The sun climbing round the base of Conical Hill at daybreak next morning, found Selwyn already abroad, and in the very best of humours. The gentle trickle of last night's nightcap down his gullet had warmed the very cockles of his heart, so he told a mud-lark discussing an early worm among the saplings. He was outside before the day was properly alight, standing on the front verandah, hands deep in pockets, legs set apart, sniffing the remnants of a night breeze, which had not yet fled the sun's wooing. Finding his spirits insisted upon more active affairs and discovering no prospect of breakfast for a while, he picked up his stick, which he only exchanged for gun or fishing-rod, and took a turn round the back premises, where there might be matters to occupy a fellow until people thought fit to give up slugging in bed. Rheumy-eyed Scabbyback, rising morosely from a sack, was prodded good morning, and Gripper wasaccorded even more gracious welcome, being unchained and allowed to follow on the march of discovery.
Selwyn called out good morning to old Neville, as he passed towards the mine on early business, and presently seduced into talk Mrs. Nankervis as she bustled in and out of the back door on the work of breakfast. He presided at a difference of opinion between Gripper and a blue billygoat with the beard of the Prophet, which ruled the tattered herds of Surprise. He had just come to an end of everything, including his good humour, when news arrived that breakfast waited.
Mrs. Selwyn and Maud were already in the dining-room. Hands came out of his pockets. "By Jove!" he said. "Good morning. Here you are at last. It is wonderful how people like to loaf in bed."
"It is the only morning you have been down first for a week," Mrs. Selwyn answered sharply.
"What about 'a man's work may be early begun; but a woman's work is never done,' Mr. Selwyn?" Maud said.
Selwyn changed the conversation. He put on his most genial smile. "Your father out again to-day? I suppose he won't be back yet? Am I to preside again, Miss Neville?"
"If you won't mind. Shall we sit down?"
Maud took her place at one end of the table and poured out tea. Selwyn, with a good deal of noise, pulled up a chair at the other end and began to lift dish covers. Mrs. Selwyn found her seat half-way down and prepared to be as gracious as possible, in spite of feeling most unequal to the task. What she endured daily at this ghastly place, nobody could possibly comprehend. And she had foreseen it all so clearly with that capable brain of hers! Never again should Hilton overrule her.
A first inspection of dishes revealed, besides a noble ham, procured from the coast in honour of visitors, eggs, a wallaby stew, and lastly—red, rich, and done absolutely to the last turn—a thick piece of rump steak, beyond any doubt the best bit Selwyn had ever seen since leaving the South. Quietly the cover went down upon that dish.
"Now, who will have wallaby stew?" said the master of ceremonies, with the charm of manner which beguiled so easily the uninitiated. "You will have some, of course, dear?"
"I shall have nothing of the sort. I shall have an egg."
"Very well, dear; but you are making a mistake. Miss Neville, you will have some, of course."
"Don't pester the wretched girl with it every morning."
"Of course she would like it," came irritably from the president. "Wallaby is a great luxury. You ought to be very glad I am able to get it for you. This is the only place I have heard of where they want to throw it on the midden."
Selwyn began to heap a plate.
"If I must have it, Mr. Selwyn, not so much, please," Maud said.
"I don't know why you pester everyone to eat your things," said Mrs. Selwyn, continuing the attack.
"I hate seeing everything I shoot wasted," Selwyn replied, testily.
"Then let the dogs have it."
"No. I like seeing friends enjoy it."
"Then eat it yourself."
"I can't. It doesn't agree with me in the morning."
Maud made peace by accepting the dish. Mrs. Selwyn cracked an egg. Then—then only—Selwyn uncovered the rump steak.
"By Jove!" he said. "I'm sorry. There was steak here had anyone wanted it. I am afraid I'm rather late for you now."
He put the fork gently and deeply into the juicy square of meat, and lifted it bodily on to his plate—regretfully, as though only goodmanners persuaded him to choose the untasted dish. Next, collecting round him the necessaries for an ample breakfast, he settled to his task.
Breakfast over, Selwyn decided on a stroll. It was too late in the day for a shot, and he could take a turn with a gun in the evening. A stroll was better than hanging about a house trying to amuse two women. He visited the back again and loosed his bodyguard. The mangy pointer in its dotage sprang heavily upon him in joyous good morning, and tested the weight of his stick. Gripper led the van. The momentary irritation of breakfast had gone, and Selwyn felt benign with all the world.
Pipe in mouth, stick in hand, he took the red road which turns left-handed from the office door. Mrs. Boulder relinquished household matters to watch him go by. The sun was rising in the sky, and when he drew opposite the Horrington humpy, he began to tell himself that a man was looking for trouble who went for walks in this country. Mr. Horrington stood in his doorway, gently musing after his morning custom before setting forth to win the daily bread; and Selwyn, from the roadway, sent him a cheerful salute, which brought him along the path to the road.
"Good day, Mr. Selwyn. You are abroad early this morning. Which way are you going?"
"Nowhere in particular. I was out for a stroll."
"Will you come along with me? I seldom get anyone to talk to. I have some business in the township."
"Splendid!" cried Selwyn.
Up the road they went at steady pace, Selwyn carrying his fifty years on springy steps, Mr. Horrington planting his feet ponderously in the dust. Mr. Horrington pulled out his pipe in a little while, and found to his chagrin his tobacco-pouch was empty.
"Damn it! I find I have run out of fuel until I can manage to get back to the store," he said, blinking his pale blue eyes. "Would you mind lending me a fill? Thanks. Ah, this is something like tobacco. The stuff they sell here comes hard on an educated palate."
"Fill your pouch up. I have plenty at home."
"Thanks very much. I am always meaning to send for some decent stuff. Yes, thanks very much. I shall look forward to a luxurious evening. Here you are. I am afraid I have rather taken you at your word."
"Not at all," answered Selwyn with downcast countenance.
Just before the firewood stacks, they took the branch road turning to the township. The nearing hotel roof glared in the sun. Selwyn,foreseeing the inevitable, put a cautious hand into his pocket for what discovery might discover. The nimble half-crown rewarded his search. Several malignant goats cropped the pasturage at the cross-roads. Mr. Horrington eyed them sullenly.
"Who owns all these goats?" said Selwyn, put in better spirits by the find.
