"You, Mr. Neville? Turned hot, hasn't it? Can I do anything?"
"I suppose ye know your horse had its head into my chaff half the morning? The last ton ran me up eighteen shilling a bag."
Mr. Smith shut his eyes. "I've driven it over the other way twice this afternoon," he said. "I sat down five minutes ago."
"I'm talking of the morning."
"I was at school then."
"That don't put my chaff in the bag."
Maud came to the front. "That's enough, father. I hope the horse had a good dinner. It does the Company good to give away a little chaff. How is the book getting on?"
Mr. Smith shook his head. "According to the time-table the third chapter would have been finished this week, but everything is turning out against it. I am afraid this life isn't conducive to study, and my unfortunate poverty precludes me from obtaining the necessary reference books. Directly I sit down, there's the dog to put out, or the cat to put in, and, honestly, as my name is Pericles Smith——"
"Perry!" a woman's voice called from somewhere, "there's a wretched goat at the flour."
"Instantly, darling." Mr. Smith closed his eyes. "I live in the hope of getting an hour to myself one day; but for ten years——"
"Perry, there's another goat joining it."
"At once, dear. I suppose I shall write the words 'Chapter Four' some day, but——"
"Well, I'm not going to stay here while you chatter any longer," interrupted the old man, moving off, "and you, Smith, you look after that horse of yours or ye'll find yourself reading a pretty long bill."
They came away with Smith still in the doorway.
"I wish he wouldn't make me laugh. I am so sorry for him," said Maud.
King made answer. "It's not the best of lives this, packing up for somewhere at the end of every week, knowing the sun will be at the back of your neck all day, and a dozen wild children wait at the journey-end for the ABC to be knocked into their heads. I am content to stay plain John King."
"A man can say he has put a good day's work behind him," Power said, "and that's as well. It helps to pull his thoughts straight at night."
"Jim, you are taking life so heavily to-day. I had to cheer up Mr. King this morning because he looked too long at the pretty girl. Now you have caught the blues somewhere."
The butcher's shop stands on this side of the hotel, and on Tuesday and Saturday the butcher stands behind his block, and chops your fate up with the meat. Mrs. Niven, Mrs. Boulder and Mrs. Bullock grow very humble when they go a-shopping. It is "Mr. Simpson, and how's the heat been using yer, and is there any chance of a bit o' the silverside this time?" And "Mr. Simpson, and I suppose the flies is worrying yer a treat, and I take it it's my turn for the undercut." And Simpson, with a to-do of knife and steel makes answer. "Now, I'm givin' wot there is, and I'm not givin' nothing else, and if yer aren't satisfied, yer can go elsewhere. I reckon the next butcher isn't farther than Mount Milton, and I reckon Mount Milton isn't more than seventy mile."
"Aw, you are gettin' at us, Mr. Simpson," comes the timid chorus.
The bakery stands between the butcher's and the hotel, presenting itself to the world as a building of wood and bagging of a very cutthroat appearance. Mr. Regan, baker, being a man of parts, turns a pleasant sovereign or two in the little "Crown and Anchor" saloon at the back. A couple of nights a week the policeman looks in to run the bank for an hour or so. It's "Now don't stand feeling yer corns there as though yer ole woman was watching. Choose yer crown, and pick yer anchor. The dice aren't loaded more than my old grandad's gun was, and I never see him try to blow to bits anything stronger than his nose. Come on, gents, every throw a crown, and every chuck an anchor. An' don't forget time's flying, as the monkey said when he 'eaved the clock through the winder."
They took their stand under the hotel verandah. In twos and threes Surprise strolled to the meeting ground. Neville waved his stick a dozen times and grunted a how-de-do and shouted. Mr. Horrington appeared presently, and later disappeared; and others of note swelled the congregation. In a doorway loitered Barcoo Bill, as graceful a hand at duffing a horse as you might find this side of the border. Into stout argument had fallen one-eyed Sal, who, armed with a crowbar, and fortified with a bottle of Dewar's best, had once upon a time defeated the only policeman in a single round go-as-you-please affair. In a patch of shade kicked his heels Iron-jawed Dick, who, for the price of a drink, had lifted in his teeth a table laid for dinner. Other people—tall and short, lean and stout—took their stand up and down the way, and kept ever the tail of an eye on the horizon. Dusty curs mooched about, and sat down suddenly to beat their stomachs with a back leg. At half the posts were hitched high-rumped horses with rusty saddles a-top of them.
The walk in the sun had left King a good deal the worse for wear. He pulled forth a handkerchief and pushed it about his face. "If," said he, making an end, "things are ordered properly in the world to come, we shall have a special heaven to ourselves. There the sun will totter through the sky in a mild old age, the rivers will run water, the goats will come home to be milked, and the woodbox will never empty. And an angel will wait at the gates holding out a flypaper in place of a flaming sword."
"Hey?" cried the old man in a sudden excitement. He was beating his stick at the distance.
. . . . . . .
The five goose-rumped horses, in a lather of sweat, and chastened with a great following of flies and dust clouds, had lumbered the coach to the top of the last rise, and the first tents of Surprise, and the poppet heads of the mine were marching into view, as Mrs. Selwyn stated for the third time on the journey that she did not know whether she was on her crown or her toes. From the box seat, Joe Gantley, mailman, steered his team with bored fingers, jerking his head to the right now and then to clear his throat, and spitting the flies from his lips on occasion in an every-day sort of way. Selwyn and Mrs. Selwyn were packed beside him, where the sun leaned down, the dust climbed up, and there was perpetual prospect of heaving flanks and clicking hoofs.
Mrs. Selwyn had come to the struggle in a dust coat and a veil of many folds; and in face of a hundred difficulties that massive woman had lost no jot of dignity, remaining to the end a most inspiring spectacle.
Selwyn had made the best of a bad place at the end of the row. By a judicious play of elbow and hip he had widened his share of matters, and now could lean a little easier and find a bit of support for the hollow of his back. He had grown shabby from the funnel of dust rising from the top of the wheel, but he was not a man to be put about by small matters, as he was always very ready to let you know.
Hilton Selwyn, a director of the Surprise Copper Mining Company, and gentleman of no other special business, was at this time between fifty and fifty-five, but lean and active in spite of middle age. Cleancut in feature, upright in carriage, he suggested the military man, and his youthful step would have passed him as any age. It was only on discovery of the thinned grey hair and close-clipped tobacco-stained moustache that one understood half a century had gone over his head.
