“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?”