~~~ Project Gutenberg Australia ~~~

Title: Human Toll
Author: Barbara Baynton
* A Project Gutenberg of Australia eBook *
eBook No.: 0607531.txt
Language: English
Date first posted: September 2006
Date most recently updated: September 2006

This eBook was produced by: Richard Scott

Project Gutenberg of Australia eBooks are created from printed editions
which are in the public domain in Australia, unless a copyright notice
is included. We do NOT keep any eBooks in compliance with a particular
paper edition.

Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the
copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing this
file.

This eBook is made available at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg of Australia License which may be viewed online at
http://gutenberg.net.au/licence.html


To contact Project Gutenberg of Australia go to http://gutenberg.net.au


Human Toll
Barbara Baynton



Chapter I



WHAT was this blocking the tallow-scoop? Boshy, secretly styled 'The
Lag,' or 'One Eye,' bent to see. Leisurely he thrust down a groping
hand and drew up, but not out, a fatclogged basil-belt. Hastily his
other hand clawed it conferringly, then with both he forced it back
again into its greasy hidingplace of past long years. Cautiously his
one eye went from door to window, then he rolled the fat-can with its
mouth to the wall, and, going out, he took a sweeping survey. The sky
and plain still drowsed dreamily, and neither the sick Boss's home,
nor Nungi the half-caste's hut on the other side of the riversplit
plain, showed sign of smoke. The only gleam of life was a breath-
misted string of cows filing leisurely but lovingly to their penned
calves.

Boshy entered the hut and shut and bolted both door and window, then
rolled the precious casket, a rusty nail-keg, before the door, and to
further insure his sense of security sat on it. He made no attempt to
examine his treasure. He was certain the contents of that gold-lined
belt were old Miser Baldy's hoard. For a few moments he sat quivering,
gloating greedily. Musingly his one eye roamed all over the hut. Not a
splinter in the walls that he, and many others, had not probed as with
a tooth-pick, for this coveted 'plant'; not a crack or mortised joint
in the roof; not a mouse-hole but had been tunnelled to the bitter
end, for tenant above or below. Nor had the search stopped at the hut,
for had not a night-ghouling Chinaman, in his hunt for this hoard,
gone the dauntless but fruitless length of disinterring and stripping
poor old Baldy? And now just by a fluke he had struck it. Could it be
true? Was he only dreaming? And again he thrust in a confirming hand.
'Gord A'mighty!' burst from him as his felt certainty electrified him.

When Nungi came in the spring cart an hour later to shift him, all
his personal and furnishing belongings were in their accustomed
places, except the belt. Though this was now round his waist, he sat
shivering beside the fire, and one quick glance at his drawn face
showed the half-caste the unusual had happened.

'Tucked up, Boshy? Got the Barcoo?' (a sudden sickness). 'Boss is
goin' t' peg out.'

'I'm nut a-goin' t' shift t'-day; nut till t'-morrer.'

'W'y ther blazes did yer le' me 'arness up, then?' asked Nungi
resentfully, as he took out the horse, and on it shogged back, leaving
the cart to await to-morrow's duty.

Boshy watched his every movement from the window, then with an
effort he roused himself and went after him, but at the river he
turned back. Into the frying-pan he hurriedly scraped the fat that
earlier he had scooped from the oilcan, and when it melted he
carefully poured it into the keg, then speedily crossed to the house.

There was no moon that night, yet he waited till it was well spent,
then almost on all fours crept to the graves beneath the myalls close
to his hut; with infinite care he tunnelled into the aforetime
desecrated grave till he could feel the end of the coffin, then with
all his strength he drove the pick beneath, and upending it, kept it
atilt with the pick.

He got up, watched and listened, but though his cautiousness had
magnified all sounds, he knew from his distance he was secure.
Laboriously he tunnelled for a couple of feet below the coffin, then
from two wallets strapped across his back he took out several sealed
pickle--bottles and thrust them well into their gruesome nest; then,
as before, he listened and watched, and, as before, was assured.

He did not shift camp for a week, by then the earth on the disturbed
graves, which day and night he had watched, was again normal, and he
again outwardly composed. But often during his duties day or night his
one eye sought anxiously the hiding-spot of his treasure, till
gradually he realized that it was safe; for from superstitious awe the
blacks would not molest the dead, and the whites had long since
abandoned hope.

Yellow tongues from the slush lamp-light had spluttered through the
gridiron slabs of the Boss's bedroom for several nights. Towards the
end of one Boshy drew the pillow from beneath the head and the cover
over the face of the man on the bed, scrutinized the child sleeping on
the one opposite, then, for him, noiselessly took the lamp into the
outer room.

The darkened window was the signal for a prolonged lamentation from
an old dog, partially blind and deaf, chained outside.

Then from the black's camp on the fringe of the scrub the lean dogs,
dozing beside the meagre dying fire, yelped back a semicivilized echo,
and almost simultaneously the blacks ran about their camp, like
disturbed, molested ants.

Boshy, coming out to harangue the chained dog, heard the tintin
jangling of their billies and pannikins in their hasty, unorganized
flight. The gins, burdened with pickaninnies and camp-gear, were
whimpering well in the rear, but above all rose the angry, impotent
lamentations and execrations of 'Tumbledown Jimmy.' Many wintry moons
had almost disabled Jimmy, stiffened his joints and tightened his
sinews, bending his body on one side like a boomerang, so his callous
kinsmen only too gladly left him as hostage for the dreaded Debbil-
debbil now among them.

Boshy's mouth shaped into an ecstatic circle. 'Hor, hor, hor!' he
snorted in lonely mirth. He was tempted to give chase, shouting,
'Ketch 'em, Debbil-debbil! ketch 'em, Debbil-debbil!' but for the
sleeping child and a heavy task, awaiting him inside.

Carefully he prised up the table-leaf, greasing the nails with the
lamp-fat to prevent creaking. His back was to the door between the two
rooms, as noiselessly opening as the gap in the table. Simultaneously
and correspondingly wide grew Gin Queeby's eyes watching this door
through an outside crack, though, in a nightmare of fear, she stood
dumb and motionless.

Through a few inches of door space the little girl squeezed, and,
unseen by Boshy, laid her hand on him.

'Ghos' A'mighty!' yelled he, voicing his thoughts and dropping the
hammer, and instantly the cry of an ill-used child who sees its mother
gushed from Queeby.