Half a century had gone over his head and health had become treacherous. He could crawl through a swamp at dawn on the chance of an odd teal, and come home to a thumping breakfast; but two minutes weeding in the garden brought on sciatica. Similarly he could stand all day in a drizzle of rain persuading a trout to rise, and more than one biting July breakfast-time had found him half naked worming a way across the lawn of his country place to a flock of pigeon feeding in the timber; but indoors his only seat was right over the fire, where he took the warmth from everybody—as Mrs. Selwyn was often good enough to tell him.
It was to get himself into better fettle that he sought the present change of scene. He woke up one evening of last winter from his after-dinner sleep in the best arm-chair. The waking up was a delicate matter. He gave two long drawn-out yawns. He shot a fist into the air and stretched slowly, rolled himself into a sitting position, blinked once or twice, screwed up his face as though he had a bad taste in the mouth, caught hold of the mantelpiece and pulled himself on to his legs. He rocked about a little, screwed up his face again, and at last quite woke up. His hair was like a storm at sea, his tie was crooked, his dress clothes were creased.
In the manner of a man announcing news of deep interest he spoke:
"I feel a little better now. I think I deserve a cigarette." He felt in his pockets for his cigarette case. He looked on the floor, in the fender, and under the cushions of the arm-chair. "Dear me! Where's my cigarette case?"
"You don't think I have it, do you?" Mrs. Selwyn asked coldly. She had been playing hostess to a couple of friends while the host slept.
"I don't know where it is; it's not here, anyhow." A terrific frown came over his face. "This accursed habit of tidying is making the house impossible to live in. One puts a thing down, and the next minute some interfering meddler picks it up and hides it, and then forgets where they put it. Curse everybody!"
Mrs. Selwyn grew very stiff. "Is this language meant for me? I shall not submit another moment to it. I am very pleased your cigarette case is lost. I hope it has gone for good. You are a perfect plague with your things. It is very good of anyone to touch them at all. In future they can lie where they drop as far as I am concerned."
"I hope everyone else will be equally kind. There may be a chance of finding things then. Life's not worth living as it is, with a troop of women following one about picking up every little thing one puts down and then losing it."
Selwyn shouted at the top of his voice. "Jane!" The parlourmaid came in. His smile was charming. "I've lost my cigarettes, Jane. They are nowhere to be found."
"The case is on the mantelpiece, sir, in the library, where you left it this afternoon."
"Ah!" Selwyn saved an awkward situation by finding a pipe and cleaning it. Mrs. Selwyn watched him keenly. He cried out suddenly.
"You women amuse me. You live in an agony of unrest in case a bit of ash gets on a chair or rug, and shorten your lives with the excitement of finding a fishing-bag with a few fish in it on a drawing-room sofa instead of in the kitchen. There never was a woman yet with a true idea of comfort. Hullo! chocolates here. They don't look bad at all." He proved his words by diving into the box and bringing out a handful, which he munched with obvious satisfaction.
"I believe in a man liking sweets. It shows he doesn't drink." He munched on a moment or two. Then he smiled with the charm that deceived guests into believing him a solicitous host. "Now who is going to play or sing? I am sure none of you are entertaining Harry as I should have done had health allowed. By the way though, I did hear some music. I think I must have been asleep. It was that sherry we had at dinner. It's a fatal thing to wet one's whistle with. A glass or two of sherry followed by the genial blaze of a good fire on the pit of the stomach, and the case is hopeless. I expect these chocolates will play up with my hollow tooth. It's a sad thing to arrive at my time of life and begin to feel oneself giving way everywhere. I can't get about as I used to. A hard day's shooting knocks me up." He shook his head in deeply sympathetic manner.
"Haven't you done enough talking about yourself?"
"I'm talking because I'm the only one here with any ideas of conversation. You are all sitting like a crowd at a wake before the whisky is passed round."
"You give everybody a racking headache."
"I'm very sorry. I don't know why, but there it is, I never get headaches."
"Nothing would ever kill you."
"You needn't be so annoyed about it. As a matter of fact I've not been at all well these last few months; only, unlike other people, I make no fuss about it. I've a thundering good mind to see a doctor to-morrow. I jolly well will."
Great matters followed on that little upset. The rocky state of his health came as a thunderbolt to Selwyn. His medical man said an entire change of scene and climate was absolutely needful. What better place than Surprise where every worry could be put behind? With a fishing-rod and a gun-case in the baggage a man should be good for a six-month's stay. Mrs. Selwyn began with a stout refusal. She knew as well as she was alive the affair would end disastrously. She had a presentiment some calamity was waiting. She could foresee with her capable brain how unfitted Hilton was for the whole business. Her heart was in her mouth at the mere thought of the journey. And look at the expense. "Think of my purse!" she cried. "Think of my pocket!" Finally she fell into agreement, so as to be at hand to say "I told you so."
Thus it came about that a fiery November afternoon found the Selwyns covering the last mile of the journey. The back of the coach was a-choke with wares. The mail bags shared the bottom with the Selwyn luggage, and a round dozen of other parcels held the hopes of as many women at Surprise. Mrs. Niven, Mrs. Bloxham, Mrs. Anybody-else-you-please, lured by a catalogue, had summoned them in a halting hand weeks before, and had spent spare time counting up the days to their coming. On top of this bundle of wares, in no ways a bed of their choosing, were chained Selwyn's proved bodyguard, the sharers of his board, almost the sharers of his bed. They were a mangy pointer of great age, and a terrier with a punishing jaw. The pointer had fallen into a miserable doze; but the terrier yet nursed hope of sudden calamity, and kept a quarrelsome eye at half-cock.
With a crack of the whip, a spurt from the goose-rumped horses, and a stir among the waiting congregation, the coach rolled to a standstill before Surprise Valley Hotel. Such was the manner of the Selywn coming.
. . . . . . .
That evening it wanted half-an-hour to the rise of the moon when Power left Neville's verandah for his horse and the journey home. The lights were going out over all the camp. Maud followed at his side for a good-bye. The old man fussed after them as far as the back door.
"Don't chatter too long, gel. I won't be left with them people, d'ye hear? I may be wrong, but I think it won't take me time to be sick o' the pair of them. I may be wrong, huh, huh! Goodness! Look at the lid off the dustbin again. That woman don't do a thing she's told. Look at it! Some people breeds flies for a fancy. Hope ye have a good trip, Power. See you again in a week."
The hill begins at the very backdoor of the house, and lifts a wide breast of broken red rock into the cooler spaces. There are many seats about the top, and all breezes go that way. The poet, the refugee and the sighing swain thither may turn steps to find easement of their state. But few visit the hilltop, for the poet has no place on the books of the Surprise Mining Company, and the refugee need not take such a lengthy journey, while love ever keeps its hiding-places ready at hand.
The old man turned into the house, and Maud Neville put her hands on Power's shoulders. "A few minutes don't matter, Jim. This is our first time to-day. We'll go up the hill a moment."