Horrington blinked his eyes. "That is what nobody knows. They walk round a man's house, and break the way inside if there's a crust on the place; or get tangled in the dustbin just as a man is falling asleep. You can stand all day shouting for an owner, and not a soul on the lease turns an ear. But if you go mad and shoot one, every man and woman in the camp comes running up to claim it."
"You don't care for goats?" said Selwyn.
Mr. Horrington put the back of a hand across his drooping moustache. "They are charming animals for little girls to fondle in books; but you have to live with them to know them. Were I a well-to-do man I would keep two or three, and wander down of an evening to the paddock to sprinkle a little bread over them. But when you must wrestle a goat round a bail before you can have breakfast, the glamour wears. By gad! a man soon gets hot walking these mornings. Ah, here's the hotel. I hope you will takethe dust out of your throat with me. It will help square our tobacco account." Mr. Horrington laughed a rusty laugh.
They passed through the open doorway of the hotel, turned right-handed, and went into the bar. It was cool indoors after the sun. The room was large and low, and full of the breaths of departed roysterers; and was empty except for a battered barmaid in curl papers who dusted behind the counter. Upon the floor were many signs of yesterday. Selwyn felt poorly inclined for refreshment. Mr. Horrington took off his hat and wiped his brow, bowing good morning to the barmaid, who smiled bitterly and came forward. He laid his stick along the counter, and leaning an elbow beside it, fell into a noble pose, the outcome of a lifetime's practice.
"What's it to be, Mr. Selwyn?"
"Anything, thanks; a whisky," said Selwyn, coming forward and smiling a charming good morning.
"That will do for me," Mr. Horrington agreed. "Two whiskys, please."
Mr. Horrington plunged a hand into his right trouser pocket. Afterwards he plunged a hand into his left pocket. Once more he tried the right pocket. He blinked his eyes. He took up the whisky bottle and poured himself out a stiff peg. He shook his head at a suggestion ofdilution. He sipped the peg to taste its quality. He seemed about to add a little more, had not the barmaid put the bottle from harm's way. He watched paternally the pouring out of Selwyn's nobbler, and when it was set down ready, he said pleasantly:—
"I am afraid I have left every penny of loose cash behind. Wretched nuisance! Never remember doing that kind of thing before. I hope you won't object to settling this little matter now, and we can fix up between ourselves another day." Leaning over, he added in a heavy whisper: "They are not too agreeable here—don't care to run accounts."
Selwyn had met his master. He saw it; he was a wise man; then and there he surrendered.
"Of course," he said, and brought forth the half-crown. "We are up against it this morning. This is all I happen to have with me."
He put the half-crown on the counter, and Mr. Horrington blinked suspiciously at him.
The out-of-curl barmaid went away in a little while, and Mr. Horrington suggested lighting pipes and sitting down a few minutes on the seat running along the wall. Selwyn, hopeless of escape just then, acquiesced. They crossed the floor and sat down.
"Have you a match?" said Mr. Horrington as a start in matters. Selwyn obediently handedover the box. "Business is very slack this year, very. I find time hang heavily sometimes. Practically never a man of culture to speak to. I often mean to get up one or two decent books from down South."
"Sorry haven't got one with me," said Selwyn, counting the flies on the ceiling.
"Yes," went on Mr. Horrington, shaking his head. "I have to hang round this wretched rattletrap township all day. Fellows turn up any time from the bush with skins to sell, or samples of ore. It wouldn't do to be away. A man might lose custom. But it is sickening for a man of culture listening to their petty squabbles and affairs. By the way, that reminds me, I heard a fair shocker the other day; a fair shocker I can tell you. No need to say this is strictly between you and me. Of course you knew Neville's girl was engaged to the Power who owns this station?"
"Met him several times."
"No doubt. Not a bad chap you would think," said Mr. Horrington. "Well, it is all over the place now he is running a double affair."
"Eh?"
"Yes. They say the other girl is somewhere on the river. A girl with striking looks. No doubt that's the attraction, though I have never seen any looks in these parts."
"What!" said Selwyn, this time coming down from the flies and scowling.
"Yes, pretty sickening thing to hear. I am very sorry for Neville's girl. Charming girl. There seems no doubt about it. I've had it from half-a-dozen sources since. Moreover the girl's father was here a day or two back. Drinking pretty freely. I happened to be there, and he said a good deal more than I liked listening to. He mentioned other names; but it's as well to let them be. Nasty story. Yes, nasty story."
"Man, it can't be true." Selwyn exclaimed at last.
"'Fraid so."
"Damn it, how beastly!"
"Yes. Fair shocker."
They talked together in the stale room for some time until Selwyn grown desperate, rose firmly to his feet. "Well, must be getting back. Have a bit of business to do. Enjoyed our chat. Suppose we shall run across each other again pretty soon."
Selwyn continued to move firmly towards the door. Mr. Horrington rose also. He blinked. He swept the edge of his drooping moustache with his tongue lest a spare drop of whisky remained. He looked longingly but unprofitably at the row of bottles on the shelves. Lastly he picked up his stick as Selwyn had picked uphis. They went outside into the sun. Scabbyback and Gripper rose from a small island of shade, and Gripper trotted forward very ready for the start. At the hotel entrance they said good-bye. They said it soon—Selwyn lifting his stick jauntily in the air, and Mr. Horrington blinking reply.
Good-natured kindly fool that he was, he was thoroughly upset by that infernal old sponger's scandal. Just his luck to be told a darned awkward piece of news just after breakfast, so that he was likely to be annoyed with it all day. He was too thundering good-natured, that's what he was. He must adopt another line in future. Why the deuce should he worry over people's affairs? What the devil was a fellow to do in such infernally awkward circumstances—keep his mouth shut? Perhaps he ought to tell his wife. She might as well know, in case anything ever came of it. What's more he could shift the business on to her that way. It was a woman's job. They were pretty thick-skinned in that kind of thing. They'd be certain to try and drag him into it; but he'd be jolly careful they didn't. Yes, he was too darned considerate of others.
He reached home as he was growing unpleasantly hot. Spying Mrs. Selwyn reading on the shadiest verandah, he made for her and threw himself into a canvas chair close by. Thebodyguard flopped upon the floor at his feet, and the party fell to heaving up and down. The sudden assault caused Mrs. Selwyn to look over the edge of her book.
"Hilton, how soon are you going to learn a little consideration for others?" she said sharply. "No single other man I could name would throw himself and two smelling dogs down in the one spot we are trying to keep cool."
Selwyn, tumbled pell-mell from high thoughts, turned very sour.