'Lovey, Lovey, Queeby wanter come ter yer. Me wanter come ter yer,'
waggling her black fingers directingly through the cracks.

A silencing clod flung by Nungi hiding between two myall logs,
rebounded and struck the chimney, increasing the confusion.

'Oh!' whispered the child, 'you'll all wake me father. Naughty,
naughty bad things, all of yous--and you, too, Queeby,' catching sight
of the hand still at the crack. 'Stop you, Queeby, an' come in.'

Queeby rushed in noisily tearful, and caught up the child.

'Hish!' with her nightgown wiping Queeby's face, 'don't wake me
father, Queeby.'

Queeby had no fear of doing that, but the name of the dead man calmed
her.

'Don't wake me father, 'less I'll beat you, Queeby. Oo's been beating
you?' threatened and inquired the child.

'Boshy,' said Queeby promptly.

'Well,' said he, aghast, 'if lies would choke yer, yer lyin'--'

But now from her elevation the child looked down on the wrecked
table.

'Oh, you bad, bad Boshy, t' break up the table! Me father 'll give it
to you!'

'Iden broke up, Lovey. Yer daddy tole me ter make er--er--thingy-me--
callum outer ther top.'

'To do w'at with?'

'Eh?' he evaded. 'Wot's ther time, Lovey? Mornin' time, I think.'

Walking to the window, he turned his ear to the well out on the
plain, hidden by a band of trees that, in seeming boldness, had left
the scrub and stood like sentinel outposts. From one a magpie, partly
tamed, flew to the window-ledge on Boshy's blind side, startling him
with her discordant imitation of cock-crow, then squawked for food.

'Yer bole faggit, a-crowin' in me very face, like a cock! Go an' look
fer worms.'

Angrily he attempted to sweep her off, but the magpie flew to the
chimney--top, from there crowing arrogantly, till an ambitious
cockerel, mistaking hers for his sire's dawn heralding, imitated
huskily and incipiently. The magpie derisively mocked, then swooped
and beaked its legitimate prey, the early worm. Reascending, it again
raised its head, and from bird-throat never issued a more mellifluous
grace after meat. Such a requiem should console the worm and justify
its Maker.

It was the youth of a plenteous spring, and from the scrub flanking
the back of the house came a concerted twittering of newly-awakened
birdlings, increasing till the air seemed filled with dewy-throated
sky--crickets.

'Listen to th' birdies,' said the child, raising her radiant face to
the roof, and at the supreme moment accompanying them in perfect
mimicry.

'Sweet-pretty-little-creasures, sweet-pretty-little-creasures. Tha's
wot they says all the time. They's been asleep like me,' yawning, 'and
they's jus' waked up like me now,' explained Lovey.

'An' they're arstin' fer their liddle break-fusses,' supplemented
Boshy, taking her in his arms to the window. 'An', Lovey dear, lis'en
to ther poor liddle lambs a-arstin' an' a-beggin' an' a-prayin' fer
theirs too, Lovey. Thet lazy wretch ov a Nungi's gorn this long time,
an' ain't bin a-nex', nur a--nigh, nur a-near 'em. Isen't 'e a lazy
wretch ov a Nungi, Lovey, eh?'

'Ways 'e?' she asked.

'Lord above knows, I don't. Make 'er dress yer, Lovey, an' le's go
an' see.'

"N,' she agreed, looking at distressed Queeby.

'Get 'er clo'es an' dress 'er, yer gapin' phil garlic yer!' said
Boshy.

Queeby's tears began afresh.

'Me father can't see you. 'E's sleepin' little with the clothes over
his face,' Lovey said. Then addressing Boshy: 'W'a's 'e doin' like
that way for?'

"Cos 'e's better, Lovey.'

'Is this the day w'en 'e'll get up, then?'

'No, ter--morrer. Lovey, you get yer clo'es yer own self. This
useless animal'--shaking a warning fist at Queeby--'is frightened;
on'y thet 'er'll wake 'im,' he added cautiously.

The child tiptoed in and returned with her clothes.

'Now you bad Boshy, too, as well, too. Ways me going t' be put w'en
me father's goin' t' lace up me boots?' she asked.

The despoiler of the table drew his head from the window.

'Poor liddle lambs, Lovey! Thet lazy, idle wretch ov a Nungi ain't
gi' 'em a sup of water. 'E's been gorn this over an hour, an' ain't
bin a-nex', nur a--near, nur a-nigh ther well. Ain't 'e a bad, wicked
Nungi, Lovey?'

Lovey nodded.

'Ways 'e?'

'Git yer boots an' socks orn now, Lovey, an' le's go an' see.

Queeby, mindful of the dead man's past duty, would have laced the
child's boots.

'No, no, not you,' Lovey said; 'me father will. Boshy,' she said
angrily, noticing the boots he was wearing, 'you jus' take my father's
boots on orf of your feet.'

"E as'ed me to stretch 'em for 'im, Lovey. Poor liddle lambs! a-
famishin' an' a-faintin' an' a-perishin' for a drink, Lovey. Come on
t' we find Nungi.'

He took down the stockwhip hanging on the wall, and taking the
dressed child's hand, went first into the kitchen.

'Make 'er kin'le a fire.'

'Not kin'le; light,' corrected the little girl.

'Light,' said he humbly.

He pushed Queeby towards the fireplace, but she followed him out.

'Go wi' 'er, Lovey dear, an' I'll see kin I fin' Nungi be meself,' he
said, shaking the stockwhip.

There was no need to search, for Nungi, anticipating a betrayal from
Queeby, instantly revealed himself, standing between the logs, his
arms encircling Tumble-down Jimmy eagle fashion, who, to fit the
simile, drooped lamb-like.

'Somethin' gorn wrong er ther well-wim; water won't come up, Boshy.
An' this lazy ole grub-chawrer an' 'oney waterer, ez you call im,
won't come an' gi' me a 'and. B--ole black feller say Debbil-debbil
sit down in ther bottom ov ther well-water, dam ole fool!'

Nungi laughed mirthlessly, and kicked the prey he had dropped, who
lay with his face on the ground.

Untwirling, thereby entangling the stock-whip, Boshy advanced; but
Nungi speedily increased the distance between them.

'Es Gord 's me Jedge, Nungi,' declared Boshy, advancing, 'ef yer don'
go this instant minit--' both hands fumbling longingly to twirl the
whip.

