An Outback Marriage Part 19

About two miles out of town Considine, with all his earthly belongings in a small valise, stopped the coach and got on board, sitting in front with them.

"Have a look inside," said Charlie. "There's a woman in there looks rather like--the lady you were talking about."

Considine looked in. Then he sank back in his seat, with a white face.

"By Heavens!" he said, "it's my wife."

"This is funny," said Charlie. "Wonder what she's after. She must have heard, somehow. She'll never lose sight of you, now, Considine."

Here the driver struck into the conversation. "See her inside?" he said, indicating the inside pa.s.senger with a nod of his head. "She's off to Sydney, full rip. She reckons her husband's dead, and she's came in for a fortune."

"Oh, she reckons he's dead, does she?" said Charlie carelessly. "Didn't know she had a husband."

"Ho yes," said the driver. "She came up here pa.s.sin' by the name of Keogh, but it seems that ain't her husband's name at all."

"Oh, indeed! Do you happen to have heard what her husband's name is? And when did he die?"

"I never heard the noo husband's name," replied the driver. "Keogh was her name. I dessay if I arst her she'd tell me. Shall I arst her?" "No,"

said Considine firmly. "Don't annoy her at all. Leave well alone, young feller. What odds is it to you how many husbands the poor woman has had?"

"No," said the driver dispa.s.sionately. "It's no odds to me, nor yet to you, I don't suppose. She's in for a real big thing, I believe. A telegram came to the telegraph station after I left last trip, and young Jack Sheehan, he brought it on after me--rode a hundred miles pretty well, to ketch me up. He reckoned she was coming in for a hundred thousand pounds. I wouldn't mind marryin' her meself, if it's true; plenty worse-looking sorts than her about. What do you think, eh, Mister?" addressing Considine.

"Marry her, and be blowed," said that worthy, sociably; and the driver stiffened and refused to talk further on the subject.

Meanwhile the three discussed the matter in low tones. It was practically impossible that anyone could have heard of the ident.i.ty of Keogh with the missing Considine. How then had the story got about that her husband was dead, and that she had come into money? She must have seen Considine get on the coach, but she had made no sign. Their astonishment was deeper than ever when the coach stopped for a midday halt. It was quite impossible for Considine to conceal himself. The house, where the coach changed horses, was a galvanised-iron, one-roomed edifice in the middle of a glaring expanse of treeless plain, in which a quail could scarcely have hidden successfully. It was clear that Considine and his wife would have to come face to face.

Carew and Charlie looked expectantly at each other, and clambered down quickly when the coach stopped. Considine descended more slowly; straightening his figure and looking fixedly before him, he marched up to the door of the change-house.

His wife got leisurely out of the coach, put on her bonnet, and walked straight over to him; then she looked him full in the face for at least three seconds, and pa.s.sed by without a sign of recognition.

The three men looked at each other.

"Well, this bangs all," said Considine. "She knew me all right. Why didn't she speak? She's afraid I'll clear out, and she's shammin' not to know me, so's she'll have me arrested as soon as she sights a bobby. I know her. Perhaps I'd better offer her something to go back and leave me alone, hey?"

This was vetoed by a majority of two to one, and once more the coach started. They plodded away on the weary, dusty journey, until the iron roofs and walls of Barcoo gleamed like a mirage in the distance, and the coach rolled up to the hotel. A telegraph official came lounging forward.

"Anyone here the name of Charles Gordon?" he said.

"That's me," said Charlie.

"Telegram for you," he said. "It's been all over the country after you."

Gordon tore it open, read it, and stood spellbound. Then he silently handed it to Carew. It was several weeks old, and was from Pinnock, the solicitor. It read as follows--"William Grant died suddenly yesterday.

Will made years ago leaves everything to his wife. Reported that he married Margaret Donohoe, and that she is still alive. Am making all inquiries. Wire me anything you know."

Charlie's face never changed a muscle.

"That's lively!" he said. "He never married that woman; and, if he did, she died long ago."

As he spoke, the lady pa.s.senger, having had some talk with the hotel people, came over to him with a beaming smile. "And ye're Charlie Gordon," she said with a mellifluous mixture of brogue and bush-drawl.

