A Glorious Danger Hung Over The World!

 

All Alan Dundas wanted when he started digging into the ancient clay river bed on his land was a watering hole for his stock.

 

In 1900s Australia, the land without a history, the last thing he expected to find was a dome of golden metal beneath his land. Or a series of traps barring his entrance, each deadlier than the last, which drove him in single-minded determination to get to the bottom of the mystery, heedless of what he might find, or what threats he might bring to life out of the silence of the past.

 

Capricorn Publishing’s 2005 revised edition, authorized by the Cox estate, returns the major cuts made in the original 1919 text in the Robertson and Mullens 1947 and later editions, thus becoming the first complete edition of Out of the Silence ever published!

 

Go On-Line at WWW.FossickerBooks.com for information on Cox, his works, reviews of the original edition, and more Capricorn Publishing titles.

Newspaper Reviews of

“OUT OF THE SILENCE”

By ERLE COX

 

“One of the best half‑dozen novels Australia has produced . . . an amazing novel. Everyone must read it.”—Register, Adelaide.

 

“The author has accomplished something really remarkable.”—Examiner, Launceston.

 

“Jules Verne, Rider Haggard and Wells out done.”—Syracuse Post Standard.

 

“A startling original idea, developed with a degree of imagination, interest and thought that is rare in present‑day fiction. One of the most strik­ing books of the year.”—New York Times.

 

‘It’s great stuff—persuasive, exciting, ingenious.” —Saturday Review of Literature.

 

“The most unusual book of the year, or even of several years—imagination used to a purpose.”—Boston Globe.

 

“Will appeal to all those who appreciate a brilliant reach of the imagination in the form of a vastly entertaining story.”—Huntington Advertiser.

 

“Mr Cox is to be congratulated on having produced an Australian novel of the very front rank.”—­Daily Telegraph.

 

“Mr. Cox is to be congratulated on a story of rare interest, which holds the attention from beginning to end.”—Sydney Morning Herald.

 

“For sheer magic of imagination this book, by the distinguished Melbourne novelist, is, perhaps the most unusual of the year, or even of several years”—Boston Globe, U.S.A.

 

“Erle Cox has done a very daring thing. He has broken from the “Wattle Blossom” tradition. Almost for the first time an Australian has written about things that may be appreciated by other than Australians —Triad.

 

That superlatively successful romancer, H. Rider Haggard, would have been proud to write “Out of the Silence,”—Saturday Review of Literature.

 

 

 

Out

Of

        The

        Silence

 

 

By

Erle Cox

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

First published in The Argus, Melbourne, Australia, I9I9

E. A. Vidler, Melbourne, I925

Rae D. Henkel, Co. New York,  1928

Robertson & Mullens, Melbourne, I947

 

 

Capricorn Publishing, Inc., in 2OO5

Editorial Services: Dimitar D. Guetov

 

 

Book Format Design by Dimitar Guetov

Cover Design by Antonina Guetov

Revised by John H. Costello with

Permission of the estate of Erle Cox.

The text of the revised editon is

drawn from the 1928 Rae D. Henkel

 and the 1947 Robertson and Mullens editions

Revised version copyright © 2OO5

By Geoffrey Erle Cox.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Contents

 

Out of the Silence                                         Page       7

Prologue to the 1947 editon                        Page  260

Book Wrangler’s Afterword                        Page  270

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

To My Wife

 

 

 

 

A Note On The Text

 

Out of the Silence first appeared in the Melbourne newspaper The Argus in  thirty installments in 1919. The first book edition by E. A. Vidler of Melbourne cut Chapter 27 as ‘too strong.’ This edition was published in 1927 by Rae D. Henkel of New York. In 1947 Robertson and Mullens of Melbourne  brought out a new edition which restored Chapter 27 but which made major cuts dealing primarily with atmosphere and characterization in the first eight chapters, and added the Prologue written specially for that edition. Subsequent paperback versions were drawn from this abbreviated version. The Capricorn Press edition of 2005 restores both Chapter 27 and returns the cuts made in the first eight chapters. The Prologue has been placed at the end of the story.