Nungi danced in simulated excitement, and, pointing to the raised
platform of the house, said:

'Big feller goanna crawl in onder there, eat all ther 'en eggs, me go
in arfter 'im, rip 'im open, take out ther eggs.' Boshy still
advanced. 'Black feller snake too; pretty quick me catchem, that
feller b--whirroo!' grabbing an imaginary snake, and twirling it
round, as Boshy would have liked to have handled the stock-whip.

'Yer lie! yer lying dorg! Yer see no snakes an' no go'annas in under
ther 'ouse,' said Boshy, weakening his assertiveness by going on his
knees and looking under.

'Urgh!' grunted Nungi, now at a safe distance from whip or even
missile. 'Fat lot you can see, ole Bungy-Blinkey-eye, ole one-eye!
Couldn' see er butterfly nur anythin' else, yur ole blather skyte! 'Oo
cares fur you? Nut me!'

This sudden outburst shocked and surprised Boshy into fatal
weakening, and he stood for parley.

'N-N-Nungi,' he stammered, 'w'ats come over yer ter go orn like
thet? Nungi,' coaxingly, 'look 'ere now, ole man, yer know well w'at I
gut ter do ter day. Go orn now an' get ter yer work an' water them
yeos an' lambs, like ther w'ite man w'at yer are.

'Not be meself,' said Nungi, but less aggressively, till, turning to
take a look at the well, and catching sight of the rising sun, he grew
at once savagely and cunningly courageous.

Boshy's discomfiture increased.

'Go on now, Nungi; don't be a slinker on a day like this.'

'Nut fer you nur no one like yer, b--old blinky Boshy, ole splay-
foot! Lars night I collared a bag er yer wool, an' ter smornin' I'll
take it into Tambo, sell it, an' git on ther plurry spree, sneak back
ter night, plenty matches me,' drawing one from his trouser-pocket and
striking it along the bare sole of his foot. 'Budgeree fire that
feller, cobbon fire that feller,' pointing to the house. 'See ole
plurry one-eye Boshy burnin' like blazes! See old splay-foot runnin
'ell for leather!'

With an aboriginal yell he bounded into the air, and coming down on
his feet reproduced to perfection the stiffened run and general gait
of Boshy.

Nungi's noisy revolt had a reviving effect on Tumbledown Jimmy. From
his perch now on the logs he ceased food importuning to burst into
appreciative laughter. Boshy made a rush for him.

'Ye'd larf at me, would yer? Lemme on'y ketch yer doin' ov it again,
an' I'll kick ther beggin' belly out ov yer!'

Jimmy, who had instantly ceased, began to beg and count the moons
that had whitened his head; then, as Boshy advanced, he slid from the
logs, and burrowing a hip into the ground, resolved into a rapidly
revolving four--spoked wheel, his hands and feet actively protecting
his threatened hub.

'Blanky ole One-eye, jes' tech 'im!' shouted Nungi, seizing a shank-
bone and taking steady aim at Boshy. 'Jes' lay a finger orn 'im,
thet's all.'

'Nungi' pleaded Boshy, 'w'at's wrong wi' you? You're a-goin on like
az if you've been pea-eatin', or a-swankin' ov ther kerosene, or the
pain-killer. W'at's kranked yer?'

Nungi's reply was another aboriginal bound and yell that brought out
the child and Queeby.

'W'a's the matter?' asked the child.

'Oh, Lovey, jes' you 'ear w'at e' sez, ther yeller an' w'ite savage;
see w'at 'e's goin' ter do--set fire ter ther 'ouse, an' burn me an'
you an' yer 'elpless dead daddy alive. Me an' you too' repeated Boshy,
individually classifying the relative importance of Nungis threats.

'Would yer, Nungi?' shouted the disbelieving child, going across to
him.

'No, Lovey' retracted Nungi. 'Carn't believe a word thet ole cursed
ole liar sez, ole splay-foot!'

'Nungi wouldn't' she said, 'you see'--turning resentfully to Boshy.

'I see I'm mistook' thankfully agreed Boshy; 'but 'e sez 'e won't
water ther poor liddle lambs, Lovey, an' them a-dyin' ov--'

'Yer will water ther ewes an' lambs, won't yer, Nungi?'

'Nut be me owen self, Lovey--carn't. No one ter watch w'at comes up
in ther bucket' said Nungi, determined not to assist the Debbil-debbil
to land even in daylight. 'No one ter talk ter' he added, to disguise
his cowardice.

'I'll come, Nungi.'

'Giandidilliwong!' delightedly yelled he, bounding high and coming
down on all fours. 'Git on me back, an' I'll carry yer all ther ways,
Lovey' (joyfully) 'an' arter gi' yer a ride on Billy all round ther
well. An' arter we'll shin inter ther scrub an' git wattle-gum. I know
wur ther's a lump ez big ez thet' (a shut fist), 'an' geebungs, an'
five-corners. Come on, Lovey' coaxed he, continuing to buck
progressively.

'Tell me father I'm gone t' water th' ewes an' lambs w'en 'e wakes
up for his breakfuss' she importantly commanded Boshy.

'Git yer bunnet fust, Lovey' stipulated Boshy. 'Nungi' he said
inducively, 'come beck wi' 'er soon ez yer water 'em.'

'Urh!' snorted Nungi, 'w'at'll yer gimme?'

'I'll nut say black's ther w'ite ov yer eye.'

'Urh!' unappeased. 'W'at'll yer gimme ter eat?'

'A box ov sardines.'

'Ter me own cheek? an' out 'ere nigh ole Jimmy?'

'In 'ell if yer like' curtly agreed the vanquished new master.

He watched the half-caste hoist the child on his shoulder and trot
briskly away to the well. To govern his kingdom did not appear so
easy, and a half-defeated sense irritated him. He shook a clenched
fist at the oblivious half-caste.

Tumbledown Jimmy immediately raised his black hand towards his
half--caste brother and did the same.

'Plurry rogue that pfeller Nungi; good pfeller Boshy. Cobbon budgeree
pfeller Boshy' (whining); 'poor pfeller me, 'ungry poor pfeller ole
Jimmy. Plurry long time now, Boss baal gib it black pfeller baccy.'

'Lie down, yer black dorg yer, lie down, or I'll sen' me foot through
yer black beggin' paunch!'

Jimmy again spun round, till Boshy disappeared.