"It seems a little hard that a fellow mayn't crawl into the shade for a minute or two. I am the only one here with sufficient spirit to take a decent walk of a morning. The rest of you gasp about in easy chairs expecting to be waited on."
Mrs. Selwyn made no reply and resumed her reading. Selwyn and his retainers gave a little time to the recovery of their breaths. Finally Selwyn braced himself to his task.
"I met that old humbug Horrington on the road. He gave me a pretty beastly bit of news." Mrs. Selwyn again looked over the top of her book. "He told me Jim Power is running a double affair, and is tied up in a knot with a girl somewhere on the river. A good-looking girl, old Horrington said. Probably the girl they joke King about. He says it's all over the place." Mrs. Selwyn shut up her book and laidit in her lap. Next she looked severely at the flooring of the verandah. "Beastly nuisance!" Selwyn followed up again feebly.
"Was he quite certain of his story?"
"Seemed infernally sure of it."
Mrs. Selwyn resumed the study of the flooring. After a moment or two she said—"I feel most unwell. I think at least you might have had the decency to keep it from me."
"Damn it, I thought you would be put out if you weren't told. Besides you are a woman. I thought you would have a suggestion to mend matters."
"I shouldn't for one moment think of interfering. It is essentially a matter between Mr. Neville and yourself."
"Neville? Damn it, don't you try and drag me into it."
"I entreat you to moderate your violence a little."
Selwyn said something under his breath. He was getting ruffled, and don't you make any mistake about it. It was the old story. He was too darned infernally good-natured. Too beastly unselfish. He had lived too long letting people thrust their blasted wishes down his timid throat. But he'd start a new tack from to-day. By Jove! yes, a new tack from to-day.
While he lashed himself into noble rage, Mrs.Selwyn continued to admonish. "It is exactly what I expected. The course is perfectly clear, and you come running to me. And as usual you try and shift the matter on to me with high hand and bluster."
Selwyn had flogged himself to white heat. "Here am I, a supposed big man of these parts, nagged at and brow-beaten and driven to the point of madness by a houseful of idle matchmaking women."
"I entreat you——" began Mrs. Selwyn.
"They can carry their own dirty linen to the wash themselves. I've been the public pack-animal for the last time, and I tell you so now. The girl can get herself out of her own tangle."
"Do you realise the whole camp may be listening?"
"Damn the camp!"
"You ruffian."
Selwyn threw himself to his feet. "It's the last good turn I try and do. Power can keep a harem for what I care. I suppose you are content now you have driven me away?"
Mrs. Selwyn made no reply, but resumed her reading. Scowling terrifically, Selwyn plunged down the verandah steps, the bodyguard pattering at his heels. There were the sounds of steps, very sharp and dignified, dying away down thepath, followed by silence. Mrs. Selwyn closed her book and proceeded to consider matters in all their aspects.
Coming up from the yard near the creek where the goats were herded, Maud Neville stood a moment in the darkened dining-room; and, standing there, she heard Selwyn begin his story. She dreamed while the first words were spoken, soothed by the change from sunlight to the shadows and quiet of indoors; then understanding arrived, and she stood wide-eared to the end.
Waiting by the table, clad in a cool dress, with a wide straw hat upon her head, she happened upon the telling of that tale, and stood listening until the final word was spoken. In that space life lived and done with. A book opened; the story read. Truth told which could not be untold. And she must rouse herself from daydreaming in this quiet room, for outside a sun was shining, and earth still rolled through high heaven.
She lingered among the shadows a little while yet, while the greedy sunlight crept under theverandah roof seeking a way to climb in. Her light fingers moved among the household gods, settling and re-settling them with old skill.
Give her strength to find the way into the sunlight white and fiery. Winter must thaw there, and these tongues of slander wither and roll up black. He loved her! Who dared to deny he loved her? Yet now he came less often. He came with gloomy face and brow old with frowns. Truth was too true! Love had learned unloving.
Stay, he loved her a little still and therefore he grieved to speak the truth. He came and came again that he might kill her gently, and lay dead love to sleep upon its broken flowers. Let her thank him for this kindness which had kept her glad a little while. Surely Death thus gently come was not a fearful visitor?
She shook. This was rage assailing her. Hot rage, this moment. This moment, icy hate. Come and gone in fierce breaths. Now storm had passed away, and she stood quiet, trembling a little.
Not to-day this message. Let him love her once more to-night. Let him kiss back her kisses, and she would be strong to-morrow.
A world rolling through its day, and she dreaming in this cool room. Wake up fromdreaming. Outside sunlight woos the red earth, and bronze lizards sit upon the stones.
She showed no signs of hurt when presently she came out of the quiet and began the tasks set to do in the brief space of morning that remained. One asked her were she tired. One warned her summer was but begun, and only those who started prudently would last through to the end. She laughed and said she would cause all to look to their laurels. When lunch was ended, to prove the heat of the day had small fright for her, she renounced the verandah for her bedroom, and her cool dress for a habit. At the last moment, when there remained only the saddling, she sought out her father and told him she would be away until sundown. The old man cocked his head to one side in dismay.
"What's taken ye, girl?" he said. "Why not wait for evening and the cool?"
"I'm sick of indoors. I am going now, father."
"Well, it's you to do the riding, girl, and not me. Don't be stopping out after sunset and scarin' us. Where are you going?"
"To the river."
The old man grunted, and she turned and left the house. She saddled Stockings, the chestnut with four white legs, she mounted him, and he moved freely down the road, reefing a little atthe beginning from good spirits. She checked him to a walk, and presently he ceased to fret and plodded down the way with head drooping lower as each mile was put behind. Presently hills stood between the camp and her. Presently she was far into the plain. The sun was high up in the sky; the air was hot and without breeze. The red hill sides glared back into the sun's face. The baked bunches of spinifex pushed up their spears from the ground. At the end of several miles she began to fag, although all her task was to sit astride this big horse. Purpose held her moving along the road. The green belt of the river grew up upon the horizon.
Rage and bitterness had spent their hours in her heart and had passed to where such things pass. Now Care came, a lonely child, to suck at her breast. Came too this desire to look upon that beauty which could command men to cast all away and follow—a desire to stare upon it from her high seat on this beast.
The green belt marking the river came out across the plain. The big horse carried her into the shabby country which sheltered the higher trees from the broad face of the land. Rubbish of old floods, long run to the sea, waited in the branches, and here and there high watermark showed above her head. Now she rode among the nobler timber.
