was generally pretty busy for the reason that my
father was increasing in years and he had resigned a large measure of
the management of his property to me) was spent in her company. I
thought of her all day and dreamed of her all night.
For two important reasons, however, I was compelled to keep my love a
secret, both from herself and from the world in general. My father would
have laughed the very notion of an engagement to scorn, and without his
consent I was in less than in no position at all to marry. Therefore I
said nothing on the subject to anybody.
And now having introduced you to the good angel of my life, I must do
the same for the reverse character.
About two years after the bush fire described in the last chapter, there
came to our township, whither nobody was ever able to discover, a man
who was destined to exercise a truly sinister influence upon my life.
In appearance he presented a strange individuality, being of medium
stature, with a queer sort of Portuguese face, out of which two dark
eyes glittered like those of a snake. He arrived in the township late
one summer evening, mounted on a fine upstanding bay mare and followed
by a couple of the most diabolical-looking black boys any man could
possibly set eyes on, stayed the night at the grog shanty, and early
next morning rode off up the hill as far as Merther's old homestead,
which it was said he had taken for a term of years. Whatever its
intrinsic advantages may have been, it was a queer place for a man to
choose; firstly, because of the strange stories that were told about it,
and secondly, because it had stood empty for nearly five years and was
reported to be overrun by snakes, rats and scorpions. But Whispering
Pete, by which name he afterwards became known to us (from a peculiar
habit he had of speaking in a voice but little louder than a whisper)
seemed to have no objection to either the rumours or the vermin, but
just went his way—doing a bit of horse and cattle dealing as the
chances turned up—never interfering with his neighbours, and only
showing him self in the township when compelled by the exigencies of his
business to do so.
It was not until some considerable time after the events which it is my
purpose to describe to you now that I heard the stories, that were told
about him, but when I did I could easily credit their truth. Among other
peculiarities the man was an ardent and clever musician, and strangely
enough, considering his brutality towards grown-up people, a great lover
of children. It was well known that the little ones could do more with
him in five minutes than anyone else could hope to do in a lifetime.
Women, I believe, had never filled any place in his life. The following
episode in his career will, I fancy give you a better notion of his
character than any amount of explanation upon my part could do.
Somewhere on the Murray River, Pete, who was then running a flash hotel
for squatters and skippers of the river steamers, managed to get himself
into hot water with the police on a charge of working an illicit still.
They had had suspicions of him for some considerable time, but, knowing
the character of their man, had waited in order to make certain before
effecting his arrest. One of his acquaintances, however, a man, who for
some reason or another bore him no good will, put them on the right
track, and now all they had to do was to ride up to his residence and
take him into custody. By the time they reached it, however, Pete had
been warned by somebody and had taken to the bush to be out of the way.
He did not return to the neighbourhood but left South Australia
forthwith, and migrated into New South Wales, where he embarked upon a
new career, much to the relief of the man who had betrayed him, whose
life, as you may imagine, had up to this time been cursed with the very
real fear of Pete's revenge.
The months went slowly by, Pete was not heard of again, and at last it
so happened that this self-same individual was also compelled, by the
exigencies of his business, to leave South Australia, and to cross into
the oldest Colony, where, being a sanguine man, he hoped to lay the
foundation of a fortune. By the time he reached his destination Pete was
once more an outlaw, and the police were looking for him, but on what
charge I cannot now remember. It is sufficient that he was known to be
in hiding near the identical township where his old enemy had taken up
his abode. Of course, when the latter made his choice and had fixed upon
this particular locality, he did not know this; but he was to learn it
before very long, and in a manner that was destined to prove highly
unpleasant, if not dangerous, to himself and his family.
It was a terribly hot summer that year, and the country was burnt up to
a cinder; bush fires were of almost daily occurrence, and the loss of
life during that particular season was, so the oldest inhabitants
asserted, exceptional. Beeton, the new-comer—the man who had betrayed
Pete in South Australia, as narrated, nearly two years before—had taken
up a selection some few miles outside the township, had built himself a
homestead, and had settled down in it with his wife and family,
blissfully unconscious that the man whom he dreaded meeting more than he
would have done the Father of Evil himself was hidden in a large cavern
in the ranges scarcely ten miles, as the crow flies, from his own
verandah steps. He imagined that everything was safe, and went about his
daily work feeling as contented with his lot in life as any man who
takes up new country and begins to work it can expect to be. The sword,
however, which was suspended above his head by a single hair, was
beginning to tremble, and would fall before very long and cut him to
pieces in so doing.