Queeby had returned to the kitchen, where, beside the fireplace,
partly shrouded in a cloud of breath-blown ashes and smoke, he found
her. Her now vigorous eye-service was obvious and stung him, but his
recent defeat disinclined him even for an easy victory. In silence he
lifted a nail-keg improvised into a bucket, and slung it on to the
lowest crook in the chain over the fire, now blazing through Queeby's
lusty efforts. She rose and made way for him. His eye travelled from
her black curly hair, powdered white with the myall ashes, to her
equally disguised boots, his recent gift. He had intended to ask,
'Comfor'able?' as a spurring reminder; instead burst from him:

'Ghos', w'at a infernal mess ter get them into already!'

Queeby grabbed the kitchen towel and dusted them vigorously, then
stood anxiously watching Boshy, her twitching toes, showing through
their leather environments, sharing her uneasiness.

'Better ter weer 'em 'en ter sling 'em onter ther roof for spiders t'
lay eggs in, iden it?' he said, suddenly peaceful.

'Sling on ther kettle an' set ther breakfuss for all 'an's out 'ere;
an' lemme know wen this boils' pointing to the bucket. 'We must gi'e
'im' indicating the dead, 'a wash.'

'I ain't be 'arf done a-rootin' an' a-runtin' about in theere yit.
Terbaccer b' ther barrerload, an' a 'ole keg ov rum up in ther loft--
in under the bed' he substituted, to lessen detection. 'On'y let's git
our work done, then us'll ev a bust up; so fust, Queeby, put orn ther
kittle for breakfuss' he repeated.

He carried the leaves of the table-top to his tool-house and
workshop. Reappearing, tape-measure in hand, he went into the bedroom
and took slow and accurate measurements, whistling delightedly to find
that his premortem theoretical calculations and postmortem practical
measurements hardly varied.

In the workshop he took off his hat, knotted the four corners of his
red handkerchief and sized it to his head; then, utterly oblivious to
all but his work, he lifted up his voice to the accompaniment of
either saw or plane, and sang in tone outside all emotion: 'Oh say,
did yer ever know sorrer lik--er this?'

Queeby had finished all her appointed tasks, save the information
Boshy wanted about the water in the bucket. Remembering its feared
purpose, she ignored his orders, and when, by boiling over, it
threatened to put out the fire, she raised it to a crook higher in the
chain, then squatted outside by the old dog. She selected the dog, for
the brute, though appreciative of her company, would be
undemonstrative, save for quivering body and wagging tail; but old
Jimmy's begging mania would soon betray her.

Close to the dog she watched for the coming of the child and Nungi,
for she knew that by now their labour must have ceased.

The little girl's eye-service had been thorough and earnest. Long
before he could sight the filled bucket, she, either sitting or
leaning over the dark, cavernous well, would strain her eyes then
announce: 'No, nothin' in it, Nungi' which statement, though
inaccurate, comforted Nungi. Moreover, should Debbil-debbil be in the
bucket, cowardly though it might be, her outpost proximity gave him a
sense of security.

Now in gratitude he, with her, was hunting among the wattle-scrub for
the promised abnormal lump of gum, atoning for its deficiency with
handfuls of geebungs and five-corner berries. And from this unexpected
quarter, with the flower-decked child on his shoulder, her teeth
tightly locked with the gluey wattle-gum, and her arms full of its
chenille tassels, he bore down on old Jimmy. Still lock-jawed, the
little girl, motioning back Queeby, poured the contents of her
pinafore into Jimmy's eager palms; then, with her flowers, went softly
in to her father. Child-trouble widened her brown eyes as she turned
them on the shrouded figure stiffly outlined by the sheet, now partly
screened by the mosquito-net. Noiselessly she laid the clematis and
wattle on her bed, then stood near the covered face, and, looking down
at her untied bootlaces, sighed an impatient sigh always well known
and understood by this now unresponsive father. She waited till she
worked her teeth free, then from there listened to Boshy's vocalizing,
with intermission for change of tools or to tap the shavings from the
plane.

'Wonder Boshy's noise doesn't wake father!' she thought.

'Father' softly, for she was hardly justified in wakening him to lace
and tie her boots. 'Father' louder, 'I've been waterin' th' ewes an'
lambs, an' one ewe won't 'ave she's little lamb, an' she's lamb's
cryin' like anything--poor liddle lamb!' she added, in Boshy's diction
and tones.

Neither sound nor movement from the bed. Behind compressed lips she
groaned disappointedly.

'It's a long time' she sighed, moving her restless feet; 'you've been
a too--'

'Lovey' said hunger-driven Nungi, putting his eye and mouth to a
crack near her, 'w'at about me box ov sardines? I feel like's if me
throat was cut frum ear ter ear fer a month er Sundees! Arst 'im'
taking his hand from his stomach and waving towards the workshop.

'Boshy, is this the day w'en me father gets up?'

'W'y, Lovey dear, yer comes a-sneakin' in, an' a-crawlin' in, an' a-
creepin' in, an' I never see yer, an' yer frightens ten years' growth
out ov me!'

'W'at you got on you 'ead?' looking at Boshy's improvised cap, the
flap from one corner overhanging his eyeless socket.

'This's a kep, a kerpinter's kep, Lovey.'

'It's a long time' she complained, looking towards the bedroom.

'W'eere yer bin this long, long time, Lovey?' said Boshy, alert to
distract her.

'You know' picking the gum from her teeth.

'Ah! a-wattle-gum 'untin'.'

'Yes; an' w'at else?'

'Geebun's.'

'Geebungs' corrected she.

'An' fi'-corners.'

'Five-corners' counting her fingers.

'Look et yer dear liddle 'ands! They's nut a meal for a merskeeter.'
He stroked them admiringly.

'Mosquitoes been biting my father, Boshy?'

He knew from this she had been in the dead man's room. He nodded
affirmatively, then lowered his voice:

'Gosh me! w'at a mornin' you've 'ad!' Then, suddenly earnest, 'Way's
Nungi?' he asked.

'Outside, an' wants 'is tin o' sardines.'

'Wi' Jimmy, is 'e?'

She nodded.

'Le's all go an' get breakfuss in ther kitchen.'

'W'at's me father goin't' have for ees breakfuss?' asked Lovey,
looking at the table set for four.

Boshy readjusted his cap divertingly, but the child re-asked.

'Lovey dear, 'e's 'ad 'is breakfuss.'

'W'en?'

'W'en you was gone.'