It was gentle here among the trees, where quiet shadows laid their cheeks against the path. A lonely bird fluted in the boughs. Water peeped ahead through bending branches. It seemed the Pool had shrunken much after these rainless months.
Presently, when she had passed a long way through the trees, she pulled up Stockings on the bank and looked down into the water. The face of the Pool stared back into her own, and she could mark the lean fishes lolling in cool places, and discover a world of weeds nodding below. Last great lilies of the year bloomed lonely upon the brow of the water. To right hand, to left hand, the face of the Pool extended. Guardian ranks of trees followed all the way, bending over in many places to stare at their countenances. Sunlight slipped among their tops, and tumbled into the gloom of their boughs, and splashed upon the water with noiseless splashes. Shadows with dusky faces peered round the tree trunks to know who came thus to look with sad face upon the slumbers of an afternoon.
She had drawn quietly to the bank, and now she discovered wild birds dozed upon the bosom of the Pool. Fat ducks floated, with bills laid to rest in gorgeous plumes. Divers paddled in loneliest places and sank among the weeds.Strange birds shovelled in the hot soft mud. And in all corners—melodiously hidden—butcher birds called and called again, tiny birds with canary breasts flitted in the boughs, and sharpened their bills on the roughness of the bark; and kingfishers skimmed the water on shining, whirring wings.
She laid the reins upon the neck of the big horse which stood so still, and as she looked the message of peace laid a quiet finger upon her heart. She told herself the beautiful child who had so harmed her had a home by this gentle place, and so she could not be a stranger to kindness. She would undo the damage wrought. He who had wandered away after false gods saw every day this fair scene, and his heart must still have understanding. She turned Stockings from the Pool right-handed, and threaded a way along the bank. She began to wonder what to do when she would find herself face to face with the girl. She wondered if rumour had mistold of her beauty, and she grew bitter with her own poor body which could ill afford challenge. What would she say to this child if she had to speak to her—tell her to go down to the Pool and there find a book printed with much learning? She would tell her gently she had played robber, and this stranger had ridden across the plain to receive back what she had lost. It wassimple to give back where value was not. Value was not? A new thought to stab. This young girl who lived among the silences of the timber might love too, and fight for her love with the weapons of the savage. Beauty and passion come to do battle against her own dowdy armour.
What a coward heart she held! Here was the camp coming through the trees. Did she arrive on the service of love to peer and eavesdrop, and to smile out of her white face while rage filled her heart? Ah, there the child lived. What a lowly house the man she loved had stooped to knock at! Her own stout roof and safe walls could not keep him. Her nerves were tight drawn to-day. Stockings had whinnied loud, and the blood raced to her heart. The hut was not deserted. An unfriendly dog ran out to challenge the approach. In a moment the girl might cross the threshold, and find her without wit or speech. Stockings neighed again—and was that a horse answering beyond the hut? A horse was there. A horseman must be here. Shame! His horse stood there. She was near the doorway. She must ride on or turn back. She might be found there. Such thing must never be. He might find her there, and think she spied upon him. He might come outside, and with him the child who had stolen him away.They two might look fondly at each other. No—not that.
She was clumsy. She had waited too long. He stood in the doorway. He was coming outside. He stood still. He had seen her. They were staring into each other's eyes. It seemed they could not leave off looking. They looked into each other's hearts and read all that was written there. His face had grown hard; he was frowning, his face black. Come, she must rouse herself from enchantment. She could not speak to him now, and there was only left to turn Stockings on the road home.
Ah, who is this come out beside him? Tall, like a young tree. Who is this come to stand beside him and stare out of wide eyes? Eyes set under a brow harnessed with thick brown coils of hair. Young and careless and lovelier than all the beauty that slumbers through this summer afternoon. What fields of lilies yearn for her to seek them, that her slim white feet may crush among their stems, and they meet death from one lovelier than themselves? What woods of greedy violets sigh for her to pass among them that they may steal her fragrance and make the world sick with a sweeter sweetness? Ah, what a poor tongue has legend. This was she whom rumour said bloomed lovely by the river. Beauty born humbly, but not sohumble that pale pilgrims did not glide through the silences to lift the clapper of her door. Beauty housed humbly in a shabby temple; but beauty itself not humble. The flame that burnt! Ah, rescue him!
She drew tight a rein and turned away; and as she passed again among the trees the birds were fluting in the boughs and on one hand the face of the waters twinkled in sunshine and in sleep. Once she thought his voice came after her, commanding her to wait; but she scorned to turn about lest imagination mocked, and again she saw that hut set among the trees. It seemed Stockings turned sluggard for this homeward journey, and in rage she plunged sudden spurs into his sides. He snorted loud and rose high into the air, and she must lean upon his wither to persuade him to earth. Thereafter he turned fretful, seeking to reef the reins from her hands. They passed among the trees until the last ribbons of water were hidden. Hark! On the edge of the timber and the empty land a hurry of hoofs reached her ears. Quickly it grew loud. Some madman rode. It was he come after her. He would ride at her side in a moment. Give her strength to meet him manfully. Fool he to seek her out now. She hated him with a hate as great as the love he had murdered.
"I called out I would ride back with you. I had to saddle up. What was the hurry?"
"To tell the truth I didn't know I was needed. I set out to ride alone, and thought to finish the journey alone. But we can ride together now if you wish. The way lies side by side a mile or two. As well to practise again this art of riding side by side, lest it be quite forgotten. One—two—three—weeks, since we had last lesson. And once we used half the days of the week in mastering the art. Why these scowls, friend Jim?"
"Come, don't talk riddles, Maud. I'm not in humour to read them. If you have things to say, say them now while we have the place to ourselves. Say what must be said. Big words can drop and break here, and lie well broken. My ears are on edge for listening. But don't give me riddles."
"'Jim Power has tied himself up in a knot with some girl on the river.' Soft words, Jim, to have flung at me this morning.... Oh, how could you do this?"
"Gently, Maud."
"Gently? No, any word but that. Speak up, Jim. What knots your tongue? Cry at me doubter, liar, shabby tattler of tales. The bitterer your words, the sweeter I shall hear them. Where is your tongue? Say you aresick with me for doubting. Say the taste of this day will never leave your mouth, Jim. Frowns won't feed me."
"Stop. I am at the end of what I can bear."
"You won't answer? Jim, it isn't true?"