 

As an historical note, at the time the story was written Melbourne was serving as the temporary Australian federal capital and Australians still used British monetary units.

 

Capricorn Publishing would like to thank Sean McMullin,  Graham Stone, Geoffrey Erle Cox, Allan J. Tompkins, Jay P. Muchnij of MITSFS, Diana Wyndham, and James McGinn of the Peabody Institute Library for their help in preparing this edition.

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER ONE

 

BRYCE brought his car to a stop in front of the deep ver­andah of the homestead, and, before getting out, let his eyes search the vivid green of the vines for the owner. The day was savagely hot, and the sun, striking down from the cloudless blue‑white sky, seemed to have brought all life and motion to a standstill. There was no sign of Dundas amongst the green sea of foliage. Now and then a dust devil whirled up a handful of dried grass and leaves, but seemed too tired to do more. Bryce could see from where he sat the brass‑tipped shafts of a dogcart protruding over the door of its shed. A little farther away, under the doubt­ful shade of an iron lean‑to, were two big draught horses and a blue roan pony; the latter (known to local fame as Billy Blue Blazes) owed his duties principally to matters connected with the dog‑cart. He was a horse of considerable character, most of it very bad. His presence there, however, indicated to the visitor that Billy’s owner was “at home.”

Bryce stepped on to the verandah. The front door was wide open, and through it and the wire fly-door the bright light beyond showed that the house was open to catch any possible breath of air that might be moving. He could see, framed by the dim passage, a few unhappy fowls scratch­ing hopelessly in the yellow dusty grass at the back of the house, and beyond, nearly half a mile away, the dull green belt of timber that marked the line of the river.

“A hell of a climate,” was his comment. Then, noticing a thermometer hanging on the wall beside the door, Bryce repeated the remark with more emphasis. “One hundred and twelve in the shade, and it feels like it, too.” Then, with a raised inquiring voice, “Dundas, Alan Dundas! where the deuce are you? Wake up, man! Oh, hell! Where has he got to?” The language may seem unnecessary, but after a 15-mile drive on such a day, to those who understand, a little thing like that seems natural and proper.

Bryce strolled to the end of the verandah and peered through the leaves of the trellised vine that shaded it. Some 200 yards away, in a slight hollow, he noticed a large pile of dusty red clay that added a new note to the yellow colour scheme. Even as he watched he caught a momentary flash of steel above the clay, and at the same instant there was a fleeting glimpse of the crown of a Panama hat. “Great Scott!” he murmured. “Mad — mad as a hatter.” He turned rapidly off the verandah, and approached the spot unheard and unseen, and watched for a few moments with­out a word. The man in the trench had his back turned to Bryce. He was stripped to singlet and blue dungaree trousers, which clung to the figure dripping with perspiration. His splendidly set brown arms swung the pick with tireless precision. This man was no weakling. The work was being done in no perfunctory fashion, and the heart that was in the work was a light one, judging from the snatch of song. Bryce smiled grimly while he watched, for he knew this man, and knew him for a man after his own heart. Then he spoke. “Alan, old chap, what is it? Gentle exercise on an empty stomach, eh?”   The pick came down with an extra thump, and the worker turned with a smile. “Bryce! by the powers!” Then with a laugh: “I’ll own up to the empty stomach,” and, holding out a strong brown hand, he said: “By that clock it is lunch time. The minister of the Interior has been holding indignation meetings for the past half‑hour. Just half a moment.” He wriggled himself to the surface, and carefully covered pick, and shovel and crowbar with a hessian bag. “You see,” he explained, “the sun makes the confounded things so hot that they blister my tender little handies if they are not covered. You’ll stop to lunch, old man?” Bryce nodded. “Might take the cheek out of you if I say that was partly my reason for calling in.” Dundas only grinned; he knew just how much of the remark was in earnest. “I am very sorry, Hector, but I am ‘batching’ it again, so it’s only a scratch feed.”