'W'at did 'e have?'

'Eggs an'--'

'Boiled?'

'No, fried' said Boshy, suspecting a pitfall and supplying one.

Looking round the fireplace:

'Urgh!' she sniffed incredulously, 'w'ere's the egg-shells, then?'

'W'at hell-sheggs?' transposed Boshy in his agitation, and looking
both sides of the fireplace also.

'Now look 'ere, Lovey dear, me nur Gord won't love you if you keep on
a-ketchin' an' a-snarin' an' a-trippin' ov poor ole Boshy up so.'

The child's eyes were fastened on his face:

'W'y am I?'

'By allus an' continerally a-astin' ov questions. Arsk no questions,
Lovey, an' I'll tell yer no lies' he bargained, looking at her
contritely. 'Up wi' yer neow, Lovey, inter yer liddle cheer, an' at
yer breakfuss yer goes like one o'clock. Yer know thet ole yeller-
belly goanner wot's always a-pokin' an' a--prowlin' an' a-poachin'
after ther eggs?'

She nodded, the light of new interest in her eyes.

'Well, w'en 'er'--indicating Queeby, who ceased pouring the tea
wonderingly to listen to incidents new to her--'were gettin' your sop
ready, if 'e didn' waller right in 'ere, an' 'as a try ter snatch ther
tot out ov 'er 'ands, yer tin tot ov sop.'

'My tot?' from Lovey indignantly.

'Yes, your very tot; but me an' 'er' frenziedly trying to lessen
Queeby's surprise by including her, 'grabs 'im be ther scruff ov ther
neck an' ther tip ov ther tail, makes er whistlin' stock-whip outer
'im, an' slings 'im fair inter ther middle ov nex' week. Cheek ov 'im
ter want your breakfuss.'

'Ern' Lovey agreed, guarding against a recurrence by quickly gobbling
the disliked bread-and-milk sop. 'But' she said, wiping her mouth,
'it's the last time Ill 'ave nasty sop, then 'e wont come after it.'

After breakfast, astride the piebald pony, his long legs nearly
touching the ground, Nungi, well fed and docile as a pet cat, rode off
to tell and bring help from Cameron, their nearest neighbour.

Boshy went back to his work, and despite Queeby's pleading eyes, the
child yielding to his tempting inducements, went with him. He sat her
on the corner of the carpenter's bench, and parried or diverted her
questions about her father, and the desirability of wakening him by
handing her the long curled shavings; and when these palled, he whiled
her on by the impossible task of teaching him her version of the
'Three Golden Balls' a blankverse poem, but rhythmically intoned,
which he had taught her.

'They wors three girls wot was orlways a-kiddin' an' a-coaxing their
fathers ter buy them three goldin balls, an' any of the three of them
wot lostes theys goldin balls was to be 'ung--'

'Like ther mangy pup was' was an explanatory interruption that cost
the narrator her grip.

'An' then w'at they do?'

'Begin at the startment over again afore they was 'ung' advised
Boshy, unintentionally furnishing the thread she seized.

'So one of 'em losed 'er goldin ball, so she was to be 'ung. "Oh,
'angman, 'angman, stop the rope, I think I see me dear mother comin--"
'

'A-comin" corrected Boshy.

'A-comin' a-with me goldin ball. W'at's she's mother says?'

'No, I 'aven't gut' supplied Boshy, incautiously interested.

'No, I haven't got yer goldin ball. Nor I haven't come t' set yer
free. But I 'ave come t' see yer 'ung upon this iron gallers tree.'

It was a long list, and should have been a lasting lesson on the
futility of expecting anything from relations or connections. For all
came in Indian file, and sometimes announced by the reciter in the
wrong order, but all from morbidity, though of each the girl with the
rope round her neck asked the same question.

'Oh, dear brother' (or other), "ave yer gut me goldin ball?' and
promptly received the answer, facile from much repetition, therefore
delivered with a steep incline: 'No,--I--'aven'--gut--yer--goldin--
ball,--nor--I--'aven'--come--ter--set--yer--free,--but--I--'ave--
come--ter--see--yer--'ung--upon--this--iron--gallers--tree.'

However, it was a splendid and seized opportunity for the 'terue'
lover who turns up at the end of the list. Familiar and oft-repeated
as was the legend, the little girl broke it to ask:

'W'at's a true lover?'

Boshy's one eye grew reminiscent with unbidden long-slumbering
sentiment.

'Terue lover? Well, Lovey' he explained, gruffly reluctant, "e iden a
feller wot goes a-smellin' an' a-sniffin' an' a-sneezin' roun' after
every rag orn every bush, an' a-pickin' an' a-pluckin' an' a-choosin'
ov none.' And by way of more lucidity, he added: 'Nor one wot goes all
through the woods, an' then comes out wi' a crooked stick an"
(contritely) 'on'y one eye--leastways, one long-sighted eye.' For to
no one did Boshy admit that he could not see with both.

The child was looking at the empty socket.

'Come here and bend down.'

She stood, and covering his seeing eye with one hand, held the other
before the quivering muscle.

'Count now--how many fingers I got?'

'Five' promptly from Boshy.

'They's all story liars, 'cause yer can see, Boshy, right enough.
But' she said, slowly shaking a puzzled head at the withered eye, 'you
can see my two eyes, Boshy, but I can on'y see your on'y one eye.'

Boshy looked at the perturbed brow, then chanted:

'I think I see me terue lover a-comin' wi me a-goldin ball' with
planing accompaniment.

'W'at's a true lover' re-asked Lovey, ignoring past explanations.

'Terue lover, Lovey. Well, it's this ways. An' nandsome young feller
fancies some good-lookin' young woman; well, then, Lovey, Gord nur
ther devil nur no one won't keep 'em apart, an' they never rests till
they gets spliced--thet's they ties a knot wi' their tongues wot they
can't undo wi' their teeth. Married, thet is, an' then they 'as a
liddle girl like you.'

'Boshy, was my father an' my mother--w'at's gone up to Mr. Gord's
'ouse--married?'

'Dunno, Lovey' slowly, 'an' nut knowin' can't say.' Then gravely,
'Lovey, did yer daddy never tell yer, you 'e's own flesh an' blood,
w'ether 'e was married or nut?'