Then fell upon those two riding side by side in the radiant afternoon the majesty and the melancholy of that wide red land. The little sounds of passage were born and died and put away forgotten. There lived upon the breast of Time the sharp steps of two horses crossing the rubble on the ground. There lived the clink of bits when heads were tossed. There lived the tiny groans of leather. And in the bunches of spinifex punctual insects tuned their throats against the evening. But he and she passed away from all these things, and after much journeying came hand in hand into some rare atmosphere where they kneeled together, two mourners at the bier of dead love. He who was so quickly moved to anger, she who but a space ago had been cold in rage, felt now only a great purifying pity move through them that such a fair comrade had been laid in a narrow bed. Desires, remorses, rages, strifes—those ragged clothes his spirit must often wear—were laid aside on the threshold of this high wide chamber, and he was re-robed in cool garments for the hour of vigil. As their spirits waitedthere, on either side of the bier where Love was laid out among her fading blossoms, their bodies rode across the plain, and presently the long road lay before them, where she must turn right-handed to Surprise and he ride left for Kaloona. There they stayed a little while and spoke together.
She was the first to speak.
"Jim, we can't ride like this for ever. A good thing if we could! I am over the first sharpness. Don't choose your words. We can't ride on like this."
"No, Maud, we can't."
"Do you love her?"
"Yes."
"How did it come about?"
"As such things come about."
"What do you mean?"
"How do such things come about?"
"Does she love you?"
"No."
"What have you said to her? Does she know you care?"
"Yes."
"Ah, as far as that?"
"Since yesterday. Last night I went to end things. Until then not one word had smirchedme or you. I went to say good-bye. She was put before me like a drink. And——"
"You were parched?"
The horses stood with drooped heads, muzzle to muzzle. The hours were growing old, and long shadows climbed across the grasses. A wide hat sheltered her from the sun; but he thought she looked tired and worn, and he wondered which lines summer had drawn there and which he had traced. Next he fell to asking himself if sorrow could sharpen eyesight, for he found himself looking past her body upon her good spirit. It would find food for new growth out of this hurt. Two years ago they had knelt together and received an equal gift. What a good housewife she had proved! What a spendthrift he!
"The afternoon is nearly gone, Jim. I made a promise to be back by sunset. I don't know what to say. I must go on feeling for a little while and then I shall be able to think. I don't understand a man's love. He can put it off and on like a cloak. He wears a woman's livery for a season to find it shabby after that time and himself in need of a newer one. You have worn mine through two seasons and no doubt I should be duly glad."
"Gently."
"I am raw still. Too sick and sorry tostoop about picking up soft words. No, forget what I said. You have made me angry and hurt and scornful, and, if you will have it, jealous; but you have not the art to make me love you any less. Nothing can unteach me what I have learnt through you. You can never make me unhappy as you have made me happy."
"What am I to say?"
"I must be going home."
"Listen to me. Because of what has happened, don't think I'm such a dullard that I don't know the worth of what I had. What ails me! Soon I'll be past caring. I'm at odds with my shadow. I'm too full of ill humours to pull myself on to a horse's back, too sick with things to try a day's work. If you want revenge you can be satisfied."
She saw his face grow keen with sorrow, and last traces of bitterness against him left her. In place arrived a great pity, and a greediness to heal his hurts. She turned away, and thoughtfully with her light fingers began to thread the mane of the big chestnut horse. She laid the hairs this way and that with care, but little she knew of her work. She was thinking with all her might.
She loved this man, and what was love but service? She must serve him now he was in such evil case. What were her wounds but red lips opening in her side that they might speakhis wounds and tell them balm was coming. This was the highest hour of their love, when love was to be crowned with understanding. Let her be speedy and not spend all day debating. A poor passenger was fallen sick by the way, and here was she, loaded with her ointments, who had talked much of her skill. What was love but service, and she said she loved this man?
"What are we to do?"
"There is nothing to do."
"Are you going home?"
"I told her I would go back."
"It's time I started home, Jim."
"Maud!"
"Don't look so serious. You are in worse case than I am. I can laugh at myself and I doubt that of you. Before I go, promise me you will still come to Surprise. It's a sleepy place. You won't find things changed there."
"Yes."
"And now you have promised that, will you come to-morrow? A square promise, fair weather or black, a day's work to do or nothing on hand."
"Yes."
"Good-bye, Jim."
"Good-bye, Maud."
The old horse moved away when she gathered up her reins.
Power kept his promise. The afternoon sun was still high in the sky when he let loose his horse in the stable yard at Surprise and walked across the stones to the house. He approached in view of the shadiest verandah where the household had come together after lunch. In the amplest chair lay Selwyn lost to all the ill humours of the heat; but Mrs. Selwyn interrupted her reading to give him a searching glance, and Neville shot up shaggy eyebrows and cried "Hello!" Maud came down the steps. She wore a big hat as protection from the sun; but she looked up to speak and showed Power the lines of care that twenty-four hours had drawn upon her face.
"Come this way, Jim. It's shady up the creek, and there are too many inside."
They passed together a little way up the bed of the creek, clambering once and again over sharp faces of rock where fair pools of water rest after the rains. They reached a spot where asapling throws a broken shade upon a shelf of stone. They sat down. The prospect is gentle here as prospects are judged at Surprise. Below, stands the house peering round the bank of the rise—above, the creek climbs up into the hills.
"Well, Jim?"
"Yes."
"Come, don't look so cut up. It isn't fair to me. I've spent all day looking things in the face and you must help."
"I've come here as you asked. What is there to say?"
"Do you still feel the same about her?"
"Yes. It will always be the same."
"We have come to the end of things. Is that it?"
"It needn't be that. There is friendship left."
"Fall from first to second place? How dare you ask me that.... What makes you like this? She has nothing more than her looks. She has no education. She can have only a child's experience of life."
"It makes no difference."
"And where will you be when the glamour has gone?"
"It will be time to see when that happens."
"But they say she isn't even a good girl. A girl must be so weak to let men do as they like with her."
"We have said enough."
"And what am I to do? Make the best of things I can? Take off my love like an old coat and throw it away because it is out at the elbows? Jim, you don't know what love is. That's why this thing has happened."
"Talking won't mend things."
"There's no more to say; is that what you mean? We have come to the parting of the ways. I'm to understand that, am I? The house I built has tumbled on top of me, and I am to get clear of the ruins as best I can. In a little while this affair of yours will be over, and where shall we both be? Can't you see what a priceless thing we are ready to waste?"