Now it had so happened that in the old days in South Australia, when
Pete and Beeton had still been friends, the former had been a constant
playfellow of the latter's youngest child, a bewitching little girl of
two, who returned with interest the affection the other bestowed upon
her. Two days before Christmas, this mite, now nearly three years old,
strayed away from her home and was lost in the scrub. Search parties
were organised and sent out in every direction, but without success;
look where they would, they could find no trace of her. And for a very
good reason. All the time they were hunting for her she was safe and
sound in Pete's cavern. The outlaw had found her when she was about ten
miles from home, and had conveyed her there with all possible speed. He
was well aware what he was doing, for the child had recognised him at
once, and he had never forgotten her. It would probably have surprised
some of those who were wont to regard him with so much apprehension
could they have seen him during the evening, playing with his little
guest upon the floor of the cavern; and later on, seated by her side,
telling her fairy stories until she began to feel sleepy, when she
insisted upon saying her prayers to him, and compelled him to listen
with all the gravity at his command.
The following morning he made up his mind, mounted his horse and,
lifting the child up before him, set off through the scrub in the
direction of the father's selection. Reaching the boundary fence, from
which the house could be easily seen, he kissed the youngster and set
her down, bidding her run home as fast as she could go and let her
mother see that she was none the worse for her adventure. When he had
made sure that she had reached her destination, he wheeled his horse
and set off on his return journey to the ranges. As he did so he saw the
signs of a bush fire rising above the trees ahead of him, dense clouds
of smoke were rolling up into the azure sky, and, as if to make the
danger more complete, the wind was freshening every minute. A
quarter-of-an-hour later it looked as if his fate were sealed. Behind
him was civilisation, with its accompaniment of police; ahead, and on
either hand, the fire and seemingly certain destruction by one of the
most terrible deaths imaginable. What was he to do? It did not take him
very long, however, to make up his mind. At one spot, a couple of miles
or so to his left, the smoke was not so heavy, and his knowledge of the
country told him the reason of this. It was due to a dry water-course in
which there was nothing that would burn. Urging his horse forward he
made for it as fast as he could go. But he was not destined to get there
quite as quickly as he expected, for, when he was only a hundred yards
or so distant from the bank, his quick eye detected the body of a man
lying on the ground beneath a casuarina tree. With his habitual
carelessness of human life he was about to leave him to be dealt with by
the on-rushing flames, when he chanced to catch sight of the other's
face. Then he pulled his horse to a standstill, as if he had been shot.
The individual on the ground was Beeton, the man who had betrayed him in
South Australia, and the father of the child whom he had risked so much
that day to save. The recognition was mutual, for the man, though quite
incapable of moving (he had broken his right leg, so it transpired
later) was still conscious. Here was a glorious chance of revenge, and
one of which Pete was just the sort of man to take the fullest
advantage. He brought his terrified horse a little closer, and lolling
in his saddle looked calmly down on his prostrate foe.
'How d'ye do, Beeton?' he said, with the easy familiarity of an old
acquaintance, to all intents and purposes quite oblivious to the fact
that an enormous bush fire was raging in their vicinity, and was every
second drawing closer to them. 'It is some time since we last had the
pleasure of meeting, or my memory deceives me. Let me see, I think it
was in South Australia, was it not?'
Beeton's complexion was even whiter than it had been before as he
glanced up at his enemy and marked the relentless look upon his face.
He did not answer, however.
'Looks as if you've been inconsiderate enough to have forgotten the
circumstance,' continued Pete, mockingly, 'and yet, if I'm not making a
mistake, there was every reason why you should have remembered it.