'No' said she, shaking her head solemnly, 'not yet, but w'en me
father wakes--'

'Thet's orlright, Lovey, but if 'e wouldn't tell you, Lovey, tain't
likely 'e'd a-told me. I reelly can't say, ez neither ov 'em ever said
word ov mouth ter me ez they was. I on'y know 'e picked 'er up in some
towen, w'en 'e went down wi' some sheep, an' w'en they come 'ere I
arst no questions, so's they tell me no lies, fer she'd an eye in 'er
'ead thet 'ud coax a duck--a nole duck--off ov the water. I see
nothin' wrong wi' 'er frum ther day 'er come to ther day she died, an'
I made 'er coffin--same uz 'is' tapping the boards.

'Whose?' said the child sharply.

'Oh, Lovey dear' entreated perturbed Boshy, unprepared with a
substitute, 'don't be always a-ketchin' an' a-snarin' an' a-trippin'
ov me up wi' yer liddle staggerin' questions w'en I'm a-thinkin' fer
yer good.'

'Wot yer say?'

'Jes this: Gord in 'eaven 'elp you if they wusn't married, for nut
one acre, nur one 'oof orn this 'ere place ken yer claim or touch.'

'W'at place can't I touch?'

'This place--Merrigulandri.'

'Uh!' she sniffed incredulously.

'An' even s'posin' they was married, an' you a gal, blest if I think
you could touch it.'

'Uh!' she sniffed again; but Boshy was deep in the issues of entail,
early English, all he had known.

The child with both hands demonstrated her sense and power to touch,
while listening to him in silence. He raised his foot on a stool, and,
leaning his elbow on his knee, held his head with his palm.

'W'y can't I touch it?' asked the child, still working her pliant
fingers.

"Cos bein' a gal.'

'Who can stop me?'

'Ther crown ov Englan', weere I come from. Or maybe ther Gov'ment
'ere 'll step in an' claim, az they's ther nex'-in-kin, an' swaller
ther 'old damn lot in one gulp--the greedy, guzzelin', plunderin'
crew!' He was greatly excited. 'Thet it may bust 'em if they do!'

'Clover busted poor ole Strawberry' interposed Lovey.

As excited Boshy ignored this one glint of comprehension, she added:

'I can touch everythin' I want t" rousing Boshy by verifying this on
him.

'Theys the smallest and ther lovliest liddle 'an's on this 'ere
yearth' kissing them. 'An' yer the innercentest liddle lamb, too'
stroking her tousled wattle-perfumed hair.

'I'm a big girl, Boshy.'

'Yes' sorrowfully as to the sex; 'an' fer oncet I wish ter Christ yer
wuzn't a girl, Lovey.'

It was too dark a mood to hold the child.

'Oh, you make your box, Boshy. I' shaking her head, 'don't want no
more goldin balls. I want me father. 'E's a long time waking up'
fretfully shaping her face for tears, and twisting her body
impatiently.

'Yer gettin' sleepy-tired, Lovey ov mine. Yer bin up long agen
daybreak. Come' sitting swaying his knees like a cradle, 'to I sing
yer ter bye-bye.'

'An' w'en I go to bye-bye, w'ere'll yer put me t' sleep?'

'Side ov yer daddy' promised Boshy, not looking at her.

She came to his arms and instantly shut both eyes. He, looking down
at her tightly closed lids and mouth, was not deceived, as tensely
still in his arms she lay.

'Don't shet yer eyes a-puppus, Lovey. Keep 'em open' he pleaded, 'an'
wait to I sing yer ter bye-bye reely.'

'Sing quick, then, less I will.'

Yielding to the sentimental, he began:

"'Oh, it wus all in ther month ov May.
When green birds wus swellin'.
A young man on his death-bed lay
Fer ther love ov Barbary Ellen.
Fer ther love--"'

'No, no, not that one' she interrupted impatiently.

'W'at now, Lovey?'

She was thoughtful.

'Liddle more cider?' Boshy prompted.

She nodded, and he broke out jauntily:

'"A liddle more cider for Miss Dinah.
A liddle more cider too a-hoo.
A liddle more cider for Miss Dinah.
A liddle more cider too a-hoo."'

She suffered this for a time, because the motion of his rapidly
jerking foot-beats interfered with her speech. However, she stopped
him with her hand on his mouth. Boshy looked into her sleepless eyes,
with their strange, lonely expression, and began another with equally
vigorous foot movement:

"'Blow, bellers, blow; blow, bellers, below.
Knock away, boys, for er nour er so.
An' its double shuffle on we the re ro rady oh.
An' its double shuffle on we the re ro ray.
An' its double shuffle on we the re ro rady oh.
An' its double shuffle on we the re ro ray--"'

Wide-open eyes looked up at him when he paused for breath, and again
he returned to the sentimental:

'"Oh, me preetty, pretty bird.
An' me well-feathered bird.
Don't crow until it be day.
An' yer comb it shall be of the yeller beaten gold.
An' yer wings of the silver so grey.

'"But the bird it was false.
And very, very false.
An' it crowed an hour too soon.
An' she thought it was day.
An' she sent 'er love away.
An' 'twas only the light of the moon."'

She seemed too deeply interested for sleep.

'Sing more again.'

So, changing his programme, behind closed teeth he crooned with
insinuating dreaminess his unfailing cat's slumber song:

'"Crowin-aogies-gone-t'-Sligie
T'-marry-a-wife-for-Donal'-Magibbie.
Good-e-love-er-good-e-give-er.
Everything-to-chicken-liver.
Blow-high-ye-winds-they'll-live-together.
Blow-low-ye-winds-they'll-live-for-ever.
From-chimbly-tops-ye'll-shift-em-never.
Zoo-morigan-za-morigan-zam-zam-zee."'

She yawned, and with renewed hope and earnestness Boshy went on, till
she suddenly requested:

'Sing pretty, pretty bird again. No, no! crow, Boshy' suddenly.

'Ur, Lovey' reproachfully; 'nut crow, Lovey' disapprovingly, for no
sleep that way. 'Jim Crow, Lovey, d'ye mean?' hopefully.

'No, no;' but stroking his face coaxingly: 'Crow like nice, good
cock-a--doo, what made she's love wake up an' go away.'

'Ah, Lovey! carn't go asleep along ov me a-crowin'. Thet cock-a-doo
oughtn't t' 'ave crowed.'

'Well, you crow, an' I'll go t' sleep then' she promised.

Boshy gave an incipient crow.

