Stingaree did not often change his mind at the last moment, but he knew the man on whose generosity he was about to throw himself, which was to know further that that generosity would be curbed by judgment, and to reflect that he was least likely to be deprived of a horse whose whereabouts was known only to himself. There was but one lighted room when he eventually stole upon the house; it had a veranda to itself; and in the bright frame of the French windows, which stood open, sat the Bishop with his Bible on his knees.
“Yes, I know you,” said he, putting his marker in the place as Stingaree entered, boots in one hand and something else in the other. “I thought we should meet again. Do you mind putting that thing back in your pocket?”
“Will you promise not to call a soul?”
“Oh, dear, yes.”
“You weren’t expecting me, were you?” cried Stingaree, suspiciously.
“I’ve been expecting you for months,” returned the Bishop. “You knew my address, but I hadn’t yours. We were bound to meet again.”
Stingaree smiled as he took his revolver by the barrel and carried it across the room to Dr. Methuen.
“What’s that for? I don’t want it; put it in your own pocket. At least I can trust you not to take my life in cold blood.”
The Bishop seemed nettled and annoyed. Stingaree loved him.
“I don’t come to take anything, much less life,” he said. “I come to save it; if it is not too late.”
“To save life—here?”
“In your house.”
“But whom do you know of my household?”
“Mrs. Melvin. I have had the honor of meeting her twice, though each time she was unaware of the dishonor of meeting me. The last time I promised to try to save her unhappy son from himself. I found him waiting to waylay the coach, told him who I was, and had ten minutes to try to cure him in. He wouldn’t listen to reason; insult ran like water off his back. I did my best to show him what a life it was he longed to lead, and how much more there was in it than a loaded revolver. He wouldn’t take my word for it, however, so I put him out of harm’s way, up in a tree; and when the coach came along I gave him as brutal an exhibition of the art of bushranging as I could without spilling blood. I promise you it was for no other reason. What did I want with watches? What were a few pounds to me? I dropped the lot that the lad might know.”
The Bishop started to his gaitered legs.
“And he’s actually innocent all the time?”
“Of the deed, as the babe unborn.”
“Then why in the wide world—”
Dr. Methuen stood beggared of further speech. His mind was too plain and sane for immediate understanding of such a type as Oswald Melvin. But the bushranger hit off that young man’s character in half-a-dozen trenchant phrases.
“He must be let out, and it may save his mother’s life; but if he were mine,” exclaimed the Bishop, “I would rather he had done the other deed! But what about you?” he added, suddenly, his eyes resting on his sardonic visitor, who had disguised himself far less than his horse. “It will mean giving yourself up.”
“No. You know me. You can spread what I’ve told you.”
The Bishop shifted uneasily on his hearth-rug.
“I may not see my way to that,” said he. “Besides, you must have run a lot of risks to do this good action; how do you know you haven’t been recognized already? I should have known you anywhere.”
“But you have undertaken not to raise an alarm, my lord.”
“I shall not break my promise.”
There was a grim regret in the Bishop’s voice. Stingaree thought he understood it.
“Thank you,” he said.
“Don’t thank me, pray!” Dr. Methuen could be quite testy on occasion. “I have other duties than to you, you know, and I only answer for my actions during the actual period of our interview. There are many things I should like to say to you, my brother,” a gentler voice went on, “but this is hardly the time for me to say them. But there is one question I should like to ask you for the peace of both our souls, and for the maintenance of my own belief in human nature.” He threw up an episcopal hand dramatically. “If you earnestly and honestly wished to save this poor lady’s life, and there were no other way, would you then be man enough to give yourself up—to give your liberty for her life?”
Stingaree took time to think. His eyes were brightly fixed upon the Bishop’s. Yet they saw a little bedroom just as plain, an English lady standing by the empty bed, and at its foot a portrait of himself armed to the teeth.
“For hers?” said he. “Yes, like a shot!”
“I’m thankful to hear it,” replied the Bishop, with most fervent relief. “I only wish you could have the opportunity. But now you never will. My brother, if you look round, you will see why!”
Stingaree looked round without a word. In the Bishop’s eyes at the last instant he had learned what to expect. A firing-party of four stocking-soled constables were drawn across the opened French windows, their levelled rifles poking through.
The bushranger looked over his shoulder with a bitter smile. “You’ve done me, after all!” said he, and stretched out empty hands.
“It was done before I saw you,” the Bishop made answer. “I had already sent for the police.”
One had entered excitedly by an inner door.
“And he didn’t do you at all!” cried the voice of high hysteria. “It was I who saw you—it was I who guessed who it was! Oh, father, why have you been talking so long to such a dreadful man? I made sure he would shoot you, and you’d still be shot if they had to shoot him! Move—move—move!”
Stingaree looked at the strong-minded girl, shrill with her triumph, quite carried away by her excitement, all undaunted by the prospect of bloodshed before her eyes. And it was he who moved, with but a shrug of the shoulders, and gave himself up without another sign.
