Part 4 (1/2)

”The fellow who did that was an a.s.s,” said Harry; ”a greater a.s.s than I should have taken him to be, not to have known that if he could have gotten the gra.s.s to burn outside, the wool-shed must have gone without all that preparation. But there isn't much difficulty now in seeing what the fellow has intended.”

”Was it for a fire?” asked Kate.

”Of course it was. He wouldn't have been contented with the gra.s.s and fences, but wanted to make sure of the shed also. He'd have come to the house and burned us in our beds, only a fellow like that is too much of a coward to run the risk of being seen.”

”But, Harry, why didn't he light it when he'd done it?” said Mrs.

Heathcote.

”Because the Almighty sent the rain at the very moment,” said Harry, striking the top rail of one of the pens with his fist. ”I'm not much given to talk about Providence, but this looks like it, does it not?”

”He might have put a match in at the moment?”

”Rain or no rain? Yes, he might. But he was interrupted by more than the rain. I got into the shed myself just at the moment--I and Jacko.

It was last night, when the rain was pouring. I heard the man, and dark as was the night, I saw his figure as he fled away.”

”You didn't know him?” said Miss Daly.

”But that boy, who has the eyes of a cat, he knew him.”

”Jacko?”

”Jacko knew him by his gait. I should have hardly wanted any one to tell me who it was. I could have named the man at once, but for the fear of doing an injustice.”

”And who was it?”

”Our friend Medlicot's prime favorite and new factotum, Mr. William Nokes. Mr. William Stokes is the gentleman who intends to burn us all out of house and home, and Mr. Medlicot is the gentleman whose pleasure it is to keep Mr. Nokes in the neighborhood.”

The two women stood awe-struck for a moment, but a sense of justice prevailed upon the wife to speak. ”That may be all true,” she said.

”Perhaps it is as you say about that man. But you would not therefore think that Mr. Medlicot knows any thing about it?”

”It would be impossible,” said Kate.

”I have not accused him,” said Harry; ”but he knows that the man was dismissed, and yet keeps him about the place. Of course he is responsible.”

CHAPTER IV.

HARRY HEATHCOTE'S APPEAL.

For the first mile between the wool-shed and the house Heathcote and the two ladies rode without saying a word. There was something so terrible in the reality of the danger which encompa.s.sed them that they hardly felt inclined to discuss it. Harry's dislike to Medlicot was quite a thing apart. That some one had intended to burn down the wool-shed, and had made preparation for doing so, was as apparent to the women as to him. And the man who had been balked by a shower of rain in his first attempt might soon find an opportunity for a second. Harry was well aware that even Jacko's a.s.sertion could not be taken as evidence against the man whom he suspected. In all probability no further attempt would be made upon the wool-shed; but a fire on some distant part of the run would be much more injurious to him than the mere burning of a building. The fire that might ruin him would be one which should get ahead before it was seen, and scour across the ground, consuming the gra.s.s down to the very roots over thousands of acres, and destroying fencing over many miles. Such fires pa.s.s on, leaving the standing trees unscathed, avoiding even the scrub, which is too moist with the sap of life for consumption, but licking up with fearful rapidity every thing that the sun has dried. He could watch the wool-shed and house, but with no possible care could he so watch the whole run as to justify him in feeling security. There need be no preparation of leaves. A match thrown loosely on the ground would do it. And in regard to a match so thrown, it would be impossible to prove a guilty intention.

”Ought we not to have dispersed the heap?” said Mrs. Heathcote at last. The minds of all of them were full of the matter, but these were the first words spoken.

”I'll leave it as it is,” said Harry, giving no reason for his decision. He was too full of thought, too heavily laden with anxiety, to speak much. ”Come, let's get on; you'll want your dinner, and it's getting dark.” So they cantered on, and got off their horses at the gate, without another word. And not another word was spoken on the subject that night. Harry was very silent, walking up and down the veranda with his pipe in his mouth--not lying on the ground in idle enjoyment--and there was no reading. The two sisters looked at him from time to time with wistful, anxious-eyes, half afraid to disturb him by speech.

As for him, he felt that the weight was all on his own shoulders. He had worked hard, and was on the way to be rich. I do not know that he thought much about money, but he thought very much of success. And he was by nature anxious, sanguine, and impulsive. There might be before him, within the next week, such desolation as would break his heart.

He knew men who had been ruined, and had borne their ruin almost without a wail--who had seemed contented to descend to security and mere absence from want. There was his own superintendent, Old Bates, who, though he grumbled at every thing else, never bewailed his own fate. But he knew of himself that any such blow would nearly kill him--such a blow, that is, as might drive him from Gangoil, and force him to be the servant instead of the master of men. Not to be master of all around him seemed to him to be misery. The merchants at Brisbane who took his wool and supplied him with stores had advanced money when he first bought his run, and he still owed them some thousands of pounds. The injury which a great fire would do him would bring him to such a condition that the merchants would demand to have their money repaid. He understood it all, and knew well that it was after this fas.h.i.+on that many a squatter before him had been ruined.

”Speak a word to me about it,” his wife said to him, imploringly, when they were alone together that night.