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“Beelzebub can go,” said Mercer.

“If he is well enough!” said Sybil.

He frowned.

“You don’t seem to realize what these niggers are made of. Of course, he will be well enough.”

She said no more, for she saw that the topic was unwelcome; but she determined to make a stand on Beelzebub’s behalf the next day, unless his condition were very materially improved.

XII

It was with surprise and relief that upon entering the kitchen on the following morning Sybil found Beelzebub back in his accustomed place. He greeted her with a wider grin than usual, which she took for an expression of gratitude. He seemed to have made a complete recovery, for which she was profoundly thankful.

She herself was feeling better that day. Her arm pained her less, and she no longer carried it in a sling. She had breakfasted in bed, Mercer himself waiting upon her.

She was amazed to hear him speak with kindness to Beelzebub, and even ask the boy if he thought he could manage the ride to Wallarroo. Beelzebub, abjectly eager to return to favour, professed himself ready to start at once. And so presently Sybil found herself alone.

The long day passed without event. The loneliness did not oppress her. She busied herself with preparing delicacies for the sick man, which Beelzebub could take on the following day. Beelzebub had had smallpox, and knew no fear.

He did not return from his errand till the afternoon was well advanced. She went to the door to hear his news, but he was in his least intelligent mood, and seemed able to tell her very little. By dint of close questioning she elicited that he had seen Curtis, who had told him that the man was worse. Beyond this, Beelzebub appeared to know nothing; and yet there was something about him that excited her attention. He seemed more than once to be upon the point of saying something, and to fail at the last moment, as though either his wits or his courage were unequal to the effort. She could not have said what conveyed this impression, but it was curiously strong. She tried hard to elicit further information, but Beelzebub only became more idiotic in response, and she was obliged to relinquish the attempt.

Mercer came in soon after, and she dismissed the matter from her mind. But a vivid dream recalled it. She started up in the night, agitated, incoherent, crying that someone wanted her, someone who could not wait, and she must go. She could not tell her husband what the dream had been and in the morning all memory of it had vanished. But it left a vague disquietude behind, a haunting anxiety that hung heavily upon her. She could not feel at peace.

Mercer left that morning. He had to go a considerable distance to an outlying farm. She saw him off from the gate, and then went back into the house, still with that inexplicable sense of oppression weighing her down.

She prepared the parcel that she purposed to send to Curtis, and went in search of Beelzebub. He was sweeping the kitchen.

“I shall want you to go to Wallarroo again to-day,” she said. “You had better start soon, as I should like Mr. Curtis to get this in good time.”

Beelzebub stopped sweeping, and cringed before her.

“Boss gone?” he questioned cautiously.

“Yes,” she answered, wondering what was coming.

He drew a little nearer to her, still cringing.

“Missis,” he whispered piercingly, “Beelzebub see the white man yesterday.”

She stared at him.

“What white man, Beelzebub? What do you mean?”

“White man from Bowker Creek,” said Beelzebub.

Her breathing stopped suddenly. She felt as if she had been stabbed. “Where!” she managed to gasp.

Beelzebub looked vacant. There was evidently something that she was expected to understand. She forced her startled brain into activity.

“Is he the man who is ill–the man Mr. Curtis is taking care of?”

Beelzebub looked intelligent again.

“White man very bad,” he said.

“But–but–how was it you saw him? You were told to leave the parcel by the fence for Mr. Curtis to fetch.”