Yet neither the bride nor her abductor was traced. The great heart of Australia had swallowed them utterly. Weeks became months, and months became a year. It was three o’clock in the morning of the first of July in the following year that the licensee of the hotel at Louth heard horses’ hoofs outside his bedroom window. A minute later his front door was thumped by a human fist. Partially dressed, he took a hurricane-lamp and went to open the door. On unbolting, he heard again the sound of horses’ hoofs passing along the road. Mystified, he opened his door and, holding aloft his lamp, saw a figure crouched on the low veranda without. The figure was bowed, and from it came sobs. And when he lowered the lamp and gently raised the bowed head, he looked into the face of Mrs Thomas, nee Green.
“Return of the Stolen Bride” was the star attraction of the papers for weeks. Yet beyond the headings there was but little news, for Mrs Thomas resolutely declined to say one word of what had befallen her during the twelve months. It was she who insisted that the warrant for the arrest of North should be withdrawn. It was she who told a sergeant of police to stop worrying her with fool questions and to mind his own blank business. It was she who went to Thomas Thomas and informed him that since he was her husband it was his duty to support her.
Apparently Thomas accepted the responsibility, for the “Stolen Bride” lived with him until his death, fifteen years later. He left her some four thousand pounds, and nine thousand in trust for their son, aged twelve years. The seasons being good, the selection was sold for a further two thousand five hundred, and Mrs Thomas then migrated to Sydney, where she went into the hotel business. She had prospered, and at the time of her coming to Windee was the licensee of a popular sportsmen’s hotel in George Street.
A remarkable woman, Bony considered her. A strong woman, for never a word had escaped her regarding that year’s sojourn with North in Central Australia.
At that time North would be about twenty-three years old. He was an active man, a good horseman, abstemious in his habits, and careful of his money. He was of medium height, with grey eyes and black hair. Stanton was of medium height, and his eyes were grey. Marion Stanton’s hair was black.
Was Stanton Joseph North? If so, had the business that had brought Green, alias Marks, to Windee something to do with the abduction of the bride forty years before? It seemed feasible that the brother had come to Windee to execute some scheme, and, since he had failed and disappeared, the sister had come to make inquiries. The future appeared pregnant with drama. The tangled skein was even more hopelessly entangled by Fate.
Bony waited expectantly for something to happen. In Time’s cupboard lay a skeleton than only Time would bring to light. Bony went on working at his sheep-yards, assisted by the cheerful Jack Withers. Yet nothing happened. Mrs Thomas apparently settled herself for a prolonged stay, yet, when Bony was beginning to think that she had become a fixture at Windee, she suddenly departed, being driven into Mount Lion in Mr Bumpus’s car, which she had bespoken by telephone.
The perplexed Bony still waited patiently.
Chapter Thirty
Reconciliation
IT SO HAPPENED on the day after the departure of Mrs Thomas that Jack Withers, feeling unwell, did not accompany the half-caste to their daily work. On most days the two men rode to and from their work, but the day Bony worked alone he walked and carried his noonday lunch with him.
Throughout the day his mind was continuously revolving the visit made by Mrs Thomas and the mystery that lay behind her departure in a hired car. It wanted but two days to Christmas, and it was peculiar, if Mrs Thomas was a welcome guest, that she should not have stayed over the holidays.
At half-past four, when he ceased his labours, after rolling a cigarette he picked up his billy-can and lunch-bag and started his mile-long walk to the homestead. It had been a windless day, and hot. Widely separated, deep thunderclouds lay almost motionless in the sky like aerial icebergs. Birds were stirring from their daylong drowse, and a party of crows settled about the place where Bony had eaten his lunch.
Pensively smoking, he walked along a bank of the dry creek, welcoming the shade cast by the box-trees and trying to decide whether he would wait longer for Time to aid him or whether he would act without Time’s aid. His investigations had reached a point where they might be materially forwarded if he stirred up the human factor by ordering the arrest of Dot and Dash, or even by ordering the detention of Mrs Thomas. Something, certainly, should follow either step.