They went up there, and sat down upon the warm, red rock. The camp was a few points of light in the dark; but many white stars filled the sky in old places—the Cross to the South, the Belt to the North, the Scorpion where you must crane the neck to find it. In such a dark lovers must sit closely if they would not be lost.
"Jim, to-day has been a failure, hasn't it?"
"I didn't mean it to be."
"You have had the blues all day, and those wretched people came before I could cure you."
"I shall be back in a week, Maud."
"I had worked father so hard, and all for nothing. I know it was not your fault. There wasn't one chance."
"I'll have a pipe now we have sat down."
"See the stars marching into their old places. What a lot they see. Do you think they look right into us?"
"Let us hope not."
"Do you love me, Jim?"
"Must I say it again?"
"As much as you say you do?"
"I forget how much I said."
"Because sometimes ... well ... sometimes."
"What happens sometimes?"
"Ah, Jim, is there always to be a 'sometimes?' Why do I have always the little stab at my heart? Is the whisperer true who says I do most of the loving?"
She heard no answer.
"Sometimes I am afraid of what waits for us. And always I love you very, very much. No, no, I am not afraid. I am now the wise woman. Along the road my heart has come I have found the thorny places, but I am learning to tread them with a shrug of pain and to march on where the way opens out. There are aloes in the sweet cake of love; but let us eat, for the spices will forget the aloes. The cook cooks well, but he has not all the ingredients to his hand, and they go hungry who demand only the stars for food." Her arms found his shoulders. Her kisses found his lips.
"What an eloquent little tongue you have, girl! How can I find the words to answer you?"
"Don't talk a minute." But she herself spoke again in a little while.
"Time goes by."
"It does."
"Two years ago we were strangers. We got along without each other. How funny that! What did you find in me to want me? Jim, aren't you ever going to answer to-night?"
There was no answer.
"Friend Jim, do cheer up."
"I'm cheered up. Things are wrong to-day. I don't know why. These things happen sometimes. My fault, no doubt. The bush is a good enough place, girl, but it doesn't do to start thinking there."
He put silence to flight by getting to his feet. "I must stand watch by midnight. A week will bring me back again. We'll say good night here. Good night."
"Good night, Jim. Seven days are flying towards me on damaged wings."
"Good night again, girl. Let your blessings follow me while I am away."
CHAPTER VII The Return to Surprise
The week was beggared, and had borrowed two days from the next, when Power came riding back to Surprise. He had left the musterers and the cook's waggon after breakfast to find their own way home, and a steady walk all day across the plain brought him at evening to the bottom of the long slope of Dingo Gap, and a bare half-dozen miles from Surprise. Man and beast had made small matter of the journey.
Power came back in better cheer. Reflection stays at the fireside when a man rides off at the heels of a mob of cattle, and Power came home with only the recollections of a summer madness to flick his memory. A mile of difficult travelling hid him from the crossways, and who denies Fate sits there sometimes pointing the path to follow?
Half-way up the distance, where the road swings back upon itself, and a hurly-burly of rocks shuts the sight from climbing farther, where it takes a good man to steer a buggy—there, I say to you, Power met Moll Gregory, astride a shabby horse, face to face. She was going down and he was going up, and they must halt their horses to divide the way.
At once the old sickness returned. Leech, thou hast tinkered with thine ointments, bring now the knife to heal. The beast was knock-kneed and at odds with age, with a moulding saddle across its back and a sack of goods hanging at either side. The girl was dressed in coarse stuff cut out with poor skill on some close night by the light of a hurricane lamp. A big hat, sitting on her head like a roof, spoiled the fury of the suns; yet that beauty found full forgiveness for the shabby setting.
The horses waited side by side, and Moll Gregory sat an arm's length away; but the nearness cost her no effort, and she looked up unconcerned. The frown left Power's forehead.
"Hullo, Mister; back again?"
"You are well loaded up," he said. "Two tucker bags full to the throat."
"I get the tucker now. Mum and me reckon to keep Dad home if we can. He's too much trouble when he gets a drop into him."
"It's a long way round by the Gap."
"It makes a change."
"How has the show turned out?"
"A1. But dad isn't over fond of a shovel. He's took up with the wire strainer again, and says there's heaps of money in it when it gets going. You should hear him and mum on at it of a night." She laughed. Her voice was charming when no words defiled it. She waved the flies away and lifted her hat a little. She may have thought Power looked at the hat overlong, for she said: "It isn't great shakes, is it?"
"Better than getting burnt up."
"The suns have took longer than I remember doing me harm. Anyway there wouldn't be many to growl if I was spoilt. Maybe a gum-tree or two by the river, or old Bluey the dog might see a change. There's none else to take notice."
It was for Power to come forward with the compliment; but she received silence for her pains. She pouted charmingly as a child might do.
All the moods sat in her eyes, and a hurry of passions, grave and gay, waited on her ready lips. Had she been a little older, or read another page of life, she might have understood those silences, and taking pity, have set her horse upon the road. But she looked across to say:
"I reckon you don't take much account of looks in a girl." She failed again. A third time she tried. "Others do."
"I see," he said. He pushed a hand across his face, for the flies held high festival that afternoon. "We didn't leave you lonely when we rode off?"
"No," came with a toss of the head. "All men aren't like you, Mr. Power. Some knows a neat ankle, though it takes the best part of a dozen mile through the bush to find it."
"And this bold knight, is he young and charming?"
"No, he isn't. He's fat, and sweats when he walks. But he knows how to talk a girl round, and he calls me his Princess."
"Then it is a royal courtship on both sides." She did not understand. "King is your courtier," he said. "I'm glad we didn't all forget you." There fell a little pause and his forehead wrinkled up. Then he said earnestly: "Answer me, girl. I am not asking for nothing. Mick O'Neill is in love with you. Do you mean to run square with him; or is he to be the dog barking up the tree, and the 'possum not at home?"
She showed a flash of temper for the first time.
"My name is Moll Gregory, my address is North Queensland, and I am not telling what I do to every feller stopping me on the road."
But she met her better at this business. Power broke in on top of her. "He is a good man, and he'll play you straight, whether you play him straight or don't. He is my friend, that's all."
The anger went out of their faces. Power was searching for something to say, but she was the quicker.
"I'm not going to quarrel with you yet," she said, her head to one side. "It's too dead dull on the river to start scaring blokes away. When will you come along for another look at the show? Dad's done a bit you know there. He's dotty on the wire strainer. That's what has slowed him up. What about to-night?"
"Not to-night. Another day. To-morrow, if you like."
"To-night."
"Not to-night."
"To-night," she said again, frowning.
"To-morrow."