“You unfortunate young beggar; what’s become of the last housekeeper? Thought she was a fixture. Not eloped, I hope?” They had turned towards the house. “Wish to glory she had,” was Alan’s heartfelt comment. “Upon my word, Bryce, I’m sick of women. I mean the housekeeping ones. When they are old enough to be suitable for young unattached bachelors, and have settled characters, those characters are devilish bad. The last beauty went on a gorgeous jamboree for four days. I don’t even know now where she got the joy‑producer.”

“Well?” queried Bryce, with some interest, as Dundas paused.

“Oh, nothing much. I just waited until she was pretty sober. Loaded her and her outfit into the dogcart, and By Jove,” with a reminiscent chuckle, “she was properly sober when I got her to the township and consigned her to Mel­bourne. Billy B.B. was in topping good form, and tried to climb trees on the way in. She spent most of her time in prayer. Swore she would never touch another drop if she reached Glen Cairn alive. The blessed old tabby stuck to it that her trouble was spasms till she got scared.”

“But, Dun, this is all very well,” said Bryce, laughing. “You can’t go on ‘batching.’ You must get another.”

“No, I’m hanged if I do. The old ’uns are rotters, and, save me, Hector, what meat for the cats in the district I’d be if I took a young one.”

“I’m afraid it would take more than me to save you if you did,” said Bryce, laughing at the idea.

They had reached the house. Dundas ushered his friend in. “You make yourself comfy here while I straighten my­self, and look after the tucker! You’ll find stuff to read under the first bookshelf, in the rack, and there are grapes in the water‑bag. I won’t be long.” He disappeared kitchenwards, whistling.

Bryce stretched himself on the cane lounge, and glanced round the room. It was a room he knew well. The largest of four that had formed the homestead that had originally been built as an out‑station, when the township of Glen Cairn had got its name from the original holding, long since cut-up. It was essentially a man’s room, without a single feminine touch. Over the high wooden mantel were racked a fine double‑barrelled breechloader and a light sporting rifle, and the care with which they were kept showed that they were not there as ornaments. Under the shelf itself had been tacked a long strip of leather, not tightly stretched, but with tacks at intervals to form loops, and into each loop a pipe had been thrust, each one bearing marks of hard service at the hands of a loving owner; a service that entitled it to an honoured old age. These friends that had helped in times of stress stood in a row in that place of honour, and Bryce knew that to Dundas their price was above rubies.

The walls held only three pictures. Over the cupboard that acted as a sideboard hung a fine photogravure of Delaroche’s “Napoleon,” meditating on his abdication, and the other two were landscapes that had come from Alan’s old home. From the same source, too, had come the curious array of Oriental knives that filled the space between the door and the window. What, however, attracted most attention was the collection of books that filled the greater of two sides of the room, their shelves reaching almost to the low ceiling. History, biography, memoirs, and travel of every description were there. Fiction was almost unrepresented, and one shelf bore a ponderous battery of law textbooks. There were some of the books that the average man would go a good way round to avoid, but Dundas contended that there was nothing like a treatise on bimetallism, for instance, for keeping barnacles from the mind.

The furniture was simplicity itself. Besides the sideboard, there were a table and three chairs, with an armchair on each side of the fireplace. The cane lounge on which Bryce was seated completed the inventory. Above the lounge on a special shelf by itself was a violin in its case. To a woman, the uncurtained windows and bare floor would have been intolerable, but the housekeeping man had discovered that bare essentials meant the least work.

Presently a voice came from the kitchen. “Hector, old man, there’s a domestic calamity. Flies have established a protectorate over the mutton, so it’s got to be bacon and eggs, and fried potatoes. How many eggs can you man­age?”

“Make it two, Dun; I’m hungry,” answered Bryce.

“Man, you don’t know the meaning of the word if two will be enough.” Five minutes later he appeared with a cloth over his shoulder and his arms full of crockery. Bryce watched the setting of the table in amused silence till Alan stood back and surveyed the result of his efforts. “Now that’s what I call real simplicity. If I were a woman I’d have cluttered the place up with flowers and fixings. What’s the good of them, anyway?”