THE MOTH AND THE STAR
I
Darlinghurst Jail had never immured a more interesting prisoner than the back-block bandit who was tried and convicted under the strange style and title which he had made his own. Not even in prison was his real name ever known, and the wild speculations of some imaginative officials were nothing else up to the end. There was enough color in their wildness, however, to crown the convict with a certain halo of romance, which his behavior in jail did nothing to dispel. That, of course, was exemplary, since Stingaree had never been a fool; but it was something more and rarer. Not content simply to follow the line of least resistance, he exhibited from the first a spirit and a philosophy unique indeed beneath the broad arrow. And so far from decreasing with the years of his captivity, these attractive qualities won him friend after friend among the officials, and privilege upon privilege at their hands, while amply justifying the romantic interest in his case.
At last there came to Sydney a person more capable of an acute appreciation of the heroic villain than his most ardent admirer on the spot. Lucius Brady was a long-haired Irishman of letters, bard and bookworm, rebel and reviewer; in his ample leisure he was also the most enthusiastic criminologist in London. And as President of an exceedingly esoteric Society for the Cultivation of Criminals, even from London did he come for a prearranged series of interviews with the last and the most distinguished of all the bushrangers.
It was to Lucius Brady, his biographer to be, that Stingaree confided the data of all the misdeeds recounted in these pages; but of his life during the quiet intervals, of his relations with confederates, and his more honest dealings with honest folk (of which many a pretty tale was rife), he was not to be persuaded to speak without an irritating reserve.
“Keep to my points of contact with the world, about which something is known already, and you shall have the whole truth of each matter,” said the convict. “But I don’t intend to give away the altogether unknown, and I doubt if it would interest you if I did. The most interesting thing to me has been the different types with whom I have had what it pleases you
to term professional relations, and the very different ways in which they have taken me. You read character by flashlight along the barrel of your revolver. What you should do is to hunt up my various victims and get at their point of view; you really mustn’t press me to hark back to mine. As it is you bring a whiff of the outer world which makes me bruise my wings against the bars.”
The criminologist gloated over such speeches from such lips. It would have touched another to note what an irresistible fascination the bars had for the wings, despite all pain; but Lucius Brady’s interest in Stingaree was exclusively intellectual. His heart never ached for a roving spirit in confinement; it did not occur to him to suppress a detail of his own days in Sydney, down to the attractions of an Italian restaurant he had discovered near the jail, the flavor of the Chianti and so forth. On the contrary, it was most interesting to note the play of features in the tortured man, who after all brought his torture on himself by asking so many questions. Soon, when his visitor left him, the bondman could follow the free in all but the flesh, through every corridor of the prison and every street outside, to the hotel where you read the English papers on the veranda, or to the little restaurant where the Chianti was corked with oil which the waiter removed with a wisp of tow.
One day, late in the afternoon, as Lucius Brady was beaming on him through his spectacles, and indulging in an incisive criticism on the champagne at Government House, Stingaree quietly garroted him. A gag was in all readiness, likewise strips of coarse sheeting torn up for the purpose in the night. Black in the face, but with breath still in his body, the criminologist was carefully gagged and tied down to the bedstead, while his living image (at a casual glance) strolled with bent head, black sombrero, spectacles and frock-coat, first through the cold corridors and presently along the streets.
The heat of the pavement striking to his soles was the first of a hundred exquisite sensations; but Stingaree did not permit himself to savor one of them. Indeed, he had his work cut out to check the pace his heart dictated; and it was by admirable exercise of the will that he wandered along, deep to all appearance in a Camelot Classic which he had found in the criminologist’s pocket; in reality blinded by the glasses, but all the more vigilant out of the corners of his eyes.
A suburb was the scene of these perambulations; had he but dared to lift his face, Stingaree might have caught a glimpse of the bluest of blue water; and his prison eyes hungered for the sight, but he would not raise his eyes so long as footsteps sounded on the same pavement. By taking judicious turnings, however, he drifted into a quiet road, with gray suburban bungalows on one side and building lots on the other. No step approached. He could look up at last. And the very bungalow that he was passing was shut up, yet furnished; the people had merely gone away, servants and all; he saw it at a glance from the newspapers plastering the windows which caught the sun. In an instant he was in the garden, and in another he had forced a side gate leading by an alley to backyard and kitchen door; but for many minutes he went no further than this gate, behind which he cowered, prepared with excuses in case he had already been observed.
It was in this interval that Stingaree recalled the season with a thrill; for it was Christmas week, and without a doubt the house would be empty till the New Year. Here was one port for the storm that must follow his escape. And a very pleasant port he found it on entering, after due precautionary delay.
Clearly the abode of young married people, the bungalow was fitted and furnished with a taste which appealed almost painfully to Stingaree; the drawing-room was draped in sheets, but the walls carried a few good engravings, some of which he remembered with a stab. It was the dressing-room, however, that he wanted, and the dressing-room made him rub his hands. The dainty establishment had no more luxurious corner, what with the fitted bath, circular shaving-glass, packed trouser-press, a row of boots on trees, and a fine old wardrobe full of hanging coats. Stingaree began by selecting his suit; and it may have been his vanity, or a strange longing to look for once what he once had been, but he could not resist the young man’s excellent evening clothes.