However, that does not matter; it seems as if I'm to have a chance of
getting even with you after all. D'you see yonder fire? Well it will
pass this way in a few minutes. There's only one chance of escape and
that is to make your way into the creek bed yonder. I should advise you
to hurry up and get there unless you wish to be roasted to a cinder.'
'Curse you, you can see I'm done for and can't move,' cried the other in
a tone of agony. 'If you were not the devil you are, you would help me
to get there. But you will leave me to die, I know.'
'Why should I help you?' inquired Pete, with continued calmness. 'Who
was it put the police on my track at Yackamunda, eh—and drove me out
here? Why, you did! And now you want me to save you. No, my lad, you can
lie there and burn for all I care or will help you.'
'Then be off,' cried the man on the ground, with the savageness of
despair. 'If I'm to die let me die alone, not with those devilish eyes
of yours watching me!'
By this time the heat was almost unbearable, and Pete's horse was
growing unmanageable. He plunged and snorted at the approaching flames,
until none but a man of Pete's experience and dexterity could have
retained his seat in the saddle.
'Since you do not desire my presence,' said Pete, 'I'll wish you a good
afternoon.'
So saying he lifted his hat with diabolical politeness and started for
the creek. He had not gone very far, however, before he changed his mind
and once more brought his horse to a standstill, this time with even
more difficulty than before, for the animal was now almost beyond
control. Glancing round to see how far the flames were away, he leapt
from the saddle to the ground, and realising that he would not have time
to make the beast secure, let him go free, and set off as fast as his
legs would carry him back to the spot where he had left his enemy to
meet his fate. As he reached it, the flames entered a little belt of
timber fifty yards from the place.
'Come, Beeton,' he cried. 'If you're going to be saved there's not an
instant to lose. Let me get a good hold of you and I'll see what I can
do. Confound the man, he's fainted.'
Picking the prostrate figure up as if he weighed only a few pounds, he
placed him on his shoulder and set off at a run for the creek. It was a
race for life with a vengeance, and only a man like Pete could have
hoped to win it. As it was, he reached the bank just as the foremost
flames were licking up the dry grass not a dozen paces from where he had
stood. When they reached the bottom Beeton was saved, but what it was
that had induced his benefactor to do it it is doubtful if he himself
could tell. That evening, when the fire had passed, he walked into the
township and gave himself up to the police, at the same time bidding
them send out for the man he had risked his life to save.
I have narrated this incident at some length in order that you may have
an idea of the complex character of the man who was later on to exercise
such a potent influence on my life. That it was a complex character I
don't think anyone will attempt to deny. And it was to those who knew
him best that he appeared in the strangest light. How well I remember my
first meeting with him.
It was about a month after his arrival in the district that I had
occasion one morning to cross the river and visit his selection in order
to inquire about a young bull of ours that had been seen working his way
down the boundary fence. I rode up to the slip panels, let myself in,
and went round the tangled wilderness of green stuff to the back of the
house. Much of it was in a tumble-down state; indeed, I had heard that
only three rooms were really habitable. In the yard I found the two
black boys previously mentioned, and whom I had had described to me,
playing knuckle bones on a log. They looked up at me in some surprise,
and when I told one of them to go in and let his master know that I
wanted to see him, it was nearly a minute before he did so. In response
to the summons, however, Whispering Pete emerged, his queer eyes
blinking in the sunlight, for all the world like a cat's. He came over
to where I sat on my horse, and asked my business.
'My name is Heggarstone,' I replied. 'And I come from the station across
the river. I want to inquire after a young brindle bull that was last
seen working his way down your boundary fence. I believe he crossed the
river above the township.'
'I don't know that I've seen him,' whispered Pete, at the same time
looking into my face and taking stock of me with those extraordinary
eyes of his. 'But I'll make inquiries. In the meantime get off your
horse and come inside, won't you?'
Anxious to see what sort of place he had made of Merther's old shanty, I
got off, and, having made my horse fast to a post, followed Pete into
his dwelling. A long and dark passage led from the back door right
through the house to the front verandah. Passing along this, we
proceeded to a room on the right hand side, the door of which he threw
open.