"I reckon you don't have too many manners, Mister. A girl don't say to-night too often, you know."
"I——oh, why won't to-morrow do?"
"Very well," she said, much put out and taking no trouble to hide it. "I'll talk to meself to-night while mum and dad fights over the wire strainer. Only I reckon a girl don't feel too good when she says to-night and a feller says to-morrow."
"Then to-night it is."
The smiles ran all about her face. "That's a promise, Mister?"
"Yes."
"And early?"
"Not too late."
She leaned a little out of the saddle, with her dainty teeth just apart. "They say you are a smart man among cattle, Mister."
"That's good news."
"It takes a quick man to be a daddy stockman, don't it?"
"It does."
"Then I reckon all your quickness has gone into cattle," she answered, and broke into another peal of laughter, and flicked the old horse awake, and so passed on down the road.
Power drew his reins together and finished the journey up the hill. You look upon a very fair prospect from the summit of Dingo Gap; long lines of hills lifting broad bosoms to the sky; far behind on the plain the broad belt of the river; ahead the broken pathway dipping downward to Surprise. Power was short-sighted that evening, and waiting up there to breathe his horse he fell into a brown study, and looked from a pinnacle of his soul down a valley long as the roadway of Dingo Gap. Mayhap he called himself turncoat, wearer of any man's livery, weathercock to flap wings to every wind; sufficient it is, he left his thoughts presently, for the day grew old, and by sunset he had ridden into the beginnings of Surprise. With a nod here, a good day there, he passed to the stable and spent the last minutes of daylight serving his horse. That matter to his mind, he turned steps towards the house.
Maud Neville sat before the house alone. At his coming, she jumped up in great good spirits. He guessed she had counted on the meeting, for she wore a dress he had noticed once. Yet he must remark the wear and tear of summer on her face, and fall out of humour at his own keenness of sight. He did his best to meet her mood. "Back once again," he called out.
"You owe us two days," she answered. And next she cried: "Jim, Jim, I'm so glad." She left the kisses she had waiting for him till later on, as Messrs Boulder and Niven took the evening against the store across the way, pipe at mouth, the tail of an eye cocked for whatever might go forward.
Standing there at the doorstep of the house Power became suddenly aware that he had to his credit a long day's ride, and that he was tired. The cries of the crickets and other evening insects entered his consciousness, and with surprise he remarked the afterglow of the sunset, and realised night would fall in a few minutes. This slight fatigue affected him suddenly and strangely. He saw with new vision the pure soul of the woman who waited now ready to receive him. Always she met him with open hands, whether he came in good humour or in bad. She bore the tiring summer days without repining, and, more than that, from the daily course of affairs extracted a philosophy of life. He was tired after the day's ride, and here she stood desiring only to banish his fatigue by her ministrations. She had had her own day's work, but that was unremembered. She had learned that giving was more profitable than taking. He saw how often he hunted the shadow and missed the substance.
The cries of the insects began again while the afterglow faded in the sky. The promise he had made an hour since came to mind. He bent his brows at thought of it. Well, it was given now. It must be kept. Maud was leading the way into the house, and he was following her mechanically. In the dining-room a table was laid for one person. The cloth was clean; all was ready to hand. She had done this on the chance of his coming to-night. This joy of service was love. And he too claimed to love. Yet he had put himself out little enough when all was said and done—came much when he wanted, went much when he wished. What a good woman she was, yet he always had to be telling himself this. He was one of those heavy-eyed dullards who would not believe in the butterfly because the chrysalis was a poor thing.
What was happening this evening that he was for ever dreaming? He had often enough been a bit tired; but it had not caused melancholy. Why shirk the point? The child on the road had moved him beyond all experience. She had put a torch to his thoughts. She had seemed an echo of all lovers who had tripped down the corridors of time.
"Wake up, Jim! You are tired, poor boy."
"I have been at it all day. Give me something to eat."
"See, we expected you. While you wash I shall have it all ready."
He left the room, and a minute or two later he found the meal waiting for him, and she in a seat opposite, elbows on table, hands making a cup for her chin, her face gay and full of fondness. "Sit down, Jim, and begin at the beginning."
He went through his examination, and at the same time made a good supper. He received a shake of the head or a nod, a pout or a frown according to the telling of his story.
"Jim, do you know what I did this morning? I woke up very early and found there had been a sudden change in the night. Quite a cold breeze was blowing. I had to get up at once. I couldn't help myself. When I was dressed I called out to father I was going for a ride, and went looking for old Stockings. It was breaking dawn, and sharp enough to remind you of winter. Stockings was quite lively for an old fellow. I went straight out into the plain past the Conical Hill. The sky was growing brighter all the time. The birds were singing as if it were winter, and the hoofs of Stockings rang out clear. Plenty of kangaroos were abroad, and one old man stood up and refused to budge as we went by. I pushed on across the plain as long as the sunrise lasted, looking back now and then to see I wasn't losing Conical Hill. The cold stayed until the sun was over the horizon, and then I turned Stockings round and began to walk home. I was thinking that forty, fifty or sixty miles away you had seen this same sunrise, and felt the same cold in your bones. I understood then how much the life meant to you, and why you were always ready for a muster or a journey down the roads with cattle. Jim, I think a man working abroad has a better chance of reading life straight than a girl who belongs to the four walls of a house. A man must be a dunce to stay untaught by a morning like to-day. What's making you frown?"
"I'm not frowning, and I don't think you are right, Maud. When all is added up, a woman sees her way surer than a man. A good dog has the best religion. He serves his master through fair weather and foul—he heels the cattle in season, he chews his bones in season, and takes his kicks in season. He knows the art of ready service. A woman comes next for quick learning; but a man doesn't find the right way without hurt.... Maud, I have something to say. I want you to understand it now. The best man is ill put together. He may be brave, but he runs crooked in his dealings. He may be good at heart, and a pair of stranger eyes turn him off the course. Listen, girl ... if things ... well if ever I turn defaulter, put all of me in the scales, and maybe a thing or two will help pull the balance nearer straight."
"Poor old Jim, don't talk in that heavy way! You have been too hard at it this week. You are tired. I know of something to put you right."
"Where are you going?... What have you there?"
A bottle of wine was held up to him.
"We have feasted the visitors since you went away. This is one of the last. Don't tell father."
"Not this time, Maud. Another day will do."
"Do what you are told. Open it."
He obeyed.
"Fill both glasses and stand up."
"What madness are you after?"
"I said, stand up. That's right. Now hear what I have to say." She lifted up her glass. She stood by the light of the window, but outside side darkness was falling fast.