"An' ye don't know me now, a little bit? Ye were a little felly when we last met. I'm Peggy Donohoe that was--Peggy Grant now, since I married poor dear Grant that's dead. And, sure, rest his sowl!"--here she sniffed a little--"though he treated me cruel bad, so he did! Ye'll remember me brother Mick--Mick with the red hair?"

"Yes," said Charlie, slowly and deliberately, "I remember him well; and you too. And look here, Peggy Donohoe--or Peggy Keogh, whichever you call yourself--you and Red Mick will have the most uphill fight you ever fought before you get one sixpence of William Grant's money. Why, your real husband is here on the coach with us!"

He turned and pulled Considine forward, and once more husband and wife stood face to face. Considine, alias Keogh, smiled in a sickly way, tried to meet his wife's eyes, and failed altogether. She regarded him with a bold, unwinking stare.

"Him!" she said. "Him me husban'! This old crockerdile? I never seen him before in me life."

A look of hopeless perplexity settled on Considine's features for a moment, and then a ray of intelligence seemed to break in on him. She repeated her statement.

"I never seen this man before in me life. Did I? Speak up, now, and say, did I?"

Considine hesitated for a moment in visible distress. Then, pulling himself together, and looking boldly from one to the other, he replied--

"Now that you mention it, ma'am, I don't think as ever you did. I must ha' made some mistake."

He walked rapidly away, leaving Gordon and Peggy face to face.

"There y'are," she said, "what did I tell ye? Husban'? He's no husban'

o' mine. Ye're makin' a mistake, Charlie."

Charlie looked after the retreating bushman, and back at the good lady who was beaming at him.

"Don't call me Charlie," he said. "That old man has come in for a whole lot of money in England. His name is Considine, and he pretends he isn't your husband so that he can get the money and leave you out of it. Don't you be a fool. It's a lot better for you to stick to him than to try for William Grant's money. Mr. Carew and I can prove he said you were his wife."

"Och, look at that now! Said I was his wife! And his name was Considine, the lyin' old vaggybond. His name's not Considine, and I'm not his wife, nor never was. Grant was my husban', and I'll prove it in a coort of law, so I will!" Her voice began to rise like a south-easterly gale, and Charlie beat a retreat. He went to look for the old man, but could not find him anywhere.

Talking the matter over with Carew he got no satisfaction from the wisdom of that Solon. "Deuced awkward thing, don't you know," was his only comment.

Things were even more awkward when the coach drew up to start, and no sign of the old man could be found. He had strolled off to the back of the hotel, and vanished as absolutely as if the earth had swallowed him.

The Chinese cook was severely cross-questioned, but relapsed into idiotic smiles and plentiful "No savee's". A blackfellow, loafing about the back of the hotel, was asked if he had seen a tall, thin old man with a beard going down the street. He said, "Yowi, he bin go longa other pub;" but as, on further questioning, he modified his statement by a.s.serting that the man he saw was young, short and very fat, no heed was paid to his evidence--it being the habit of blacks to give any answer that they think will please the questioner.

"He'll play us some dog's trick, that old fellow," said Charlie. "I can't wait here looking for him, though. I'll find him when I want him if he's above ground. Now let's go on. Can't keep the coach waiting for ever while we unearth him. Let's get aboard."

Just as the coach was about to start a drover came out of the bar of the hotel, wiping his lips with the back of his hand. He stared vacantly about him, first up the street and then down, looked hard at a post in front of the hotel, then stared up and down the street again. At last he walked over, and, addressing the pa.s.sengers in a body, said, "Did any of you's see e'er a horse anywheres? I left my prad here, and he's gorn."

A bystander, languidly cutting up a pipeful of tobacco, jerked his elbow down the road.

"That old bloke took 'im," he said. "Old bloke that come in the coach.

While yous was all talking in the pub, he sneaks out here and nabs that 'orse, and away like a rabbit. See that dust on the plain? That's 'im."

The drover looked helplessly out over the stretch of plain. He seemed quite incapable of grappling with the problem.

"Took my horse, did he? Well, I'm blowed! By Cripes!"

He had another good stare over the plain, and back at the party.

"My oath!" he added.