A thought of his wife’s horror at such simplicity flashed through Bryce’s mind. “You’re a luxurious animal, Alan, using a table cloth. Why, I don’t know any of the other fellows who indulge in such elegance. Or am I to feel specially honoured?”

“No, Bryce; the fact is that I know that a man is apt to become slack living bachelor fashion,” returned Dundas seriously, “so I make it a rule always to use a table cloth, and, moreover,” he went on, as if recounting the magnificent ceremonial of a regal ménage, “I never sit down to a meal in my shirt sleeves. Oh, Lord! the potatoes!” He van­ished at a run. Bryce did not smile as another might at such a dignified disclosure. He knew, none better, a score of such homes where young men were starting their battles under similar conditions — men who were used to the refine­ment and comfort of home life, and who came to live under conditions that would have made their womenkind gasp with amazement. He knew of meals served from the pots on bare tables, and eaten from either side of crockery un­washed from a previous meal. He was a score of years older than Dundas, in spite of their intimate friendship, and he felt a pride in the man who was able to respect himself so. He knew that Dundas would not do a crooked or a mean action for the same reason that he would shave every day in the wilderness. It was because of what he thought of himself, and not what others might think of him. It. fitted nicely with Bryce’s own judgment of the man whose guardian he had been for many years.

With two dishes nicely balanced, Dundas arrived back again, and after another journey for a mighty teapot, he called Bryce up to the table. To an epicure, bacon and eggs backed by fried potatoes, for a midday meal with the thermometer at 112 deg. in the shade, may sound a little startling, but, then, epicures rarely work, and the matter is beyond their comprehension. Bryce stared at the large dish with upraised hands. “Man, what have you done? I asked for two.”

“Dinna fash yerse’, laddie,” answered Dundas mildly. “I’ve been heaving the pick in that hole since 7 o’clock this morning, and it makes one peckish. The other six are for my noble self.” And those six eggs, together with a pro­portionate amount of bacon and potatoes, were dealt with as thoroughly as he dealt with all else.

Although Bryce enjoyed his meal, for a trained cook could not have done better, he watched Alan’s performance with undisguised interest which was not unnoticed by his host.

“Does it occur to you, Bryce, that had I not scrapped an unpromising career at the bar, I might also have re­garded this meal as a carefully studied attempt at suicide?”

“Humph! Perhaps — I believe you did the best thing, though, and I own up that I thought you demented then.”

“Lord! How the heathen did rage,” replied Dundas with a grin. “I weigh just fourteen stone ten pounds, Hec, and not an ounce of fat. Now if you had forced me to go on until some day I may have fallen low enough to become Attorney-General, I’d never have weighed that except by girth.”

“True. But don’t you ever regret or feel lonely?”

“Nary a regret, and as for the loneliness, I rather like it. That reminds me. I had George MacArthur out here for a week lately. He said he wanted the simple life, so I put him hoeing vines. As for the rest, well, I’m four miles off the main road, so people only come in when they want to see me particularly, and not just because they happen to be passing, so I don’t get interrupted often like some of the fellows. Why, there’s Dick Tolhurst right on the cross­roads, and I believe he got married just to have someone to entertain his visitors so as he could get his work done. More tea? No? Then, gentlemen, you may smoke.” Dundas, reached for a pipe from beneath the mantel, and then swung himself into an armchair, while Bryce returned to the comfort of the creaking lounge.

“By the way, Alan,” said Bryce, picking his cigar with scientific care, “you haven’t told me the object of your in­sane energy in that condemned clayhole.” Dundas was eyeing the cigar with disfavour. “I can’t understand a man smoking those things when he can get a good honest pipe. Oh, all right, I don’t want to start a wrangle. About the condemned clayhole. Well, the fool who built this mansion of mine built it half a mile from the river, and that means that in summer I must either take the water to the horses or the horses to the water, and both operations are a dashed nuisance. Now observe. As my honoured and respected ex‑guardian... Did you snort? Also as my present banker, you must be aware that the finances don’t run to a pumping plant yet. That condemned clayhole is to be ultimately an excellent waterhole that will save me a deuce of a lot of trouble. Therefore, as Miss Carilona Wilhelmina Amelia Skeggs so elegantly puts it, you found me ‘all a muck of sweat.”

