She was dead, but the three men that had loved her were still condemned to use the eyes that had looked upon her, to employ the arms that had supported her, to move the lips that had been pressed by her kisses.
There came an end to the advance. A stone's throw beyond the halting place began the current. The river swept on its journey with a high tremendous cry. Far among the timber on the other bank brown currents surged and boiled. Trunks of trees whirled down from distant forests; rubbish from a hundred places hurried out of sight. The lesser trees danced their leaves upon the waves. Like a barbarous giant the river thundered to the sea.
Somewhere in that yeast of waters the child's fair body hurried away. From the tumult of the river it was passing to the amorous embraces of a coral sea. The scarlet lips where so many men had left their kisses would be caressed anew by the gentle lips of an ocean. By day and by night that slender form would float on its final journey, peering into the mouths of solemn caverns, stroked by the tresses of love-sickweeds, secure from the greedy suns staring hungrily through the blue roof, and followed by the curious moon as she looked to see what radiant thing took its walk by dark along the ocean bed.
The brilliant fishes would arrive to peer at this rare thing, the loathsome octopus beneath his ledge of rock would hide his shame behind a sepia curtain, and presently the brown pearl-fisher, descending from his bobbing barque, would halt in wonder at a pearl larger and more lustrous than all his toils had brought him.
Where had fled the little soul? Perhaps as a tiny jewelled bird already it fluttered through celestial fields, quick and charming and bright, but a thing of small account. In that new country where sight was keener, it would not again be priced above its worth.
The flow and hurry of the river was drugging Power's mind. He broke the spell by a jerk of the head, and looking behind him saw King not very far away deep in the water. King was suddenly an old man. Power turned to the horseman beside him. O'Neill stared at the broken hut. His head was thrust forward, and he sat huddled in the saddle. The water had climbed to the saddle-flap, and the ends of his oilskin played with the waves. He began to speak at that moment.
"I reckon I'd have a chance of getting across. I could go higher up and beat the pull of the current."
"You wouldn't," Power said. "And no use if you could. She isn't there. We shan't see her again."
"Gawd! I must go across! I can't stay here!"
"It will do no good, Mick. She has escaped us."
Power drew his horse beside the other man, for the clamour of the river made speech difficult. He began to speak more intimately than ever he remembered doing.
"Once I loved her in a way it will be hard to love anyone else. Then passion seemed to go away—somewhere, I don't know where; but she taught me so much I shall never be out of her debt. She has made me look on life with new eyes.
"I have something to tell you. I was down here last night before the rain began. She had been alone all day, and she was quite strange—so serious. We talked about a lot of things, and I asked her which of us three she loved. She said it was you. The three of us fought over her, and in the middle she slipped away and it seems we have lost her; but because she loved you, she left you her best behind.
"We must go back and get dry. There is nothing else to do. To-morrow, if the storms keep away, we can look for her lower down; but we won't find her. Just now the world seems to have come to an end. Things will be straighter in a bit, and we'll find there is something to be got out of this. To reach for a thing and to get it may be good enough, but a man grows quicker by stretching for the thing beyond his hand. We shall always remember her as a fairy thing out of reach, and looking for her to come again will help a fellow to growl less in the summer, give him more patience to teach his dog manners, hurry him through the day's work. Come, we must get back."
Power brought his horse about. He heard O'Neill splash behind him. He went across to King, and King turned up a haggard face.
"We must get back. There is nothing to do."
The three men began to splash towards the land. Two more buggies had arrived on the bank. Scandalous Jack was getting down from one, and the other was drawn by the white buggy horses of Surprise. The old man sat in the driver's seat and beside him was Maud Neville. Power met her glance across the distance. The three men reached the bank.
Power dismounted. He was full of tiny pains and the cold was beginning to eat into his bones. Neville had pulled up the buggy near at hand. The old man was plastered with mud to his shaggy eyebrows.
"Hey, Power!" he shouted out. "What's become of the gel?"
"We were too late."
"Goodness, that's a nuisance! Get out, Maud, gel. I want to get down." The two people got down from the buggy. "Now that's annoyin'," went on the old man, feeling under the seat for his stick. "Nearly killed ourselves getting here, too. I may be wrong, but I reckon the horses won't be much good for a day or two, huh, huh! Here's what I was after. It's looking a bit more settled over there now. The rain may be gone for a while."
Scandalous arrived across the mud.
"Hold this horse," Power said. He delivered it and walked forward to meet Neville. Theyhad not met for many days and saluted each other abruptly.
"The gel's drowned after all, then, Power?"
"Yes."
"You would have thought a gel like her would find sense to look after herself. No sign of her anywhere about?" The old man cast glances up and down the bank.
"We'll search lower down to-morrow."
"Yes, I reckon that's all there is to do. It's not much use hanging round here gettin' cold. The river came down pretty quick and pretty big. Gracious! What's up with King! Goodness, he's badly hit!"
The old man trotted away after King.
Maud stood beside the buggy. She was looking at the river. Power found himself watching her. She was wet through and blown about by the wind; but her gaze was steady as it followed the rush of the current. Of those who had hurried here in panic, she only was serene; yet the schoolmaster had set her the severest tasks. It must be she was the aptest pupil. Power tried to follow her thoughts. She was finding a symbol in the river. It had rushed down with a great cry upon this quiet place, snatching away the old landmarks. Its fury would wear out presently, and over the wrecked country akindly growth of green would make its way. That was what she saw.
Power fell into reflection. Two months ago he had found Gregory sleeping a drunken sleep on the road, had taken pity on him and had led him home. In the doorway of a shabby tent beside the river he had seen Molly for the first time. Two months had gone by since then, and for sixty days he had lived life more acutely than he had believed possible. He would not wish to live life so keenly again. He seemed to have travelled in every country. He seemed to have lived in every climate. He seemed to have climbed every height and to have gone down into every dark way. All books had been opened that he might look inside. All strings of experience had been plucked that he might listen to new notes.
These two months were at an end, and there seemed no more countries to visit, no more climates to test, no more heights to climb, no more depths to descend. The books were being shut. The strings of experience were growing mute. Instead of turning his ears to siren voices, he listened again to the speech of everyday. In place of fields of asphodel, he trod again the highway. It was time to see where he stood—to add up gains and subtract losses.
Strange that the metal must pass through thefire before the artificer will receive it. Strange that a man must experience sorrow before wisdom will shape him to its ends. Yet such burnings need not be considered punishment, such sorrow need not be counted degradation.
He had served his apprenticeship to love and now might call himself craftsman. He knew where to chisel with his tools—not in the poor material of the human body, but in the enduring fabric of the spirit. He had learned this craft, and the fee of apprenticeship had been that he had put aside unrecognised the finest material that would come under his hand.
He came out of his reverie and found Maud watching him. He went towards her through the pools of water.
. . . . . .
My tale is told. While nine months have been wearing out, I have come back, night by night, to this tent, a scribe who would beguile the hour with the telling of a story. The tale is told to the last word. Put down the pen; run in the horses and saddle up. It is time to seek new places. The railway line creeps across the plain to Surprise; and growth and change will fall upon the camp to devour it. Take down the tent, fill up the tucker-bags and load the pack-horse. It is time to be gone.
W. C. Penfold & Co. Ltd., Printers, 183 Pitt Street, Sydney.
Book list 1
Book list 2