Читать книгу The Black Police - A. J. Vogan - Страница 4

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“No more by thee my steps shall be

For ever and for ever.”

N a long, ceilingless room, half kitchen and half parlour, two figures are seated near an enormous fireplace, in which a glowing heap of wood ashes illuminates that end of the otherwise somewhat gloomy chamber. One figure, that of an elderly lady, is reclining in an easy chair. Her brain is evidently busy with anxious and even painful thoughts, the object of which is made evident as she turns her moist eyes, from gazing at the scintillating wonderland amongst the embers, to glance from time to time at the form opposite to her.

The lady’s vis-à-vis at the fireside is a well-built, athletic young man, to whom we have already been introduced. In the rough garments of a working farmer, he lies sleeping there in his chair just as he came in from ploughing twenty minutes before.

The sleepy god, however, has apparently less power over the youth’s brain than his body. The twitching mouth and hands, the murmured words, show that the anima is busy, if the body is not. The sudden barking of a sharp-voiced collie outside the house presently causes the sleeper to open his eyes. They turn immediately to meet the smile of the lady opposite.

“Well, you have not had a very good sleep after all, Claude,” murmured the latter. “I think Dick is back. It was Bob’s barking awakened you.”

“Ah,” returned the still dozy young man, “that’s all right. The old chap’s rather late, isn’t he? D’you know,” he added slowly, “I’ve been dreaming about my trip to Queensland.” Here Claude rose, and, taking both the lady’s hands in his, continued, “I’ve made up my mind, mother, to run over to Queensland, and find out the particulars of Uncle Sam’s death. I’m not superstitious, but I’m sure there’s something odd about it. I’ve dreamed a dozen times since we saw that horrible telegram in the paper that poor uncle was calling me to come to him.”

“Nonsense, my boy, nonsense,” gently returned the lady, “you know we can’t spare you. It’s right you should wish to go, Claude, but we can’t spare you. It’s a fearful place, that Queensland.”

“Oh you! Mollie wouldn’t be alone. Would you, Mollie?” Claude remarked in a louder voice, as a pretty young girl tripped into the room, bearing a lighted lamp in her hands.

“Don’t be silly, Claude,” answered the fair one, smoothing down a spotless white cloth upon a table standing in the centre of the room. “Dick is back, and he’ll be so famished. Do run away and get ready for tea.”

“Oh, of course, it’s Dick is hungry now,” laughed the young man; “your poor brother is second fiddle in the domestic orchestra since the arrival of the young Irishman.” As one door bangs with the exit of the last speaker, another leading on to the verandah opens and quickly closes, showing in the interval a brief picture of fiery sunset behind dark fir-trees. A fresh figure is in the room. It is that of a jolly-looking individual, whose plan of construction, so to speak, is more inclined to squareness than height. The younger of the two women is soon helping the new-comer to empty his pockets and shoulder-bag of letters and papers, chattering all the time. “Oh, Dick, haven’t you got a letter for me?”

“Nary a one, ducky; but I’ve got an important one for Claude. D’you know, Mrs. Angland, it’s from the Queensland police. They sent it here to Inspector Goode, and he gave it to me just before I left town. Maybe now it’s something about poor Dr. Dyesart.” Here Claude re-enters the room.

“Well, old man, glad you’re back safe. How did the mare go? She was bound to be a bit skittish after the long spell she’s had. I hope you’ve had her shod? Have you any news of the Doctor?”

“Taihoa (wait a bit), old chap,” interrupts Dick, with his fingers to his ears to illustrate histrionically the pain such rapid questioning is giving him. “Why, Claude, you’re getting as bad as your sister. Here’s a letter for you, which you needn’t apologise for opening at tea. I myself beg to move that we do now partake of what our black brethren here call ‘kai,’ alias ‘tucker.’”

The little circle now gathered round the white-clothed table consists of an English lady, her son and daughter, and a friend,—a young man from northern Ireland. They had left the old country together, some four years before the time when our story opens, to settle upon a farm in New Zealand.

The youth from the Emerald Isle had, some time before leaving his native land, determined in his own mind that as long as he could settle down close to his friend Claude’s pretty sister, he would remain perfectly contented anywhere. Our friends had not been “out” long enough to feel homesick; the many novelties of life in a new country had not yet lost their charms. The rough life was almost like one long picnic. The lovely climate made up for many hardships; and if it would rain a little less at times, and if a market could be depended upon for fowls when fattened and cheese when made, the life of a New Zealand farmer was one, they all agreed, to be envied.

Claude, to the surprise of his mother, quietly finished his tea before opening the letter. There it lay by his plate in tantalising proximity to her hand, containing, perhaps, news of that poor brother of hers,—long estranged from all his family through no real fault of his or hers, to wander in a barbarous country, and die at last in the wilderness he had braved so long. Tea is cleared away, Dick and Mollie go out into the verandah,—to look at the stars probably,—and in the room the purring of the “harmless necessary cat” upon the hearthrug, and the click click of Mrs. Angland’s knitting needles, are the only sounds. Claude has taken a seat at the lamplit table, and lays the envelope, marked O. H. M. S., and bearing the Queensland postmark, before him upon the red cloth.