"Of course I see it; but it makes no difference. I was a man a month ago, able to take or let alone. Now ... I love the child. There's the beginning and end of it."
"We had a hundred things to help us over the difficult bits of life and now because you are tired I am asked to feel the same. That's where the laugh comes in. I find I can't do it."
"What a cad you make me!"
"She doesn't love you. You told me that yesterday. How are you going to get over that?"
"She may change."
"Have you thought what I have to face?'There goes Maud Neville who was found wanting and now takes second place to a girl whose lips are plastered with the kisses of a dozen men.' Some day the words may not seem much; just now, my friend, they have a harsh sound. How dare you bring me to this?"
"Would you have us marry as things are?"
"No, I wouldn't. I must eat my humble pie. But as yet I cannot make myself believe that we are at the end of things. It's not easy to speak out the truth even to you. I ought to cut you for good. But I just can't do it. Love takes a lot of killing. The world will think me a girl of poor spirit; but better that than that this thing should come to grief in haste. I must have time to think things out. I owe this to you and to myself.... What are you looking at the sun for? Do you want to get away?"
"I have to meet O'Neill at three o'clock."
"Meet him at three so as to be in time somewhere else later on—I suppose that's it. Well, so be it."
"Are you coming to the stable?"
"No. I'm going to stay here a little while. Jim, this mustn't be our good-bye. Before you go, promise me you won't quite forget us here. Come when you can."
"Good-bye."
"Good-bye."
In this far country spendthrift November used up one by one its days. Each fiery noontide pulled the sun a little higher into the sky. His way was set in a wide field of blue, where seldom came one timid cloud to loiter an hour and float fearfully away. The season of the rains drew near; but as yet was no sign of the storm wrack, which drifts up evening by evening and drifts away—a herald of the deluge which presently shall burst upon the land. Night, hot and passionate, followed night, hot and passionate—each night roofed with high white twinkling stars. The Scorpion was falling from his lofty place, and Orion carried his sword and belt up from the horizon.
In the mornings of those long November days as the eight o'clock whistle blew shrill from the engine house, the men of Surprise Valley descended into the bowels of the hills, there to drive and to stope, to put up their rises and put down their winzes, to employ hammer and drill in thedamp places and in the hot places, to push their trucks, to set their fuses, to batter with their spluttering machines until the day was worn out, and the five o'clock whistle called them to the surface. A strange land theirs of gloomy tunnelled ways; a land of shadows dancing before moving candles; a land of roofs which dipped and soared; a land of grim, cheerless walls and floors, patched with damp, where black holes opened out and ladders led up and ladders led down; a land of changing colours as here and here the green copper looked out from its hiding place. In such a country lived the men of Surprise Valley between the two whistles of the day.
At the house of Mr. Neville, manager of Surprise, November was accepted with small complaint. Many a dawn of day, every set of sun found Selwyn striding like an honest man into the bush. Lean and pinched he showed at early morning, hat tilted jauntily forward, cigarette end pushed out below his clipped moustache, trusty gun under hooked right arm. Leaner still he looked at evening, as he followed his long shadow across the ground, marching towards a gully in the hills, where one might blunder on the Lord knew what—kangaroo, wallaby, or even a python. A python, be Gad! at one's very back door!
Each November morning Mrs. Selwyn, after privately counting off one more day to departure, took a book to the verandah, and sat in the cool to read a little and observe a good deal more. She was discreetly watching for evidence of the truth of Hilton's news. It was more than likely that he had got hold of the wrong end of the stick; still it was worth while discovering if there was anything in the story. If there was truth, the girl certainly had no inkling of the matter. She looked a little tired and worried now and then; but this impossible country would wear anyone out. It was a shame to think of her buried here indefinitely. She must think about asking her down for the summer. Thank goodness half the stay was over. Their rainy season began next month, and she was going to make certain of not being cooped up here then.
Of that household only Maud Neville found November more miserly of the hours than October. She was living her tragedy alone.
She explored the frailties of the human spirit—found the heights it could climb in a courageous hour, and followed it down into dark ways. It seemed angel and devil waited on her, clanging in turn for entrance. When she opened to the kind spirit she grew careless of her own hurts, and only was glad that she loved a manwho was in trouble and whom she might have skill to help. When the demon came in at the door he whispered her she was a woman who loved a man, and who had been loved by him once upon a time. Now, with lips which had kissed her, the man kissed the robber who had stolen him away, and held that robber in the arms which once supported her. At such times she cried she was learning to hate this turncoat. If presently he would come riding up to sit beside her with long face, she would cry, "Begone to your child who bids you click and unclick her gate."
One terrible minute spent at this time with her father, more than all her resolutions, saved her from the melancholy which was falling upon her, and determined her to carry abroad again an untroubled face. She stood in the dining-room before lunch, trifling the moments away, when the old man stamped in, hat cocked to one side, pipe in mouth, heavy walking-stick in clutch. He was flushed from the sun and short of breath; but he blundered to the attack.
"Hey, Maud, what's this that's running round the place? Jim Power playing the double business with you. In a mess with that girl of Gregory's. I may be wrong, but I reckon I know how to settle that kind of thing. I may be wrong, huh, huh! No man plays fast and loosewith a girl of mine. I'll have the blackguard kicked off the lease next time he——" The old man came to a standstill.
She had shown him a face grey with rage. Her words were colder than drops of ice falling upon snow.
"How dare you come in like this, father, blustering your way into a business where you have no concern! Jim and I can keep our house in order, and our very best thanks to you. How dare you come in like this, father, without apology to us?"
The old man took his pipe from his mouth the better to meet the attack. His shaggy white eyebrows bristled. "Goodness! girl, don't lose your head like that. I heard wrong, I reckon, in the town just now." He put back the pipe in his mouth and gathered confidence. "Well, that's all to be said about the matter, Maud, only a bit of news to remember is—nobody plays the game of do-as-you-please with my daughter. I may be wrong, huh, huh!" Then he scrambled about and went out of the room.
While the slothful lips of November counted away the days—if at that time Maud plucked all the strings of the lyre, and sounded high melody and awaked rough discord; if she fingered all the stops of feeling, the man she loved made music no less wild. As hope shuttered her lodgebehind him, as despair came as neighbour to his street, he grew careless of opinion, thoughtless of the future, and with an appetite eager only to lap clean the dish of the present. Love was revealed as a light, blinding him who looked there to all but its brightness. As he stumbled towards it, calling out loud for a veil, it moved away. All his hurry and loud cries brought him no nearer, as a man may climb mountain upon mountain and never reach the stars.