"Drink, Jim, for these glasses have been filled in honour of the past as we have lived it, and of the future as it shall be shaped. The grape ferments, and the red wine results; lovers quarrel and good understanding is born. The orchard blossoms, the blossoms fall to the ground, but from the boughs come forth the fruit. Love arrives with spiced dishes, but when the meats have staled, on the table lies the bread of life. We are learning understanding; but other pages of that book remain for our reading. Drink to receive the clean heart, the straight purpose, and the good comradeship which walks with those things. Let cowardice be unknown between us. The mistake made, we will bare it in our hands, knowing the other will understand."
Who knows what Power saw in that ruddy wine drunk in the darkened room? He pledged the toast to the end. With never a word more between them they put down their glasses.
"The others are in the verandah," Maud said to break the spell, "you must talk to them for half-an-hour. Come along."
She led the way. Darkness had fallen in a clap while he ate, and lamps had been brought outside. In the distance Mr. Wells was testing his cornet for the evening's work. From the verandah came sounds of raised voices, and at a first look about, the place was full of people. Neville had kept his old seat. At the other end Selwyn appeared well off. Mrs. Selwyn and King, with Scabbyback the mangy pointer, and Gripper the terrier, filled less important places. Somebody smoked good cigars.
The battle for supremacy between the two veterans had led to a division of honours. Neville had won his old place handy to the waterbags and the whisky, but Selwyn had the cigars and matches at his elbow, and was deep down in his chair, with feet resting at a great height against the wall, as behoved a man whose health was in a rocky state, and no mistake about it. Mrs. Selwyn endured a straight-backed chair; and King, who liked comfort, but who cared more for peace, was poorly served.
The talk was broken off for a moment when Maud led in Power. Selwyn rose to smile with great charm, and later sank back into the same seat with reluctance, apparently persuaded to keep it against his will. The talk flowed on again.
"You have wakened up since I was away, Mr. Selwyn," Maud said.
"Yes, isn't it a pest?" Mrs. Selwyn exclaimed. "We have had such a peaceful half hour."
One thing remained to Selwyn from the ruins of his wrecked health. He could get his forty minutes' nap after a good meal. "Now, look here," he had said in the bedroom before dinner, shaking a tobacco-stained finger, "this absurd stand-on-ceremony is doing me harm. There was excuse for staying awake the first night or two; but my infernal good manners have carried things to an extreme. Now, look here," said he, wagging the yellow finger, "when we have had dinner, sing to them, or talk to the girl about clothes, or do something else; but at all costs distract the family from me, so that I can get my sleep. I like hearing the gentle hum of voices when I'm comatose."
"What's your news, Power?" the old man grunted from his corner. "Morning Springs still in the same place, I expect?"
"Have you come from Morning Springs?" Mrs. Selwyn cried. "What a desperate place! I stood there in the blazing sun half the day waiting for the coach. The top of my head was coming off. The place was turning round me."
"Did you see anybody?" said the old man.
"Milbanks was in. He says it is pretty dry out his way. Says things won't be too good if the rains are late. Claney asked after you. He has a silica show in tow. The Reverend Five-aces turned up at the hotel a couple of nights and seemed in form."
"He sounds a gentleman to keep an eye on," said Selwyn. "I think I shall button my pockets when he comes to shrive me."
"You would do better with a sixth ace in your hat," said King. "He may be out here one day soon. He's due for a visit."
"He lost a game when I was in," Power went on.
"Hey!" cried the old man. "How was that, lad?"
"Half-a-dozen of us were at the hotel pretty late, and he made one of a bridge four. Upstairs a man was dying in the horrors. He had shouted out all night—very badly. As time went on he grew quiet. Mrs. Smith, the landlady, a good churchgoer, runs into the room presently. 'Mr. Thomas, there's a man upstairs very sick. He's dying, Sir, or I'll never live to tell another. Come upstairs, Mr. Thomas, and lend him the comforts of the Church.'
"Five-aces looks at her, and looks at his hand with the king and queen there and all the royal family, and he fingers his chin and says, 'There's no call for this fluster, Mrs. Smith. He has a pretty strong voice still. There's no call for an hour or two. Maybe I'll take a look that way when we've played out the rubber.'
"Half an hour later Mrs. Smith comes in again in great bustle. Oh! Mr. Thomas as true as I mean to go light through Purgatory, he cannot last much longer. I tell ye he'll be gone if ye wait.'
"'Mrs. Smith,' Five-aces then says very short, and frowning down his chin. 'I have every card to my hand. Your business will keep as long as the rubber, it's my belief.'
"Presently Mrs. Smith comes in again. Old Five-aces looks very black. 'It's no good, Mrs. Smith, I have just gone "no trumps." I shall get a "little slam" out of this.'
"'Ye needn't put yourself about, Sir,' says she. 'There's been a "grand slam" upstairs.'"
Mrs. Selwyn shuddered. "Mr. Power, how could you tell such a horrible story. I feel most unwell."
"I am sorry, Mrs. Selwyn. I won't offend again."
"I pray the creature stays away until I'm gone."
Neville chuckled again in his corner. "You would find him charming until you sat down to bridge. Many is the yarn we have had over a whisky. He can tell the best story for a hundred miles round. Maybe better men could be found to pilot the soul to Heaven, but he can claim always to be at the pilot's post, and that's the Bridge. There's a good one, Maud, gel. He, he! Huh, huh, huh!"
Mrs. Selwyn had not yet recovered. "I sincerely hope our other clergy have a better sense of fitness," she said.
Neville was having trouble with his pipe. "A parson comes round these parts with a pack-horse or two every six months for a couple of days, and that is as good as one can expect. He don't get two hundred a year wages, and has to feed himself and his horses. With chaff round our parts up to eighteen shilling a bag, I would shake my head at the job myself. He don't get more than a dozen at his service, for half laughs at him, and the other half, that would go, laugh too because the first half laughs."
"If he comes while we are here, I shall make a point of going," Mrs. Selwyn said.
"Hey, Power!" cried Neville, jerking his thumb. "Here's the whisky."
"A good idea," said King.
"Excellent," echoed Selwyn.
"Father, your fight this afternoon seems to have cheered you up," said Maud.
"What fight?" Power asked.
"The fellers sent Robson up to ask me to unlock the tanks. I put him to the right-about pretty quick. A-huh-huh-huh!"
Selwyn sat up. "Did you get much sport on your trip, Mr. Power? There must have been some thundering good chances early in the morning. Nobody to blunder about and disturb the game from year end to year end."
"A man doesn't get much spare time with cattle," Power answered. "He rides all day, and stands his two watches at night. He is inclined to leave hunting for another time. The cook took a rifle in the waggon, and got a turkey or two; but he sees double, and generally aims at the wrong bird. We had sport of another kind, though, which might have turned into something nasty."
"Ah! How was that?"