‘Yes, but my dear chap, you can afford to get it done for you.”

“In a way you are right, Hec, but then I can’t afford to pay a man to do work that I can do myself. In another ten years I’ll do it cheerfully. I’ve got the place clear of your beastly capitalistic clutches now, and I want to keep it clear.”

“Don’t blame you, Alan.” Then, after a pause, and watching him keenly: “Why don’t you get married?”

Dundas jerked himself straight in his chair, the lighted match still in his fingers. “Great Scott, Bryce! What’s that got to do with waterholes?” The utter irrelevance of the question made Bryce laugh. “Nothing, old chap — nothing. Only it just came to my mind as I was lying here.” Lying was a good word, had Dundas only known. “You know,” he went on, “there are plenty of nice girls in the district.”

“You are not suggesting polygamy, by any chance?” countered Alan serenely from his chair, having recovered from the shock of the unexpected question.

“Don’t be an ass, Alan. I only suggested a good thing for yourself.”

“Can’t see the force of your argument, Hector, that be­cause there are plenty of nice girls in the district (I’ll admit that) I should marry one of them.”

“You might do a dashed sight worse.”

“You mean I mightn’t marry her?”

“You Rabelaisian young devil! I’ll shy something at you in a minute if you don’t talk sense.”

“Well, look. If you want reasons I’ll give you some. First, for the same reason that I cannot afford a pumping plant. Now do shut up and let me speak. I know the gag about what will keep one keeping two. It’s all tosh. Secondly, I wouldn’t ask any nice girl to live in this soli­tude, even if she were willing. Third — do you want any more? Well, if I got married I would have to extend and rebuild this place. And those, Hec, are good, sound rea­sons.” Then, after a pause he started to laugh — “Oh, you Machiavellian old Shylock; I see your game.”

“Why that horrible epithet?” asked Bryce unmoved.

“Why, if I build I’ll have to go to you for an overdraft, and keep on going, as more expansion became necessary. Villain, you are unmasked!”  Then he quieted down, and said seriously, “I know what you mean, Hector; but those,” pointing to the books, “are all the wife I want just now.”

Bryce smiled. “By Jove, Alan, who’s talking polygamy now? There are about six hundred of them.”

“Oh,’ answered Alan serenely. “I’m only really mar­ried to about six of them. All the rest are merely ‘porcu­pines,’ as the Sunday school kid said.”

“Alan, my son, I’ll really have to consult the Reverend John Harvey Pook about your morals, and get him to come and discourse with you.”

“Lord forbid!” said Dundas piously. “That reminds me. I told you I had George MacArthur here for a week, living the simple life. Well, he was never out of his py­jamas from the day he arrived till the day he left. They — the pyjamas, not the days — were gay of their kind, too — a bright orange and purple stripe —  and when he went about with a red fez on his head the colour scheme was something to avoid. However, one afternoon while I was taking the horses to water, who should arrive but the Reverend John Harvey and Mamma and Bella Pook, hunting for a sub­scription for a teafight of some sort. Anyhow, when I got back the noble George was giving them afternoon tea on the verandah. Just apologised for being found in evening dress in the day time. Poor Miss Bella sat looking down her nose, and mamma was in a jelly between fright and delight that George was paying her lambkin special at­tention.”

“Humph!” commented Bryce, “did Pook get any­thing?”

“Well, I paid a guinea just to get rid of them. George was making the pace too hot,” replied Dundas. “Pook nearly fell over himself when George came to light with a tenner. Mac said afterwards he intended it as a moral lesson for Pook. A sort of good for evil stunt in return for Pook’s sermon on him.”