As he grew mad, he grew wise with a cheerless wisdom. He rode to the river; he rode away; again he rode to the river. To-night he held in his arms the child he loved, and covered her with kisses. To-morrow he would hold her thus again. But ever Love fled him as he came. Ever Love turned in flight to mock him. Ever Love danced away on rosy toes. Strange teaching this—that a man can own the House of Love, and stamp adown the house from garret to cellar, and not on one couch find Love awaiting him. This child would lie in his arms through long minutes, would kiss back his kisses at his command, and press back his embraces—and all the passion spent on her passed over her, as when the clouds open on an autumn day, and the sun runs across the waiting field. As he sealed her eyes with kisses, behold they were sleepy with dreams another had laid there;as he stopped her mouth with his mouth, the taste of another's lips sweetened her own. Who knows that if her shallow little soul had cried to him then down the distance that his spirit might not have found sight and seen the poor thing it pursued. So Love might have wearied in the chase. But because this small thing fled him, he must snatch up his torch to follow, and among the high shadows of its leaping fire, surely one was the shadow of the thing he hunted.
He grew a tattered hermit of the woods who said good-bye and stole back as the night grew old to glide among the trees and watch the light fall from her doorway. Hither and thither he passed, that he might hear her laugh from here, that his ears might woo her voice from there, that now her shadow might cross the window as ointment for his eyes. The flying-foxes saw him at his watch, and high above the tree tops white stars stared down.
The light would go out in her hut, and for a little while the ghost of a light would peer through the pale wall of her tent. Did she pray in those few moments as she robed herself for sleep? Was she kneeling in that poor tent at her rough bed, vestured in white with her shining hair fallen unlooped about her? Did her straight white narrow feet push under thehem of her gown, with toes bent upon the surly ground? Did she remember him in the little prayers that fluttered up to God? Did she whisper a man loved her, who was in sore need of help? No. In her brief life she had scarce heard the name of God. Her rich body was her prayer.
Hush! The light behind her wall is quenched. She is folding herself for sleep. The stars lift their thousand candles above her. The forest shall be the posters of her bed. These great bats fluttering across the dark shall carry her kind dreams from utmost places. Hush! Another pilgrim comes among the waiting trees, but not to stay like him with lean face peering among the trunks. This pilgrim steals into the open and raises the soft doorway of that darkened chamber. See her go in with warning finger, poppies wreathed about her hair, poppies climbing up her staff. She has gone in, and on the drowsy lips of that young child has placed the largest poppy of all to rub out his rough kisses of the day.
Aye, now the child sleeps, and no longer need he creep wakeful here, fingering the rough bark of trees, and stepping clumsy on loud twigs. He can take himself home, and from his own tumbled bed shout loud on timid Sleep to remember him.
Sweet child who lies secure there, where now is your little soul fleeing? What ripe field does it find for its walks? What wide-armed trees hold out their shade to meet it? What flowers lift up their perfumed cups to spy who passes? What painted birds cast out their crystal notes from bush and briar to hail it? What purple hills pile up behind to hide the shabby land where by day it is compelled to dwell? Sweet child, in pity tell this tattered watchman that he may lace winged sandals to his feet, and in a brighter country sweep forward in the flight.
On the afternoon of the last of those November days Maud Neville chose again the road to Pelican Pool. She had learned of Power's banishment until dark to a corner of the run, and so might take the way without fear of a meeting. Time, if a slow leech, was proving of service, and misery had been exchanged for a jog-along content.
The picture was discovering its proportions, and, from the chair of justice, she could examine it and pronounce verdict. It was crudely drawn when studied thus. A man ran crying for a prize which he would throw away as soon as gained. He demanded the meagre thing because it stayed out of reach. There was humour in the picture if one was in the mood to see it.
To-day an idea had come, building itself to shape during the morning. As a result, when lunch was over, she had saddled the chestnut horse again and taken the road to the river.
As she left the stable, Mr. King crossed to the office. He waited for her in the path, and she pulled up the horse.
"Aren't you very energetic so early in the day?"
"One has to do something for a change, even if one becomes energetic. Life is rather like those travelling shows that find the way here sometimes. You have to clap and laugh loud in case you yawn your head off."
"I would sooner yawn than clap on a day like this. Where are you off to?"
"Somewhere. Anywhere. As the spirit shall move."
She felt friendly towards this man, who stood wrinkling his face at the sunlight—a little slow, a little stout, and rather middle-aged. He too was tangled in this stupid net. Could he have guessed it, she was in no better case than he. He might have guessed it. The laugh might be his as much as hers.
"Sometimes life moves fast enough to prevent one yawning," he said.
"So you have told me lately. Then you still look for copper by Pelican Pool? You are a good miner, Mr. King. You follow the lode to its end."
"Did you think the fool ever learns from his folly?" he said.
"As much as the wise man garners from his wisdom."
"What, the sage is the fool grown old and bloodless?"
"Why not the spectator who leaves the arena to watch from the box."
"But will he seek the box, before he has lost in the arena? First, must he not be broken by the other wrestlers, and come second in the footrace?"
"Perhaps so, Mr. King."
"I must get under the tree, here. The sun never agrees with me after lunch. That's better. Now I am ready for your profoundest philosophy. Have you any for me?"
"Mr. King, I want you to be serious for once."
"What do you want?"
"Now don't be angry. Do you think it right to run after this girl? She is very young."
"Right? There are no such things as right or wrong."
"I said be serious."
"I am serious. There are no such things as right or wrong. Mark me the virtuous one. Find me the sinner. Some are born godly—a fig then for their virtue. Some have no wish for narrow ways. Who shall point a finger at them? Some struggle and win or lose. They who win have been lent strength—where then theirvirtue? They who lose were denied aid. Where is their vice? Foolish human souls all of us, given the hopes of angels and the bodies of beasts."
"Fine big words, Mr. King."
"And if virtue exists, where is its reward? Does the gardener turn his spade from the worm that tills his garden. Does the fowler cast less wide his net lest he trap the song bird that soothed him overnight. The old ox to the shambles. The old horse to the knacker."
"Come, I am not to be bluffed. Don't you think you ought to leave such a child alone?"