I'd only been in the house once before in my life, and that was when old
Merther had the place and kept it like a pig-sty. Now everything was
changed, and I found myself in a room such as I had never in my life
seen before. It was large and well-shaped, with dark panelled walls, had
a big, old-fashioned fireplace at one end, in which half-a-dozen people
could have seated themselves comfortably, and a long French window at
the other, leading into the verandah, and thence into the tangled
wilderness of front garden.
But it was not the shape or the size of the room that surprised me as
much as the way in which it was furnished. Books there were, as in our
rooms at home, and to be counted by the hundred, mixed up pell-mell with
a collection of antique swords, quite a couple of dozen silver cups on
brackets, pictures, a variety of fowling-pieces, rifles and pistols, a
couple of suits of armour, looking very strange upon their carved
pedestals, an easel draped with a curtain, a lot of what looked like
valuable china, a heavy, carved table, two or three comfortable chairs,
and last, but by no means least, a piano placed across one corner with a
pile of music on the top. Though I had it all before me, I could hardly
believe my eyes, for this was the last house in the township I should
have expected to find furnished in such a fashion.
'Sit down,' said Pete, pointing to a large chair. 'Perhaps you will let
me offer you some refreshment after your ride?'
It was a hot morning, and I was thirsty, so I gladly accepted his
hospitality. Hearing this, he went to a quaint old cupboard on one side
of the room and from it took a bottle with a gold cap—which I knew
contained champagne. This was a luxury of which I had never partaken,
for in the bush in those days we were very simple in our tastes, and I
doubt if even the grog shanty itself had a bottle of this wine upon the
premises, much less any other house in the township. Pete placed two
strange-shaped glasses on the table, and then unscrewed the cork, not
using a corkscrew as I should have done had I been in his place. The
wine creamed and bubbled in the glasses, and, after handing one to me,
my host took the other himself, and, bowing slightly, said, 'I drink to
our better acquaintance, Mr Heggarstone.'
I knew I ought to say something polite in return, but for the life of me
I could think of nothing, so I simply murmured, 'Thank you,' and drank
off my wine at a gulp, an action which seemed to surprise him
considerably. He said nothing, however, but poured me out another
glassful, and then took a small silver case from his pocket which, when
he offered it to me, I discovered contained cigarettes.
'Do try one,' he said. 'If you are a cigarette smoker, I think you will
enjoy them. They are real Turkish, and as I have them made for myself I
can guarantee their purity.'
I took one, lit it, and by the time it was half smoked felt more at my
ease. The wine was having a tranquillising effect upon me, and the
strings of my tongue were loosened. I even went so far as to comment
upon his room.
'So glad you like it,' he murmured softly, with an intonation impossible
to imitate. 'It's so difficult, as possibly you are aware, to make a
room in any way artistic in these awful up-country townships—the
material one has to work upon is, as a rule, so very, very crude. In
this particular instance I can scarcely claim much credit, for this old
room was originally picturesque, and all I had to do was to put my
things in it, and give them a certain semblance of order.'
'And how do you manage to employ your time up here?' I asked.
He looked at me a little curiously for a moment and then said,—
'Well, in the first place, I have my work among my cattle, and then I
paint a little, as you see by that easel, then I have my piano, and my
books. But at the same time I feel bound to confess existence is a
little monotonous. One wants a friend, you know, and that's why I took
the liberty of asking you to come in and see my room.'
Though I did not quite see what my friendship had to do with his room,
I could not help feeling a little gratified at the compliment he paid
me. Presently I said,—
'I hope you won't think me rude, but would it be too much to ask you to
play me something?'
'I will do so with great pleasure,' he answered. 'I am glad you are fond
of music. But first let me fill your glass and offer you another
cigarette.'
Having made me comfortable, he went across to the piano and sat down
before it. For a few moments he appeared to be thinking, and then his
fingers fell upon the notes, and a curious melody followed—the like of
which I never remember to have heard before. I have always been
strangely susceptible to the influence of music, and I think my host
must have discovered this, for presently he began to sing in a low,
silky sort of voice, that echoed in my brain for hours afterwards. What
the song was I do not know, but while it lasted I sat entranced. When it
was finished he rose and came across to me again.