He walked with his head bent, his eyes noting sub-consciously the tracks of animals and insects which he crossed. He failed to see Marion Stanton riding Grey Cloud, and, because her mind was occupied with Mrs Thomas, she failed to notice him until they were so close that, when recognition was mutual, Bony swept off his hat and she reined in her magnificent steed. It was a meeting for which Bony had long hoped, and he said gravely:
“Good afternoon, Miss Stanton.”
Instead of replying, Marion regarded him steadily for several moments. In her eyes Bony saw the temptation to ride away without uttering a word, and he recognized that here was the opportunity to discover the reason of her displeasure.
“I fear that in some way I have offended you,” he told her un-smilingly. “If I have done so it has been done unwittingly, I earnestly assure you. Perhaps I could explain.”
“I am not sure that I would be interested in an explanation,” came the coolly spoken reply. He was struck by the immobility of her face, the different shade of beauty her displeasure created. The eyebrows now were straight and the eyes shone with the ice-cold gleam of—sapphires. She saw how easily he stood, with deference but without servility. She saw, too, a very faint hint of amusement in his dark eyes which aroused at once her antagonism. Seated still on the immovable grey gelding, she said sharply:
“You remember, do you not, that once you told me of your wife and your boys in Queensland?”
Bony nodded.
“You described to me what a wonderful woman is your wife, and how proud you both are of your sons. You interested me in them, and also you interested me in yourself and in your philosophy. You led me to think that you possessed the instincts as well as the education of a gentleman. Explain, therefore, why you made love to a gin named Runta!”
The surprise of the accusation figuratively stunned Bony. Having made up his mind that her coldness was the effect of suspicion that he was connected in some way with the police, the real cause was so unexpected that he wanted badly to sigh with relief. Nevertheless, he could not render the true explanation. Without the slightest hesitation he invented an explanation which possessed, at least, the saving grace of a grain of truth.
“Possibly my making love to Runta is inexcusable, Miss Stanton. Yet I remember that even worse sins have been committed by scientists in search of truth. Before the blacks returned from their walkabout, I discovered one evening a low hill of ironstone near the creek below the homestead. The top of the hillock is flat, and I saw that it had been used for centuries by the blacks in connection with some mystic ritual.
“I have always been interested in the aboriginals, their folklore, ceremonials, and ways of life, and intend to write a book when I have sufficient data. As you know, I am a stranger to the blacks here. Being a half-caste, I am looked down on by the blacks, just just as a half-caste is looked down on by white people. Moongalliti and the members of his tribe at first regarded me with suspicion, and, in order to gain their confidence, I made harmless love to Runta, knowing that she was not matrimonially attached at the time.”
“Even so, I can see no excuse for such conduct. What is worse, Bony, is the manner in which you drove her away.”
Now Bony did sigh audibly. He tried hard not to smile, and she saw it.
“Unfortunately Runta became very serious,” he said. “I am inclined to think that equally with me she loved my peach pies and toffee.”
“What would your wife say if she knew—knew of your scientific zeal?” Marion aske
d less coldly.
“No man is a hero in shining armour to his wife. My wife knows her husband very thoroughly. In her last letter to me she said so. At my request she sent me a very resplendent dress for Runta.”
“You told her?”
“Believing that Runta is entitled to compensation, I asked Marie to send me a present for her. It arrived two days ago. I took a peep at it. The background is Chinese yellow and there are large purple spots all over it. I am assured that it is an extra out-size, so it should …”
He broke off to listen to the most delicious laughter he had ever heard. The girl’s head was thrown back and her eyes became half closed. Bony’s face became lit, too, with the ecstasy her beauty created in him, and she saw it and felt glad because of it, and slipped from her horse to stand in front of him.
“Bony, you’re the most extraordinary man I have ever met!” she said, laughter still in her voice. “The two gins helping Mrs Poulton told her about your love affair, and I thought it was one of the common sordid cases. I was disappointed in you, and now I am glad it was so harmless after all. I am glad for another reason. I have been wanting to ask your advice. Would you give it?”