He feels instinctively his uncle’s presence in that letter. There is no particular sign by which an ordinary observer could tell it from a letter of ordinary importance. Yet Claude knows, and it puzzles him to think how he knows it, that an answer to his dreams is before him. The truth of the theory of animism never appeared clearer to him than at present. The envelope is addressed to Claude Angland, Care of the Superintendent of Police, Auckland, N.Z. Below this direction is a note to the effect that the writer will be glad if the aforesaid Claude Angland can be found without delay, and handed the enclosed letter and packet. Inside the envelope is a brief note from some official at Cairns, informing Claude that a small packet, enclosed, having been brought to the station of a Mr. Giles by the late explorer’s black boy, that gentleman had forwarded it to the writer, who took the present means of sending it to Mr. Angland, hoping the simple address, as copied from the packet, would find him. A few words expressive of the regret the writer, in common with all colonists, felt at the loss of such an able explorer as Dr. Dyesart closed the letter.

The packet referred to by the unknown correspondent at Cairns, whose hieroglyphic signature looked more like the shadow of a delirious spider than the name of a human being, now attracted Claude’s attention. It was about the size of a large walnut, and its outer covering consisted of a piece of soiled linen rag, tightly bound with fine fishing line. In irregular and almost illegible blue-black characters, the same address as that upon the envelope had been scrawled upon it by aid of an indelible ink pencil. The covering removed,—Claude saw at once it had at one time formed part of the lining of a coat,—an empty revolver cartridge was discovered, tightly plugged at one end with wood, the joints and cap-end being smeared over with a kind of resinous, dark-coloured gum.

Claude’s strong but trembling fingers are not long in removing the wooden stopper, and in his hands is a carefully folded piece of paper, which he recognizes on opening it as a leaf from a sketching block. The same handwriting that had attracted the young man’s attention upon the linen wrapper of the packet has covered one side of the opened paper before him.

With head on hand, Claude sits without moving aught save his eyes, poring over the letters. At last, half turning in his chair, his voice pitched in a slightly higher key than usual, he speaks:—

“Mother, here is my summons. I knew I should get one. Come and see poor uncle’s letter.”

Mrs. Angland rises quickly, and stooping over the table, her right hand on her son’s broad shoulder, gazes with filling eyes at the well-known writing on that crumpled paper lying there. The writing is small and somewhat obliterated, and from the varying character and style of the different sentences the same have evidently been written at intervals. One could easily imagine that a wounded man, who required to rest often from his task, would write such a letter.

“Read it to me, my son, I cannot.”

He reads as follows:—

“To my nephew, Claude Angland, of Auckland, New Zealand.

“I am dying before my work is completed. It rests with you to allow me to rest in peace after my death. I wish to make reparation to those I have neglected too long. I have tried to bury the past in science and in work. Your mother will explain all to you at the proper time. Come to where I now lie. You can trust Billy, whom you will remember with me in England. I believe he will get out of this. Come here alone with him, and at once. Good-bye to all. I hope you keep up your chemistry. Beware of squatters and police. This note will be hard to read, but read the whole of it.

“Samuel D. Dyesart.”

“What does he mean?” muses Claude out loud, after a pause,—inadvertently speaking as if the writer was still alive, so difficult was it to believe that the hand that had guided the pencil that traced those shaky letters was fast turning into its original dust.

Mrs. Angland comes of a practical stock, and sees the letter only as it is.

“I suppose, poor fellow,” she says, speaking slowly and softly, “he liked to think that some one he had loved in life would visit his lonely grave out there in those fearful wastes. He was very fond of you, Claude, even from the time he first saw you, a mere baby. But don’t go, Claude,” she adds beseechingly; “that horrible Queensland that has cost me a brother shall not take my son.”

“Mother,” interrupts Claude at this point, “you don’t understand what I mean. Let me read the letter to you again.” The letter is re-read. Presently Mrs. Angland breaks the silence.

“Perhaps he wants you to finish his work—his horrid exploring. God forgive me if I am wicked when I think it was wrong of your uncle to tempt you away from me. But perhaps he was wandering in his mind rather. Poor fellow, what he must have suffered! How odd of him to think of your chemistry. ‘I hope you keep up your chemistry,’” quoting from the letter. “Fancy his thinking of that when so near death.”

Claude is listening in silence; but when Mrs. Angland speaks of his uncle’s mention of chemistry, he rises quickly, and, seizing the letter, holds it to the light, and then proceeds to carefully examine the remainder of the packet, including the cartridge case, etc. He is rewarded by finding the single word that heads this chapter scratched upon the tarnished brass of the latter. “Hidden,” he murmurs, for luckily he knew a little Greek. “Hidden, what is hidden?” and falls to poring over the letter once more.