'Tha's on'y like little cock-a-doo. Stand up' she said, slipping down
between his knees, 'an' clap yer wings, like w'at they do, an' crow
big--b--i-g, like big cock-a-doo' she said breathlessly.

Boshy's best efforts failed to stimulate the roosters, which seemed
to him to be the child's desire, for she listened intently for outside
sound.

'Laugh like laughin' jackasses' she commanded abruptly, changing her
tactics, a grim intent about her mouth.

'Wot oh! you bol' jackasses a-larfin' so loud' chanted Boshy,
uncertain about laughing mimicry. 'Thet right, Lovey?'

'Laugh like w'at they do.'

Boshy did nobly.

'Laugh louder 'n w'at they do' she exacted.

Boshy tip-toed, raised his head towards the roof, and made a supreme
effort. The old dog growled disapprovingly, and dozing Jimmy laughed
unintelligently. Boshy grinned at both tributes.

'Laugh more agen, Boshy; go on, go on!' said the child, tip-toeing in
her eagerness.

Boshy, elated, improvised a series of unbirdlike notes, startlingly
loud, and new to all feathered folk.

'W'at about thet lot, Lovey?' he asked, hungry for her approval and
disappointed, for she had turned towards the door.

She looked back at him, a look on her face new to him.

'Now, let's see; didn't that wake me father?'

Boshy raised his hands.

'Oh, Lovey! O Gord A'mighty, Lovey! You to play a trick like thet on
poor me!' gasped he, aghast, undone by her ruse.



Chapter II



FIFTY miles parted the dead man's property and Cameron Cameron, and
it was not till the afternoon of the next day that he with his
daughter Margaret drove up.

Boshy, with Lovey beside him, was watching for them. Margaret held
out her arms for the little orphan, but she shrank from them closer to
Boshy, who gripped her hand. Cameron Cameron bared his head, and
noiselessly they entered the house. Boshy, leading Lovey, came out a
little later to the kitchen and bade Queeby 'take Lovey for a ta-ta in
the scrub' while he, Cameron Cameron, and Margaret discussed things
inside.

Queeby instead went to Jimmy, still lying or squatting between the
myall logs, and greedily begging from an uninterested horse grazing
near, for as a food beggar Jimmy was ceaseless; even in his sleep his
hands went out.

'Cobban Master (God) spillum flour-bag (frost) las' night on poor
Jimmy. Plurry cole' he complained to the child. 'W'ite pfeller frost
las' night.'

She understood and covered him with a bag. Laying his hands on his
moon-whitened head, he continued:

'Yulegrin (hungry). Poor pfeller me, Tumbledown Jimmy--poor pfeller
me!' was a further demand for food. Then angrily: 'That pfeller'
pointing out on the plain to Nungi, 'been eatem big pfeller breakfuss;
baal gib it poor pfeller Jimmy enny breakfuss!' he squeaked harshly in
self-pity, pointing from his mouth to his stomach, whining, 'Yulegrin!
yulegrin!'

His hungry importunity was no more to the child than the magpie's,
for in that respect the magpie was his superior. The methods of both
were strangely alike, and had long since palled on her, and this
afternoon she hardly saw him. Leaving Queeby with him, she went
noiselessly round to the widest crack in the bedroom and looked
through.

Still that silent sleeping father. She put her mouth to a crack and
directed a deep sigh to his ear. The net and sheet fluttered, and the
child's heart beat audibly.

'Father' she whispered, tremulous with hope; but neither motion nor
sound answered her. Child though she was, the sense of the mysterious
fell upon her, and her mouth set maturely as she turned away.

'Sweet, pretty little creature' the birds, her old friends, twittered
to her. She turned from them and the scrub with its lurking shadows,
and looked across the plain. The ewes and lambs were again round the
empty troughs surrounding the well. She climbed on the butcher's block
near the meat room; from this coign she could see the graves. One end
of the palisading was down, and she saw the dirt being flung up under
the myall clump by two of Cameron's men.

Since the coming of Margaret Cameron and her father, Lovey had ceased
to ask questions, but had followed their every movement with widely
questioning eyes. She went now to the chimney corner, and applied her
eye to a well-known crack: Margaret sat beside her father on a stool,
and Boshy stood facing them and herself, his left arm extended, his
thumb holding down the two middle fingers. His whole hand shook
whenever he spoke, but too impartially for emphasis.

'Her father wrote to me just before he died about taking her--and the
child must be schooled' said Cameron Cameron.

'Git me the books; I'll school her. Town' sniffed Boshy--'town's no
place fer a chile like 'er. Nothin' in 'em but a lyin' an' a-swearin'
an' a--Sabbath-breakin' a-drinkin' an' a-forgin' an' a--' Boshy looked
at Margaret and ceased abruptly. 'I don't say sech a awful thing 'ud
'appen ter Lovey ez thet. But I see'--Boshy's jaw set--'no good in
towns, nur schoolin' neither' he said sullenly.

Cameron began, but Boshy stopped him.

'Mr. Cameron, sur, I knows ter ther full you means well ter Lovey all
right. They' (giving a backward jerk towards the bedroom and uniting
it by a handwave with a grave now being lengthened under the myalls)
'may 'ave been married or they may nut 'ave been.'

'Of course they were, Boshy. I've got their marriage lines here with
these papers' said Cameron.

'Oh! you've a-snavelled 'ees papers, then' said Boshy suspiciously,
who had been too distressfully absorbed watching Margaret pack the
child's clothes to notice this.

Boshy paused, and after a visible struggle went on with a matter even
nearer his heart.

'Well, married or nut, it'll be all ther same t' Lovey in ther long
run, you understan'.'

Neither did.

'Well, it's this way: I've bin 'ere, young man an' ole--leastways
middle age, for though me 'ead may be a bit greyish outside, it's
noways greyish inside. Serpose you don't think I've bin 'ere fer ther
love ov it, jest stuck 'ere in this one-eyed country w'ere no one
comes, so ther dorgs don't 'ave ter bark at strangers, jest for the
run ov me knife an' pannikin.'

'No?' remarked Cameron, in tones inviting further confidences.

'Yer right theere; theere's bin bad seasons, and theere's bin good,
but I've bin asleep with one eye open, good or bad.'

Boshy paused, but his hearers were again bushed as to his drift. He
saw this, and in an effort to enlighten them, said slowly:

'Her'll want for nothin'.'