“To do so would make me a very proud man.”
“Then let us walk on home.”
Together they turned towards Windee, she with the horse’s reins slipped over her arm, he carrying the blackened billy-can, the horse following softly. For nearly a minute Marion did not speak. Then:
“You were on the truck when Ron brought Mrs Thomas to Windee, weren’t you?”
“Yes. I first saw her in Mr Bumpus’s bar.”
“What did you think of her?”
“I considered that she was a remarkable character.”
“She drinks—horribly.”
“So I observed, and so I was emphatically informed by Mr Bumpus.”
“Did she say why she was coming to Windee?”
“No, but I understood she was seeking employment.”
“It was not that at all,” the girl said sadly. “I wish it had been. I wish I knew. To me she is an utter stranger, yet she knew Father years ago, and taunted him in a veiled sort of way about something which had occurred. She frightened Father. She’s made him positively ill. And the other night when she was drunk—drunk, mind you—she accused father of murdering that man Marks who got lost in the bush four months ago.”
“Mrs Thomas’s departure must be a relief to you,” Bony said softly and reflectively.
“In a way, yes; but Father is still suffering from her beastly accusations and the secret of the past which has so suddenly been flung in his face. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how I can help him. Would it be wise to urge him to share that secret with me?”
“Most certainly it would,” assented Bony. “If it were but a youthful folly, the sharing will lighten the load. Do you know why Mrs Thomas left so hurriedly?”
“No, Bony, I do not. She and Father had a terrible row the other night. They were in the dining-room with the door shut. Mrs Poulton and I were on the veranda. We could hear the squeak of her voice and then Father’s roar when he shouted, ‘I won’t!’ many times. But—but, Bony, there was despair in his voice.”
“As though, in spite of what he said, he knew he would have to give in to her wishes or demands?”
“Yes—like that.”
For a little while they walked in silence, a silence broken by the girl, who exclaimed: “And I was looking forward to such a happy Christmas. The Fosters are coming, and Father Ryan. Dot and Dash are coming in, and Father is giving all the men a Christmas Dinner.”
The next day was Christmas Eve, and the fact that Dot and Dash were coming into Windee occupied Bony’s mind equally with the fact that Mrs Thomas was making demands on Jeff Stanton. It was almost proof that Jeff Stanton was Joseph North. Was she blackmailing? Did she know something about Marks’s death? It appeared so. Or was the urgency of the demands based on the case of the “Stolen Bride”?
Bony came to believe that the best way to help the girl who had given him her friendship was to force on this Marks case, and the best way to do that was to order the arrest of Dot and Dash. He would settle with Mrs Thomas. Mount Lion was a police-controlled town, Sergeant Morris could order her to move on.
To Marion Bony said in his gentle way: “That cloud up there is black underneath, yet its middle and top are snow-white. In the morning there probably will be no clouds in the sky. Induce your father to confide in you by all means. A shared load is a lightened load.”
And when Marion gazed into Bony’s smiling face she came to believe it.
Chapter Thirty-one
Joseph North
IMMEDIATELY AFTER his dinner Bony wrote a letter to Sergeant Morris in which he ordered the arrest of Dot and Dash on the charge of having murdered Luke Green, alias Marks. Also he gave precise instructions that the arrest was to be made without divulging his connection with it, and that the partners were expected at Windee on the following day, an opportune time and place. This letter he sent per one Warn, a blackfellow who owned a horse as well as a silent tongue.
It was the custom of Jeffrey Stanton to sit on the main veranda of Windee every evening after he had spoken per telephone to his overseer at Nullawil and his riders east of the range. Invariably his chair was placed in one position, which was midway between the drawing-room door and the fine-mesh-wire-screened front of the veranda. There he smoked his eternal cigarette and glanced through the Wool Growers’ Gazette, or leaned back with closed eyes and a strangely softened face whilst Marion played the piano in the room behind him.