"On the border of this run and the next is a stretch of timbered country called Derby's Ten Mile. It is a good bit of country, with big holes holding water all the year, and Simpson, of Kurrajong, my neighbour, keeps it as a horse paddock. For all the fine trees by the river, the place has a bad name. You can't get a man of those parts to camp there the night. There is a story of a swagman murdered on the big hole by his mate twenty years ago. I believe the tale is true, but whether or no, they say on calm nights something cries out in the paddock. This time the cry will sound low down, the next time it will come from the air, and never twice in the same place. You can find a score of men to swear to this. Simpson assured me on moonlight nights he has known the horses stampede from the other side of the river.
"A carrier I knew told me an accident to his waggon once forced him to camp there one night. It was winter, freezing hard—as cold as the Pole—and you could hear a horse bell a dozen miles. He was sitting over the fire thinking of turning into bed, when he heard a queer screech by a clump of timber a couple of miles away. 'Some blanky bird,' he says. He had come round to thoughts of bed again, when he heard the screech a second time, and not more than a mile off, and on the top of it every horse came flying across the dry river bed. They went past him as though they weren't stopping this side of the sea. In a shake the fellow had turned colder than the frost, and he was asking himself what was the trouble, when something shrieked at him, not the length of a bullock team off. He felt a breath of ice in his face——"
Behind the house a fowl gave a blood-curdling death-cry. Gooseflesh rose on the spine of the bravest there. Thanks to that self-command which had stood Mrs. Selwyn in stead on so many occasions, she exclaimed, "What's that?" and no more. But afterwards she owned that for five minutes she was turning hot and cold. The cry was repeated more faintly. Steps sounded outside, and at the same time came the voice of Mrs. Nankervis, the cook, exclaiming out loud. Her steps advanced in a hurry across the house. She burst through the doorway, all wind and heavy breaths, and hands pressed to her ample sides.
"Lord save us! There's a python got the yaller pullet under the house."
"Python!" cried Selwyn, clapping hands to the arms of his chair. "What size?"
"Ah! Like that!" Mrs. Nankervis threw her arms out right and left. "Twenty foot! Thirty foot!"
Selwyn scrambled to his feet. "What magnificent luck!"
"It don't go twenty foot, nor half it," said Neville, feeling for his stick. "The small ones turn up now and then. The big fellows sit tight in the bush. The pullet's gone. That's a pity. I reckoned on her turning out a good layer."
There was a pushing back of chairs. Somebody took the lanterns from the wall. Selwyn, Mrs. Nankervis and the dogs went through the door at the one moment. The rest of the company followed at their heels.
But, beyond the light thrown by the lanterns, the night showed very black, and the hurry of the party abated. The old man began to chuckle from the rear. "Go ahead," he said. "I can see satisfactory from here. You have got a lantern, Mr. Selwyn. Ye can get under the house. Put the lantern round about the piles first. Unless the snake is half way to Morning Springs, I reckon it's better to take the first look at him from the distance. Afterwards ye can wear him for a comforter round your neck. A-huh-huh-huh!"
"Hilton, I entreat you to moderate your excitement and consider what you are about. I don't know whether I am on my crown or my toes."
Selwyn trembled with anticipation. The cigar did a step-dance between his teeth. He seemed to grow lean before the eyes of the company. He held forward the lantern and re-gripped his stick. Step by step he advanced among the piles holding up the house. Bring all your eyes to look. The hunter has gone forth to slay. Pace by pace he made his ground. Inch by inch he obtained a more cunning hold of his staff. Gripper, the terrier, wrinkled at the nose and very stiff at tail, followed him to the field of battle; but Scabbyback the ancient pointer scratched in the shadows as though digging out the very sea-serpent itself.
"Get out of that, you mangy muddler," Selwyn said, prodding him on the way.
The light from the lanterns thrust far into the shadows; and, behold, upon a patch of sand among the piles was discovered the python heaped in an evil mass and holding the dead fowl among his coils. Black he showed, and dark green in places, and supple and wicked and beautiful and fierce and fascinating and treacherous all in one glance, so that a man must look to admire, and yet turn his head in loathing.
"That's him! That's him!" said Neville. "And I reckoned he wouldn't wait our visit."
"Hilton, I implore you," Mrs. Selwyn cried. That was her single moment of weakness.
Selwyn hooked the lantern on a convenient ledge, where the light fell in all corners of the battle-field. The python made no business of departure, but stared at this hurly-burly from cold eyes in a shovel head as big as a woman's hand. Forward went Selwyn to the combat, taut and tucked up, but never a moment in doubt. All the while he talked to himself, assuring all who cared to listen, courage and a stout right hand must win, and that the gentle persuasion of a boxwood club at the nape of the neck must settle the account even of the serpent of Eden.
"A-ha, gently does it. Keep back, sir"—and a yelp told that Gripper had tested the weight of his master's staff. "Kindly, kindly, is my way. Bring a lantern this way—more to the right—more to the right. A-ha, my beauty, allow me to introduce the friend in my hand."
Neville wagged his head from the back of affairs. "Power, ye had better see what he's doing," he said. "He'll be getting into mischief. That will be a big feller when he's pulled straight."
As Power stepped forward, Mrs. Nankervis ran out of the house with the gun.
"There's sense, woman," said Neville. "Hey, Power, give him this."
Power put Maud in charge of a lantern, and took the gun. "That's rather a risky business, Mr. Selwyn," he said. "He is too big for a stick."
Selwyn stretched out a ravenous hand for the gun. He planted his legs wide apart and put it to his shoulder. The great serpent, head flattened down, stared from callous eyes. Gripper showed every tooth. Scabbyback had found business in the distance. Mrs. Selwyn closed her eyes and summoned all her fortitude. There was a moment when everybody waited. A roar sounded underneath the house. The snake whipped his head up and down again in a single movement. His coils fell apart in the twinkling of an eyelid, and riot was let loose. Selwyn, scrambling back, knocked the lantern to the ground, and the light jumped up and went out.
The python thrashed the wooden piles, embraced them, rolled free again, knotted itself upon the ground, and fell in a writhing agony among the hunters.
"Give me the lamp, girl," Power cried out, "and get out quick."
Maud held out the lamp. Power took the lamp. Power bounded back. Something struck him across the leg. He leapt farther back. The python in hideous pain beat at the piles and at the air. Power heard Selwyn beside him mutter "Magnificent, magnificent."
"Shoot, man; shoot!" Power cried. Selwyn raised the gun. Power pushed forward the lantern to make best use of it. Selwyn fired point blank. The uproar in the confined space was immense. There was a heave of the coils. The python was blown in half.