“This fellow comes from Home,” said he. “And they are spending their Christmas pretty far back, or he would have taken these with him.”
He had wallowed in the highly enamelled bath, and was looking for a towel when he saw his head in the shaving-glass; he was dry enough before he could think of anything else. There was a dilemma, obvious yet unforeseen. That shaven head! Purple and fine linen could not disguise the convict’s crop; a wig was the only hope; but to wear a wig one must first try it on—and let the perruquier call the police. The knot was Gordian. And yet, desperately as Stingaree sought unravelment, he was at the same time subconsciously as deep in a study of a face so unfamiliar that at first he had scarcely known it for his own. It was far leaner than of old; it was no longer richly tanned; and the mouth called louder than ever for a mustache. The hair, what there was of it, seemed iron-gray. It had certainly receded at the temples. What a pity, while it was about it—
Stingaree clapped his hands; his hunt for the razor was feverish, tremulous. Such a young man must have many razors; he had, he had—here they were. Oh, young man blessed among young men!
It was quite dark when a gentleman in evening clothes, light overcoat, and opera hat, sallied forth into the quiet road. Quiet as it was, however, a whistle blew as he trod the pavement, and his hour or two of liberty seemed at an end. His long term in prison had mixed Stingaree’s ideas of the old country and the new; he had forgotten that it is the postmen who blow the whistles in Australia. Yet this postman stopped him on the spot.
“Beg your pardon, sir, but if it’s quite convenient may I ask you for the Christmas-box you was kind enough to promise me?”
“I think you are mistaking me for someone else,” said Stingaree.
“Why, so I am, sir! I thought you came out of Mr. Brinton’s house.”
“Sorry to disappoint you,” said the convict. “If I only had change you should have some of it, in spite of your mistake; but, unfortunately, I have none.”
He had, however, a handsome pair of opera-glasses, which he converted into change (on the gratuitous plea that he had forgotten his purse) at the first pawnbroker’s on the confines of the city. The pawnbroker talked Greek to him at once.
“It’s a pity you won’t be able to see ’er, sir, as well as ’ear ’er,” said he.
“Perhaps they have them on hire in the theatre,” replied Stingaree at a venture. The pawnbroker’s face instantly advised him that his observation was wide of the obscure mark.
“The theatre! You won’t ’ear ’er at any theatre in Sydney, nor yet in the Southern ’Emisphere. Town ’Alls is the only lay for ’Ilda Bouverie out ’ere!”
At first the name conveyed nothing to Stingaree. Yet it was not wholly unfamiliar.
“Of course,” said he. “The Town Hall I meant.”
The pawnbroker leered as he put down a sovereign and a shilling.
“What a season she’s ’aving, sir!”
“Ah! What a season!”
And Stingaree wagged his opera-hatted head.
“’Undreds of pounds’ worth of flowers flung on to every platform, and not a dry eye in the place!”
“I know,” said the feeling Stingaree.
“It’s wonderful to think of this ’ere Colony prodoocin’ the world’s best primer donner!”
“It is, indeed.”
“When you think of ’er start.”
“That’s true.”
The pawnbroker leant across his counter and leered more than ever in his customer’s face.
“They say she ain’t no better than she ought to be!”
“Really?”
“It’s right, too; but what can you expect of a primer donner whose fortune was made by a blood-thirsty bushranger like that there Stingaree?”
“You little scurrilous wretch!” cried the bushranger, and flung out of the shop that second.
It was a miracle.
He remembered everything now. Then he had done the world a service as well as the woman! He gave thanks for the guinea in his pocket, and asked his way to the Town Hall. And as he marched down the middle of the lighted streets the first flock of newsboys came flying in his face.
“Escape of Stingaree! Escape of Stingaree! Cowardly Outrage on Famous Author! Escape of Stingaree!!”
The damp pink papers were in the hands of the overflow crowd outside the hall; his own name was already in every mouth, continually coupled with that of the world-renowned Hilda Bouverie. It did not deter the convict from elbowing his way through the mass that gloated over his deed exactly as they would have gloated over his destruction on the gallows. “I have my ticket; I have been detained,” he told the police; and at the last line of defence he whispered, “A guinea for standing-room!” And the guinea got it.
It was the interval between parts one and two. He thought of that other interval, when he had made such a different entry at the same juncture; the other concert-room would have gone some fifty times into this. All at once fell a hush, and then a rising thunder of applause, and some one requested Stingaree to remove his hat; he did so, and a cold creeping of the shaven flesh reminded him of his general position and of this particular peril. But no one took any notice of him or of his head. And it was not Hilda Bouverie this time; it was a pianiste in violent magenta and elaborate lace, whose performance also was loud and embroidered. Followed a beautiful young barytone whom Miss Bouverie had brought from London in her pocket for the tour. He sang three little songs very charmingly indeed; but there was no encore. The gods were burning for their own; perfunctory plaudits died to a dramatic pause.
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