It was the only spell of relaxation he permitted himself. Seated alone on the veranda, listening to the piano, the old squatter was an entirely different being from the one who faced the world in his image during the day. Possibly none other than Marion knew of this unsuspected softening, unless it was Bony, who often, when the night was dark, stole through the wicket-gate and drew close to the outside of the wire screen, able to see within, but himself invisible.
At other times he had come to hear Marion play, and share with the Boss of Windee the witchery of her music. The evening he dispatched the order for the arrest of Dot and Dash he entered through the wicket-gate with his usual noiselessness, and with a further object than that of hearing good music.
After his conversation that afternoon with Marion, Bony considered it likely that she would act on his advice and seek the old man’s confidence that evening, selecting the psychological moment after she had been playing for some time.
When he arrived and sat himself down against the edge of the veranda the girl was playing something from Lohengrin. In his then position Bony’s head was above the level of the veranda floor, and he knew from experience of previous visits that no word spoken behind him would be unheard. Now and then he turned and looked in at the squatter revealed in his easy-chair in the subdued light of the scarlet-shaded standard lamp beside him. Beyond, the room where Marion played was more brilliantly lighted. He could see neither her nor the piano, but he knew that presently she would cease playing, come out and pass along the veranda, to return in a few minutes with a small tray containing cups of coffee. And then, whilst she and her father drank from the cups, they would talk of the affairs of the day in rare companionship.
It is to Bony’s credit that previously he never had stayed to eavesdrop on them. Unscrupulous though he was sometimes, ordinary spying was a thing he abhorred, but this night he considered the act excusable if thereby he might learn what lay behind Mrs Thomas’s threats, which so gravely upset Jeff Stanton, and in hardly less measure the woman who had always been kind to him. Once in possession of the facts lying behind the woman’s visit, he deemed it possible to render her in some way innocuous.
Sitting there in the darkness, listening to the piano, and idly watching the soft flicker of lightning in a cloud low on the horizon, he wondered what would follow the execution of his order to Sergeant Morris. When under arr
est, would Dot and Dash confess to the acts he believed them to have committed and implicate the murderer of Marks? Or would they remain grimly silent, admitting only that one of them had found Marks’s money and hidden it, on the principle that finding justifies keeping?
These two men were eminently sane. Bony judged that beneath Dash’s grandiloquence and Dot’s peculiar humour there were tremendous still depths. He rather admired them for it, but he never lost sight of the fact that he was there to bring the murderer of Marks to justice, and the accomplices, before or after the fact, as well.
Of all this was Bony thinking when Marion rose from the piano and came out to the veranda. Jeff Stanton had been leaning back in his chair, his head resting on his clasped hands, his eyes closed. His expression that evening was one of weariness, and for the first time Bony thought he looked much older than his actual age.
“Tired, Dad?” the girl asked gently.
“A little. I’ve had a worrying day,” he replied with a strained smile, adding, as though to emphasize that the cause of the worry was not Mrs Thomas: “Young Jeff is having trouble with a mob of wethers beyond Range Hut. He doesn’t expect to be able to get in for Christmas.”
“Oh, that’s too bad, Father. Couldn’t he be relieved?”
“Yes, he could be, but he was sent out to do the job, and he knows he’s expected to do it. I have been beginning to suspect lately that he is acquiring a liking for booze, and that is why I am giving him plenty to do at a fair distance from temptation. In any case, I think he would be ruffled if he was relieved when his mind was on his job.”
“You are right about that, Dad. It would annoy him. But I know nothing about the booze, and can’t believe it of him. He is not the type.”
Marion left then to bring the coffee, and Bony, with a twinge of conscience, squirmed in his comfortable seat and longed for a cigarette. The ensuing five minutes passed slowly, and he wondered if Warn had by then delivered his letter at the police-station, and whether Sergeant Morris had fallen out of his chair with astonishment. Then Marion returned and, giving the squatter a cup, sat beside him on the arm of his chair and at once opened the battle.
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