'I hope you will take pity upon a poor hermit, and let me see you
sometimes,' he said, lighting another cigarette. 'For the future you
must consider this house and all it contains yours, whenever you care to
use it.'
I took this as a dismissal and accordingly rose, at the same time
thanking him for the treat he had given me.
'Oh, please don't be so grateful!' he said, with a laugh, 'or I shall
begin to believe you don't mean it. Well, if you really must be going,
let me call your horse.'
He opened the door and gave a peculiar whistle, which was immediately
answered from the back premises. A few moments later my horse made his
appearance before the front verandah. I shook hands, and, having
mounted, looked once more into his curious eyes, and then rode away. It
was only when I reached home, and my father asked what answer I had
brought back, that I remembered I had learned nothing of the animal
about which I had ridden over to inquire.
My father said nothing, because there was nothing to be said, but he
evidently thought the more. As for me, I could think of nothing but that
curious man, and the peculiar fascination he had exercised over me.
A few days later I met him in the township. Directly he saw me he
stopped his horse and entered into conversation with me.
'I have been wondering when I should see you again,' he said. 'I was
beginning to be afraid you had forgotten that such a person existed.'
'I have been wanting to come up and see you,' I answered, 'but I did not
like to thrust myself upon you. You might have been busy.'
'You need never be afraid of that,' he answered, with his usual queer
smile. No—please come up whenever you can. I shall always be glad to
see you. What do you say to Thursday evening at eight o'clock?'
I answered that I should be very glad to come, and then we separated,
and I rode on to see Sheilah.
Thursday evening came, and as soon as I had my supper, I set off across
the creek to the old house on the hill. It had struck eight by the time
I reached it, and to my surprise I heard the sound of voices coming from
the sitting-room. I knocked at the door, and a moment later it was
opened by my host himself, who shook me warmly by the hand and invited
me to enter. Thereupon I passed into the lamp-lit room to discover two
young men of the township, Pat Doolan and James Mountain, installed
there. They were making themselves prodigiously at home, as if they had
been there many times before. Which I believe they had.
'I need not introduce you, I suppose?' said my host, looking round. 'You
are probably well acquainted with these gentlemen.'
As I had known them all my life, played with them as children, and met
them almost every day since, it may be supposed that I was.
We sat down and a general conversation ensued. After a while our host
played and sang to us; drinks were served, and later on somebody—I
really forget who—suggested a game of cards. The pasteboards were
accordingly produced, and for the first time in my life I played for
money. When, two hours later, we rose from the table, I was the winner
of twenty pounds, while Pete had lost nearly fifty. I went home as happy
as a man could well be, with the world in my watch pocket, not because I
had won the money, but because I had been successful in something I had
undertaken. How often that particular phase of vanity proves our
undoing. Two evenings later I returned and won again, yet another
evening, and still with the same result. Then the change came, my luck
broke. I followed it up, but still lost. After that the sum I had won
melted away like snow before the mid-day sun, till, on the fifth
evening, I rose from the table having lost all I had previously won and
fifteen pounds into the bargain. The next night I played again, hoping
to retrieve my fortune, but ill-luck still pursued me, and I lost ten
pounds more. This time it was much worse, for I had not enough capital
by twenty pounds to meet my liabilities. I rose from the table like many
another poor fool, bitterly cursing the hour I had first touched a card.
The others had gone home, and when I prepared to follow them, Pete, to
whom I owed the money, accompanied me into the verandah.
'I'm sorry you've had such bad luck lately,' he said quietly. 'But you
mustn't let the memory of the small sum you owe me trouble you. I'm in
no hurry for it. Fortune's bound to smile on you again before very long,
and then you can settle with me at your convenience.'
'To tell the honest truth,' I blurted out, feeling myself growing hot
all over, 'I can't pay. I ought not to have played at all.'
'Oh, don't say that,' he answered. 'Remember we only do it for
amusement. If you let your losses worry you I shall be more than
miserable. No! come up next Monday evening, and let us see what will
happen then.'
Monday night came and I played and won!