Bryce smoked a few minutes, watching Alan through the cloud. “Why did you get MacArthur down here?” Dundas, who had been gazing off through the window, spoke without turning his head. “Oh, various reasons. You know I like him immensely in spite of his idiosyncrasies. He’s no end of a good sort. It’s not his fault that he has more thousands a year than most men have fifties. He lived a godly, upright, and sober life the week he was here. Pity he doesn’t take up a hobby of some sort — books or art collecting or something of the kind.”

“I’m afraid an old master is less in his line than a young mistress,” said Bryce sourly.

“Jove, Hector, that remark sounds almost feminine.” Bryce chuckled. “You must have a queer set of lady friends if that’s the way they talk.”

“Oh, you owl! I meant the spirit and not the letter. Anyhow, what’s MacArthur been doing to get on your nerves? You are not usually nasty for nothing.”

“You’ve not seen him since he left?”

“No, I’ve not been near Glen Cairn or the delights of the club. Been too busy. Anyhow, you don’t usually take notice of the district scandal either.” Bryce stared thoughtfully at the ash of the cigar he turned in his fingers. “Well, if you will have it. Here are the facts, the alleged facts, club gossip, tennis‑court gossip, also information collected by Doris. The night after he left you, George MacArthur filled him­‑self with assorted liquors. Went down with a few friends to the Star and Garter (why the deuce he didn’t stay at the club I don’t know). He made a throne in one of the sitting rooms, by placing a chair on the table. On the throne he seated a barmaid — I’m told it was the fat one (Perhaps you can recognise her from the des­cription). Then he removed a leg from another chair gave it to her as a sceptre. I believe, although statements differ, he made them hail her as the chaste goddess Diana. Rickardson tells me that as a temporary revival of paganism, it was a huge success.”

Alan’s frown deepened as the recital went on. “Bryce, how much of the yarn is true? You know the value of the confounded gossip of the town.”

“I’ve given you the accepted version,” said Bryce slowly.

Alan, still staring through the window, said, a little bitterly, “I suppose the verdict is Guilty? No trial, as usual.”

“The evidence is fairly conclusive in this case,” answer­ed Bryce. He was watching Dundas keenly. Then went on, in a slow, even voice, “I saw Marian Seymour cut him dead yesterday.” Then only he turned eyes away as Alan swung round. For a moment he made as if to speak, but thought better of it. Bryce, having conducted his experiment to his satisfaction, was content to let the matter drop.

He heaved himself out of his lounge. “Well we won’t mend the morals of the community by talking about them. You’ll come over to dinner on Sunday, of course?”

Alan stood up. “Jove, Hector, that will be some­thing to look forward to. Tell Mistress Doris I’ll bring along my best appetite.”

Bryce laughed. “If I tell of your performance on the eggs to‑day I’d better forget that part of the mess­age. You had better break the news of the calamity yourself. Phew! What a devil of a day! Surely you won’t go back to that infernal work?”

“You bet I do! I’ve taken twice my usual lunch time in your honour. Aren’t you afraid some of the gilded youths on your staff will do a bunk with the bank’s reserve cash if you are not there to sit on it?”

“Not one of ’em has as the bowels to do a bunk, as you so prettily put it, with a stale bun. You can thank your neighbour, Denis McCarthy, for this infliction. I had to pay him a visit.”

“Humph! It’s about the only thing I’ve ever had occasion to feel genuinely thankful to him for. You found him beastly sober, as usual?”

“Well,” said Bryce grimly, “I found him beastly and I left him sober. Yes, very sober. Thank goodness that finishes the last of my predecessor’s errors in judgment.” He stooped to crank up his car. “Good­bye, Alan; don’t overdo it.” He backed and turned in the narrow drive before the verandah, while Dundas stood and made caustic comments on the steering in particular and motor cars in general. The last he heard was a wild threat of “having the law agin’ him” if he broke so much as a single vine‑cane.

If the providence that closes our eyes to the future could have lifted the veil from Bryce’s eyes for one minute he would have stayed and never left his friend until he had made him swear never to go near that accursed hole again. But, being mortal, he drove away unconscious of the path Alan’s feet were treading.