The company drew slowly near, and Selwyn fell into a grand attitude, "A-ha," he said. "The old hand has not lost its cunning. A right and left, and there he lies. Fifteen foot if an inch, by Jove!"
Very terrible the python looked in death, torn about on the bloody sand with muscles yet twitching. Mrs. Selwyn closed her eyes. "Hilton, every day you have less consideration for my feelings."
"He'll be a fair size stretched," said the old man, poking with his stick. "I'm sorry about that pullet. Hold that lamp straight, Maud. Ye'll have the glass smoked. Some of you had better get this mess cleaned before the ants come. Shall we go back to the verandah, Mrs. Selwyn? Snakes don't get through the fly-netting."
They persuaded Selwyn back to everyday, and Power and he were mourners at the funeral. While they went about the ceremony, Maud and King wandered a little way into the dark. They could watch the sextons going in and out of the lamplight, Power moving quickly about the matter, and Selwyn very full of his past performance. Their own employment—finding seats on the warm stones—was the better one, for the night was hot, as are most nights when you go to live at Surprise.
"Have you nothing to say to-night, Mr. King? Are a cigarette and the dark all you want these latter days? Be wise, and give up looking for copper by Pelican Pool. I tell you gold would not be worth the labour. Give by, give by, and gain your right mind among the ledgers over there."
"There is more reading by the Pool than in all those dreary books."
"A midsummer madness has seized you."
"Yet I would not find cure for my folly."
"But look at your ages. A girl of twenty has done this."
"The young man to the matured woman; the old man to the maid. And this is the reason. The young man looks forward to what is to be, but the old man stares over his shoulder at what is slipping away."
"It is a fancy that must pass. You say she neither reads nor writes."
"She is a lantern by whose light I read the Book of Life."
"Mr. King, are you serious this time or not?"
"Laugh at me if you like. I know what I am loving. She is young and wild—a flower of these hot grounds, quick come to bloom, quick to pass away, and without a soul, even as these bush flowers are without scent. She should sleep upon a couch of blossoms, and go abroad crowned with garlands; and I would play the elderly satyr and pipe her through the summer."
Power came across. The funeral was over; but Selwyn waited yet by the grave, smoking a fresh cigar in honour of combat valiantly fought and splendidly won. King got up, and in the talk that started walked away.
"Sit down, Jim," Maud said.
"Maud, I shall not be staying to-night. I'll come across to-morrow, though."
"What?" she answered coldly, and frowning of a sudden.
"I've work I must fix up. I am as sorry as you are. I shall be across to-morrow."
"You have never had sudden work like this that wouldn't keep."
"Maybe there won't be any again. Come, it can't be helped. I must get away."
"Good night, then."
"Don't be silly, Maud."
"It is useless crying when a thing can't be mended. So good night."
"You'll think better of things to-morrow. Then, there it is—good night."
She kissed him coldly when he bent his head; but repenting in the same breath, she drew him to her. "Jim, you told me so suddenly, and I am horribly disappointed. Good luck to you until to-morrow."
He had nothing to say.
CHAPTER VIII The Banks of the Pool
Power rode out of Surprise with the hag of reproach seated at the crupper of his horse. He would have proved poor company for a wayfarer; but fortune left him to follow the road alone, and he pushed his fagged mount to some pace, and ate up the distance to Pelican Pool.
The evening had aged when he arrived on the bank of the Pool. The hour was ten o'clock. We woo sleep early at Surprise, for she proves wilful mistress here, and Power believed himself too late. He heard the whimper of the dog, and a bark checked in the throat, and then the horse jumped under him in a difficult shy. He threw a glance into the dark for the cause, and, lo! Moll Gregory sat at the foot of a tree as still as the trunk supporting her. At once the hag of reproach left her seat. Moll rose from her waiting place and came forward with a little laugh of greeting. The jealous dark stole her countenance from Power's eyes, but her figure defied its embrace, and she came up to his horse young and careless and bewitching. He thought of a young tree starting on its journey towards the sky. He tightened the rein, the horse stood still, and he fell to staring down on her. Straightway he forgot time and the ill humours of the day.
"You are awful late, Mister?"
"It's a long way from Surprise."
"I was near giving you up, and then, Mr. Power, you would have caught it next time we met. I'm not a girl for a fellow to say yes and no to all the day."
"But now I am forgiven, I must get down. What about the horse? There's not a yard round here, is there?"
"Dad is always talking of putting up something, but I haven't seen it yet."
"He is quiet enough. I'll hitch him here. There's the saddle to come off. I won't be long."
When the saddle stood on end at the foot of a tree, and the bit hung loose, then Power made ready for what the hour would bring. The insects were busy, creeping down neck and ears, and crickets kept concert in all corners of the dark. It would grow no cooler until dawn, and soon afterwards the sun would start up into the sky. At a little distance, a light shone through the hessian wall of Gregory's dining-room, and sometimes a voice came from there. Power felt in no mood for the inside of the place.
"I have been riding all day. Where shall we sit down?"
He was led to a seat by the tree trunk. They sat down a little apart. Branches held a latticed canopy over them, and the lattice work let in the starlit sky. The dog mooched round as company.
"So you had given me up?"
"Yes, Mister. I'd been waiting there I forget how long. Dad and Mum started to row when we was washing up, and I flung out of the place in a temper. I set about a bit of fishing by the Pool. It isn't bad fun these nights. Sometimes you get a bonza haul. But it's awful dreary sitting by the bank alone. I don't know what's took me lately, but I get terrible tired of things. I reckon it's since Mr. King told me of all there was to be seen away from here."
They sat in a lap of land on top of the bank, where it fell sharp to the water, and just now a fish leapt in the shallows.
"Shall we fish, Mr. Power?" she said. "The rod is down there somewhere. They were too slow when I came out, and I gave it over."
"We will."
They found a roadway down the bank. They found the rod. They sat upon the bank. She put the rod over the water, and Power took a pipe from his pocket.
"They call you Moll, don't they? I am going to be a friend of yours. May I call you Molly? I think it prettier than Moll."
"Orl right, Mister. We won't quarrel over it. I reckon the mosquitoes like fishing too. Do you fish ever?"
"Sometimes. I shoot most when there's spare time. I like fishing though."
"Struth! Something's at me now. I won't yank yet. These fellers give a good bite when they mean business."
"Do you often come here? I've ridden by many times and watered my horse here; I've watered a good few mobs of cattle here, too. But I never knew how beautiful it was until I fished to-night."
"Now and again I get fair sick of Mum and Dad, and then I come and fish or take a walk along the bank. I like listening to the things that move in the dark."
"What do you hear?"
"Oh, the fishes are always jumping in the shallows, and sometimes a crocodile sticks his nose up, and times I surprise a turtle in the sands. There's plenty of kangaroos thumping along for a drink—strike me! Hark at that fellow."