I paid Pete, and then, because I was a coward and afraid to stop lest
they should laugh at me, began again. Once more I won, then Fortune
again began to frown upon me, and I lost. We played every evening after
that with varying success. At last the crash came. One evening, after
liquidating my liabilities to the other men, I rose from the table owing
Whispering Pete a hundred pounds.
Bidding him good-night, I went down the hill in a sort of stupor. How I
was to pay him I could not think. I had not a halfpenny in the world,
and nothing that I could possibly sell to raise the money. That night,
as may be imagined, I did not sleep a wink.
Next morning I asked my father to advance me the amount in question. He
inquired my reason, and as I declined to give it, he refused to consider
my request.
After that, for more than a week, I kept away from the house on the
hill, being too much ashamed to go near it. My life, from being a fairly
happy one, now became a burden to me. I carried my miserable secret
locked up in my breast by day, and dreamed of it by night.
Then the climax came. One evening a note from Whispering Pete was
brought to me by one of his black boys. I took it into the house and
read it with my coward heart in my mouth. It ran as follows:—
'Dear Jim,—Have you quite forgotten me? I have been hoping every
evening that you would come across for a chat. But you never put in
an appearance. I suppose you have been too busy mustering lately to
have any time to spare for visiting. If you are likely to be at
home to-morrow evening, will you come across to supper at
eight?—Yours ever,
'Pete.
'P.S.—By the way, would it be convenient to you to let me have
that £100? I am sending down to Sydney, and being a trifle short it
would just come in handily for a little speculation I have on
hand.'
Telling the boy to inform his master that I would come over and see him
first thing in the morning, I returned to my own room and went to
bed—but not to sleep.
Next morning I saddled my horse and rode over as I had promised. When I
arrived at the house, Whispering Pete was in the stable at the rear
examining a fine chestnut horse that had just arrived. As soon as he saw
me he looked a little confused I thought, and came out, carefully
closing the door behind him. From the stable we passed into the house
and to the sitting-room, where Pete bade me be seated.
'I was beginning to fear I had offended you in some way, and that you
wished to avoid me,' he began, as he offered me a cigarette.
'So I did,' I answered boldly, 'and it's on account of that wretched
money. Pete, I'm in an awful hole. I cannot possibly pay you just yet.
To tell you the honest truth, at the present moment I haven't a red cent
in the world, and I feel just about the meanest wretch in all
Australia.'
He gave his shoulders a peculiar twitch, as was his habit, and then rose
to his feet, saying as he did so,—
'And so you've worked yourself into this state about a paltry hundred
pounds. Well, if I'd been told it by anybody else I'd not have believed
it. Come, come, Jim, old man, if that debt worries you, we'll strike it
off the books altogether. Thank God, I can safely say I'm not a
money-grubber, and, all things considered, I set a greater value on your
society than on twice a hundred pounds. So there that's done with, and
you must forget all about it!'
Generous as was his speech I could not help thinking there was something
not quite sincere about it. However, he had lifted a great weight off my
mind, and I thanked him profusely, at the same time telling him I should
still regard myself as in his debt, and that I would repay him on the
first possible opportunity.
'Would you really like to pay me?' he said suddenly, as if an idea had
struck him. 'Because, if you are desirous of doing so, I think I can
find you a way by which you can not only liquidate your debt to me, but
recoup yourself for all your losses into the bargain.'
'And what is that?' I asked. 'If it's possible, of course I should like
to do it.'
'Well, I'll tell you. It's like this! You know, next month the township
races come off, don't you? Well, it's to be the biggest meeting they
have ever had, and, seeing that, I have determined to bring up a horse
from the South and enter him for the Cup. Now, here's what I propose. I
know your reputation as a horseman, and I think with you in the saddle
my nag can just about win. I'll pay you a hundred pounds to ride him,
and there you are. What do you say?'
I thought for a moment, and then said,—
'I won't take the hundred, but I'll ride the horse for you, if you wish
it, with pleasure.'
'Thank you,' he answered. 'I thought I could depend on you.'
Little did I dream to what misery I was condemning myself by so readily
consenting to his proposition.