"But why must I let be and others go on? Besides, her arms are very wide."
"How can you talk like that, Mr. King. I thought you were fond of her. You have made me angry now."
She drew the reins together and Stockings passed at a fast walk across the plain. Presently the green belt of the river had risen out of the horizon, and later they had come among the first trees. As she was carried into the nobler timber, and saw the ribbons of water among laced boughs, and met the pleasant play of light and shade, and felt the cooler ways, and heard the call of birds in hidden places, the charm of this quiet spot beside the river affected her magically as it had done three weeks before. Indeed,this time she felt better able to face circumstance. Then she had been an untried soldier, firm enough of purpose, but one whom the first whistle of bullets had shocked. Three weeks of war had proven her.
She rode' to the edge of the water. She found the fair scene had no whit altered—unless the margin of the Pool had shrunken—unless the great white lilies had tired of blooming, and slept now beneath the water until another year should revive them—unless the sun, climbed higher in the sky, stared down more unkindly.
After a space spent thus, with Stockings standing beneath her like a rock, she turned over what was to be done. She frowned a little and nursed her lip. It was not a pleasant errand she had come on, nor one with a beginning easy to find. She had come to talk with the girl that lived here, and bring her to a decision. She must give Jim yes or no. Let her have him if she wanted; but let her say so. This could not go on. His character was being sapped away. Let the girl take him and he would have what he wanted, or let her send him away and he must pull himself together. It did not matter to her—Maud. Things had gone too far. The worst had been over a long time, and she could look the future in the face. She was sure she did not care now as acutely as once she haddone. She would do him this kindness for old times sake, and then she must begin to put him out of her life. But it was a hateful business. She might meet scorn at the girl's hands—worse, Jim might hear of her errand and think she was willing to throw pride away, if by hook or by crook she could clutch back his affection. Well, love must go on many services, and the trusted servant travels always by unkindest ways.
She ordered Stockings forward, and he backed from the edge of the Pool into the trees and followed the bridle path where soon the camp would discover itself. The gentle birds piped them down their passage. The hut came out among the trees. It looked mean and shabby from long wooing by the weather. The hessian walls were drooping and the tents had crumbled.
She pulled up the horse before he had carried her from the shelter of the trees. She was disturbed again as to what to do. She must pretend to come that way by chance. And how do that? She might ride up to the door and ask for a cup of water. And then father or mother might open to her. Well, things would happen as they would happen, and wit was the serving man to enlist.
When she was ready to give Stockings thesignal to advance, he lifted his ears. She followed their direction and discovered she was watched. Next instant she found the watcher was the girl she had come to find. The child must have gone among the trees to gather dead branches for firewood, and now stood there among the trunks, as still as they, staring at her boldly. The figure might have been a dryad pausing on the instant before flight. Its loveliness wounded her as though a dart had been cast at her. Who could look upon such beauty and after be content with less? She touched the flank of her big horse, and he carried her across the space still to traverse. He came to full stop when she tightened the reins.
She must be the first to speak. The girl had stood unmoved the while, looking her boldly in the face. She wondered if she guessed her name from hearsay.
"That must be hot work for the middle of the day. It would have waited for evening. But I'm setting no better example, am I, riding about the country like this? I was glad to find these trees."
She looked the girl over from head to foot. She judged her to be eighteen years old or no more than nineteen, but a flower which had come quick to bloom. She looked her over with uncharitable eyes, but nowhere found fault. Shegave up the task to tell herself never had she seen such beauty. The girl returned stare for stare.
"I was gettin' a few sticks together," Moll Gregory answered. "Dad went off without chopping a thing this morning, and we've run short."
"Are you in a hurry to be back with them?"
"No. Why?"
"I've made myself hot. This looks a nice place to spend a minute or two. Will you keep me company a little while? I must soon go on."
Maud dismounted, the better to push matters forward. As she patted the old horse she looked about for a seat. A fallen tree lay at hand, and she dropped the reins upon the ground and sat down upon it. Moll Gregory stood where she was, her eyes wide open. It seemed solitude had not taught her to be shy. It occurred to Maud she must not delay. At any moment the father or mother might come out of the doorway and opportunity be gone.
"You have a lovely place to live in," she said. "But you must find it out of the way. It's a long fag to Surprise."
"It's a treat for us. There isn't too much doing round here."
"I dare say. But loneliness has not kept you quite hidden. You are better known than youmay think. I had heard of you before we met to-day. You are Moll Gregory, aren't you? You know a friend of mine. Mr. Power, of Kaloona. He told me about you once. He said he had met you in his travels."
The eyes which looked at her big with curiosity fell asleep all in a moment. But the change made their loveliness no less lovely.
"Yes, I know Mr. Power."
"I'm a great friend of his. We have been friends a long time. Almost brother and sister. We tell each other most secrets."
She wished the girl would say something. But instead, Moll Gregory continued to stand before her, beautiful and sulky. It was the sense of hurry in the matter that found her courage to go on. "Yes, we are pretty staunch friends," she said desperately. She took courage in both hands. "He told me how fond he had become of you lately."
"Mr. Power is a poor sort of feller to go running about with tales."
The insult brought speech crowding into her mouth. "When you know Mr. Power a little better you will find him to be no very expert merchant of stories. Friend to friend is an honest enough matter. And as a matter of fact——" She stopped. She had not courage to say she had been her own bloodhound.
"Well, and what about it?"
"I suppose there's not much to say about it, is there, since it's no affair of mine? But I hear my friend has little enough to be glad over, for it seems you don't care much for him. I'm his friend, and so I'm sorry. That's all."
"He thinks that, do he?"
"And is it true?"
"That's my business, isn't it?"
"It's nobody's business that I have ever heard to let a man make himself miserable, and for his pains give him neither no or yes."
"A girl don't always ask a man to come crying after her. You don't expect a girl to nurse every man that runs at her skirt."
"There is such a thing as kindness."
Moll Gregory shrugged her shoulders.
"Don't think Mr. Power sent me here to plead for him. He can look after himself in most cases I have found. But I am so great a friend of his that it distresses me to see him so unhappy. The quicker he is sent about his business the sooner he will find cure. I hate to interfere; but it was for old acquaintance sake I came along to-day to ask you to help me put things into better shape. I tell you Mr. Power is a changed man this last month. It hurts me keenly to see him come to this."
"I will tell him the worry he's givin' you."
"You must never say a word about this visit."