"Yes, he's noisy enough for an old man—Molly."
"Can't you get out 'Molly' easier? There's no call to jerk your head over it."
"It was not hard to say. It lies gently on the tongue. And so you make friends with the animals? If you are here in winter time you will find the pelicans fishing at dawn, and spoonbills, too, as white as snow. You have heard of snow, I suppose? It falls among the mountains down South in July and August—Molly."
"It don't come easy yet. I reckon Molly is no harder to say than 'My Princess.'"
"Does it fall as kindly on the ear as 'My Princess?'"
"I like 'My Princess,' and I like Molly. I can do with two friends since I was so long without one.... Now, what are you thinking of, Mister? You sit staring at the Pool and sucking yer pipe. Why don't yer talk? You are as dummy as the fishes what won't come at my hook."
"I was thinking a week or two can make a queer change in a man's fortune."
"It do. Luck takes a turn times when things look dreadful hopeless. Straight wire. I tell you I've watched the water o' nights, and thought about settling things up. And then, like a cow to a new-dropped calf, you fellows came along to liven things."
"We came along one day and found you here, and now all the roads on Kaloona run lean to Pelican Pool. Molly, do you know all you have done? Think, Molly, a moment. Have you kind word for my friend, Mick O'Neill? Or for Mr. King driving through the heat from Surprise?"
"Good enough for them what they get."
"Don't you believe in love?"
"Mr. Power, you are too fond of questions. I shall be giving you the rod soon to hold. Don't you think a girl may have a bit of fun? It's awful hard when a man likes you to tell him to clear out. Wake up, Mister; you are awful dilly sometimes. What do you see in the water to stare at?"
"Every 'yes' spoken now will take a deal of unspeaking later on. Tell me, are you a little fond of Mick?"
"I reckon there's a bite. Look at the float, and the water rippling."
"That bite can wait your answer."
"He's a good figure of a man, isn't he?"
"He is."
"He can sit a bad horse with the next man, can't he?"
"He can."
"He's pretty slick through scrub, and isn't the last on the heels of a mob. I reckon many a girl wouldn't toss her head there."
"And Mr. King?"
"He knows how to talk to a girl; but it don't take his fat off him, do it? He's as old as Dad; but he's shook on me, and no error. He puffs terrible in the sun, but he comes as often as he can. He told me there would be something for me in a coach or two, but I said he could keep it. First I liked a bit of attention, it had been so dull; but now I can get as good elsewhere."
"Send him gently about his business, then, for I think loving is easier than unloving."
"There's not going to be any sending about business. He can come if he wants, and he can stay away. I know how to be not at home, and he can try his hand talking to Bluey, the dog. Now, don't start preaching, Mister. You can go on sucking that pipe. I'm not at the call of every feller of fifty who gets shook on me."
"Your own troubles will come one day, Molly, and you will grow a little kinder because of them. The new boot is poor company for the foot, and the heart grows softer with a bit of wear and tear. And so you are ready to punish two men, and all their crime was looking overlong into your eyes. Are only your glances kind, Molly? Have the suns of twenty summers baked your little heart? Haven't you a memory or two of sorrow stored away to make you softer now? No, don't pout."
"Mr. Power, you seem uncommon interested in other people. I don't see call for you to worry what I do. I reckon my comings and goings aren't your concern. Mister, you can hear well from where you are. It's time you took a hand at fishing."
"Have you never found time to fall in love; or have you been too busy saying 'no?' Molly, you were born a candle, and men will come from all the corners, like the bush insects, to scorch in your flame. Where did you steal your hands? A sculptor would break his chisel despairing of them. What Paradise gave you them that the bush might stare them into decay? Molly, Molly, you must have a soul, or what sits in your eyes all day making men drunken?"
"Mr. Power, you're a poor fisherman."
"Have you never loved, Molly?"
"Maybe yes, and maybe no, and it's not you, Mr. Power, I'm starting blabbing to."
"Tell me."
"Aw, you'd laugh."
"No."
"Straight wire?"
"Straight wire."
"There's nothing to tell. Some's been round that I've laughed at and sent away, nor thought nor cared what came of them. And one or two I've liked a little. And one or two has made me cry. But when one fellow goes, there's another to come after him."
"Has a man held you in his arms? Have you ever been kissed into kindness? What are you laughing at? Don't laugh, I say!"
"Of course a girl's been kissed. I don't think ever was a time I wasn't kissed. Why a girl would go dummy with only an old dog as mate, and a kangaroo or two, and maybe an old goanna to watch. What are you frowning for? My lips aren't kissed away."
"The jewel that takes long getting is highest priced. Let's go back to fishing. You have told me enough.... No, I can't fish to-night. We might be a hundred miles away from anyone down here. Sooner or later you will go away; but I shall never ride past the Pool again without remembering you. I shall come here every year, when the castor-oil tree flowers, for it was flowering when first I saw Molly Gregory standing in the doorway of her tent, holding a lantern above her head.... Isn't it still? The night is too close.... Molly, why are you so beautiful? Don't you know the night is in love with you? That's why the fishes are jumping. Don't you know the kangaroo and his mate are stooping to drink down there, that they may share the same pool with you? Molly, a man and a girl are only young once. It is all over in a few quick years. All life to live in that time. A world to see.... Molly, wake up. Don't look into your lap. Your rich body is spoiling. The bush is jealous of beauty, and would claw the fairest works with her lean fingers. Molly, wake up and live."
"Aw, talk, talk, and who is the better for it in the end? I can go back to the humpy more miserable, if that is what you want. Mr. King comes with his grand tales, and drives off in the buggy, leaving a girl to cry her eyes out in a room of bags. I hate the bush. I would spit it out of my mouth, as Dad spits the suckings of his pipe out at the door. What does the bush give you? Just gives you nothing. Never a man or a girl to speak to. Just wash up, wash up, wash up. And carry the water from the creek. And bail up the goats when you've got them. And a ride to the store as a treat. And make your Johnny cake half the week, because you haven't the heart to make bread, or haven't built the oven. And no schooling. And not a church to go to, even if you did want to. And just the clothes to wear as nobody will take in town. And growl, growl, growl all day from everyone round. And if you have a few looks, there's nobody to tell you what they think of them. Oh, you don't know how sick I am of it. I fall dreaming sometimes, and think some man comes and takes me right away. And then Mum gets on to me for mooning. I'll get married some day to a looney boundary rider, and live in a hut all me life, and have a pack of children, and grow as skinny as the best of them. If I have daddy looks then I'll sell them to the first man who'll pay me. The first man to take me away can have me, and he can drop me when he's tired."