From Whispering Pete's house I went on through the township to see
Sheilah. It was a lovely morning, with just a suspicion of a coming
thunderstorm in the air. I found her in the yard among her fowls, a pale
blue sun-bonnet on her head, and a basket full of eggs upon her arm. She
looked incomparably sweet and womanly.
'Why, Jim,' she said, looking up at me as I opened the gate and came
into the yard, 'this is, indeed, an unexpected pleasure. I thought you
were out mustering in your back country.'
'No, Sheilah,' I replied. 'I had some important business in the
township, which detained me. Directly it was completed I thought I'd
come over and see you.'
'That was kind of you,' she answered. 'I was wondering when you would
come. We don't seem to have seen so much of you lately as we used to
do.'
Because there was a considerable amount of truth in what she said, and
my conscience pricked me for having forsaken old friends for a new-comer
like Whispering Pete, I naturally became indignant at such an accusation
being brought against me. Sheilah looked at me in surprise, but for a
few moments she said nothing, then, as we left the yard and went up the
path towards the house, she put her little hand upon my arm and said
softly,—
'Jim, my dear old friend, you've something on your mind that's troubling
you. Won't you tell me all about it and let me help you if I can?'
'It's nothing that you can help me in, Sheilah,' I replied. 'I'm down on
my luck, that's all; and, because I'm a fool, I've promised to do a
thing that I know will make a lot of trouble in the future. However, as
it can't be helped, it's no use crying over it, is it?'
'Every use, if it can make you any happier. Jim, you've not been
yourself for weeks past. Come, tell me all about it, and let me see if I
can advise you. Has it, for instance, anything to do with Whispering
Pete?'
I looked at her in surprise.
'What do you know about Whispering Pete?' I asked.
'A good deal more than you think, or I like,' she answered, 'and when I
find him making my old playfellow miserable, I am even more his enemy
than before.'
'I didn't say that it had anything to do with Whispering Pete,' I
retorted, beginning to flare up, according to custom, at the idea of
anything being said or hinted against those with whom I was intimate.
'No, Jim, you didn't say so, but I'm certain he is at the bottom of it,
whatever it is! Come, won't you tell me, old friend?'
She looked into my face so pleadingly that I could not refuse her;
besides, it had always been my custom to confide in Sheilah ever since I
was a little wee chap but little bigger than herself, and somehow it
seemed to come natural now. What's more, if the truth were known, I
think it was just that very idea that had brought me down to see her.
'It's this way, Sheilah,' I stammered, hardly knowing how to begin.
'Like the fool I am, I've been playing cards up at Whispering Pete's for
the last month or so, and, well, the long and the short of it is, I've
lost more money than I can pay.'
She didn't reproach me, being far too clever for that. She simply put
her little hand in mine, and looked rather sorrowfully into my face.
'Well, Jim?' she said.
'Well, to make a long story short, I owe Whispering Pete a hundred
pounds. He wrote asking me for the money. I couldn't pay, so I went over
and told him straight out that I couldn't.'
'That was brave of you!'
'He received me very nicely and generously, and told me not to bother
myself any more about it. Then I found there was something I could do
for him in return.'
'And what was that?'
'Why, to ride his horse for the Cup at the township races next month.'
'Oh, Jim—you won't surely do that, will you?'
'Well, you see I've promised, and it's that that's worrying me.'
'Jim, what is the amount you want to pay him off?'
'A hundred pounds, Sheilah.'
'Well, I have more than that saved. Jim, do let me lend it to you, and
then you can pay him in full, and you needn't ride in the race. You
know, Jim, that nobody among our friends in the township ever goes to
them, and you must see for yourself what would be said if you rode.'
'And what business would it be of anybody's pray, if I did? I go my way,
they can go theirs.'
'But I don't want people to think badly of you, Jim.'
'If they're fools enough to do so because I ride a good horse in a fair
race they'll think anything; and, as far as I'm concerned, they're
welcome to their opinions.'
'And you won't let me lend you the money, Jim?'
'No, Sheilah, dear, it's impossible. I couldn't think of such a thing.
But I thank you all the same from the bottom of my heart. It's like your
goodness to make me such an offer.'
'And you've made up your mind to ride for this man.'
'See for yourself how I am situated. How can I get out of it? He has
done me a kindness, and in return he asks me to do him one. If I can't
do anything else I can ride, and he is pinning his chance of winning on
me. Am I therefore to disappoint him because the old goody-goodies in
the township disapprove of horse-racing?'
'Jim, that isn't the right way to look at it.'
'Isn't it? Well, it's the way I've got to look at it anyhow, and, as far
as I can see, there's no other. Only, I'll give you one bit of advice,
don't let any of the people hereabouts come preaching to me, or they'll
find I'm not in the humour for it.'
Sheilah was quiet for a little while. Then she said very sorrowfully,—
'This man's coming into the township will prove to have been the
beginning of trouble for all of us. Jim, mark my words; your decision
will some day recoil upon those you love best.'
This was not at all what I expected from Sheilah, so like a fool I lost
my temper.
'What nonsense you talk,' I cried. 'At any rate, if it does it will do
us good. We want a bit of waking up, or I'm mistaken.'
'Oh, Jim, Jim,' she said, 'if only I could persuade you to give this
notion up.'
'It's not to be thought of, Sheilah,' I answered, 'so say no more about
it. One thing I know, however, and that is, if all the rest turn against
me, you will not.'
'I shall never turn against you, Jim. And you know that.'
'Well, then, that's all right. I don't care a scrap about the rest.'
'But does it never strike you, Jim, that in thus following your own
inclinations you are being very cruel to those who love you best in the
world.'
'Those who love me best in the world,' I repeated mockingly. 'Pray how
many may there be of them?'
'More than you seem to think,' she answered reproachfully. 'If only you
were not so headstrong and proud, you would soon discover that you have
in reality lots of friends—even among those whom you affect to despise.
Some day you may find this out. God grant it may not then be too late.'
How true her words were destined to prove you will see for yourself.
Surely enough the time was to come, the bitterest time of all my life,
when I should see for myself in what estimation I was held by the people
of the township. Strange are the ways of Providence, for then it was I
discovered that my best friends were not those who had been my
companions in prosperity, and whom I had every right to think would
stand by me through evil and good report—but the very people whom I had
been accustomed to call old fossils and by a hundred other and similar
terms of reproach. However, I was not going to give in that Sheilah was
right.
'Too late or not too late,' I answered, 'I must go my own way, Sheilah.
If it turns out that I'm wrong, I shall have to suffer for my folly. If
I'm beaten, you may be sure I sha'n't cry out. I'll take my punishment
like a man, never fear. I'll not ask anyone to share my punishment.'
She gave a little sigh.
'No, you're not asking us to share your punishment,' she replied.
'Nevertheless we must do so. Can you not think and see for yourself what
it must mean to those who are your friends and have your welfare most
at heart, to see you so blindly thrusting your head into the trap that
is so cunningly set for you by the arch enemy of all mankind?'
'How do you know it is a trap?' I cried. 'Why will you always make
such mountains out of molehills, Sheilah? If, as you say, Pete is my
enemy, which, mind you, I do not for a single moment admit, he cannot do
me very much harm. I may lose a little money to him at cards, but I
shall soon be able to pay him back. I may ride his horse for him at the
township races and offend some of the strait-laced goody-goody folk by
so doing—but their censure will break no bones, and in a few weeks they
will have forgotten it and be much the same to me as ever. It is not as
if I were going to continue race riding all my life, because I do it
this once. I may never ride another. Indeed, I'll even go so far as to
give you my promise to that effect if you wish it.'
'You will make me very happy if you will.'
'Then I'll do so,' I answered. 'From this moment I promise you that,
without your permission, I will never ride another horse in a race.
There! Are you satisfied now?'
'I am much happier. I thank you, Jim, from the bottom of my heart. For
I know you well enough to be sure that if you have once given your word
you will stick to it. God bless you.'
'God bless you, Sheilah. And now I must be off. Good-bye.'
'Good-bye.'
I jumped on to my horse, and, waving my hand to her, went back up the
track to the township with a strange foreboding in my heart that her
prophecy would some day be realised.