He put both hands in his pockets, and looked from the nubbly
carbuncles there outlined to the two. Still both failed to understand,
or no one appeared to; withdrawing his hands impatiently, he
reluctantly said slowly, dropping his voice:

'P'r'aps you 'ave nodiced they's nut many ole emp'y pickle bottles
knockin' about'; then considering this alarmingly explicit, he changed
the subject hastily. 'I sez nothin' about 'er a-goin' wi' this 'ere
young woman fer a day or so, t' we gits 'im laid by. Same time, she'd
be jest as well, if nut better, in ther scrub 'ere wi' Queeby a berry-
huntin' as she is now; an' at ther time w'en all's ready, w'en 'er
comes back an' 'er sees 'im gone, I can easy chalk 'er off be tellin'
'er 'e's gone up to Mr. Gord's 'ouse, as 'er calls it, ter see 'er
mammy. Trust me fer thet' said Boshy, grinning egotistically.

But the hearts of his hearers were still cold in his cause. Cameron
was for closing the discussion as useless and ununderstandable.

Boshy, mistaking the silence, winked, and looked insinuatingly from
one to the other, and in gratitude further entrenched on his
secretiveness.

'An' I may say, furthermore, seein' thet I'm a-talkin' ter w'ite
people, thet them ole emp'y pickle bottles is w'eere no crows wi'
colds on their chests will mistake them bottles' insides fer yeller
cough lozengers' he went on, without pausing to elucidate theto him,
obviousness of his meaning. 'Now, w'at d'yer serpose I make out ov a
damn one-eyed 'ole like this? Thet is, annerly or yearly, take season
wi' season all roun'.'

He paused to look for commercial freemasonry from Cameron.

'I couldn't say, Boshy. What do you make now?'

'Yer wouldn't believe me, no, nut if I took me oath.'

'Try me now' induced Cameron.

Boshy looked round the room, then under the safe and sofa. Beside
them only the cat by the fire. He opened the back door wide enough for
the cat's exit, then, taking his cap from his head, he beat her out
with it, and closed the door carefully.

Backing into a corner furthest from Margaret, he beckoned to Cameron,
who bent, while Boshy, tiptoeing, whispered in his ear.

'No, it couldn't be done in the time' incredulously pretended
Cameron.

'I told yer yer'd doubt me word; but Gord may strike me dead if I
lie' challenged and confirmed the testator. He added immediately: 'But
thet confession 'as never been mouthed be me afore, nut even't 'im'
pointing to the bedroom with one hand, and letting in the importuning
cat with the other.

All Boshy's past history was pure conjecture; from himself nothing
had ever been gleaned, though many had pumped.

'How did you come out here, Boshy?' insinuated Cameron, intent on
more confidences.

'That's neither 'ere nur theere, an' yer gut no business ter try t'
git me on ther raw, Mr. Cameron' said Boshy resentfully.

There was an audible breathing-space between the two men, then
Margaret said:

'Father meant out here, Boshy--Merrigulandri.'

'Oh' he said, relieved. 'Well, I'd 'ad me bellyfull of towns, so I
took a look roun' fer a careful sort ov mate, an', be 'eavens! I gut
more then I wanted, fer I struck one as mean as cats' meat. Pat the
Jew, as 'e was called, soon giv' ther bush best, an' I 'ear now that
'e is landed proprietor ov the Court 'Ouse Hotel, and quite the juicy
cockroach.'

He paused, and allowed a smile to form and slowly fade at his mental
picture of his old mate as a Boniface, and reminiscence hazed his one
eye and relaxed his mouth.

'We camped one evening at Narrangidgery Creek, close b' a cocky's
'umstead. We was clean dead-beat, an' 'adn't tasted a bite ov fresh
meat fer some time, an' w'en we sees a cupple ov wimin a-roundin' up
and a-runnin' in some cattle, tired as we was, we bucks up and gi'es
'em an nand. Well, in less 'an no time, the ole woman she brings out
ther gun and pops one off fust go. After thet me an' Pat rolls in an'
skins an' dresses it. But, be 'eavens! the ole woman was a standin'
by, an' nut even so much as a lick at the blood would 'er le' our two
dorgs sneak, an' them as dead-beat as we wuz. By-and-by the two wimin
starts a-runnin' of ther'--looking at Margaret--'ther--intrils, but
the two of 'em wuz at the same time a-beatin' and a-beltin' and a-
bashin' of both dorgs' back. We tried t' coax ther skirts an' liver
out ov 'er. "I gi'e away nothin'," she said. An' be 'eavens! thet wus
all we did git, so we christened the place "Gi'e-away-Nothin' 'All." '

'Now' said Cameron, 'we must buck up; it's getting late. Now about
the child, Boshy: she must come with us, you see.'

'I see nuthin' ov ther sort' replied Boshy, surprised. 'Oo's gut ther
best right to 'er--strangers or them ez weaned 'er? Yes, s'elp me
Gord, weaned 'er!' he added fiercely, looking from one to the other.
Then, suddenly softening: 'Mr. Cameron, an' you, young woman' his
pleading mouth working tremulously, "twas I ez weaned 'er from 'er
mother a'most, an"--red spots glowing on his cheekbones--'Gord's me
Judge, to kid 'er even from playin' wi' the fowls, I used ter take 'er
inter me workshop an' turn meself inter a blarsted ole rooster, a-
curlin' ov, an' a-crowin' ov, an' a--clappin' ov me wings like--like
b-beggary!'

Boshy had turned his one eye on Cameron during this confession. Its
cost, though it might have missed the man, drew toll from the woman.

'Kind, kind Boshy! But, you see, it's for the child's good. She could
not stay now.'

'She must be schooled--can't grow up like a wild animal' interposed
Cameron.

'They's nut much wile animal about Lovey; an' if all comes ter all,
isen' ther bush ther proper place for a wile animal? Town's all very
well for a ornery child, but, Mr. Cameron and this young woman 'ere,
Lovey ain't be no means a ornery child. She's gut ways be no ways
ornery. In fac' 'er were born wi' em, an' thet's w'y 'er's gut ther
'ole ov them under 'er thumb--Nungi an' Queeby, an' ole Jimmy an'--
an'--'after a bashful pause--'the 'ole damn lot ov us!'

This avowal begot another.

'S'elp me Gord, sur, ter tell yer the truth, if 'er were took away
I'd feel no better nur a 'ole'--after a pause--'rooster w'at's lorst
'er one chick!'

Then again brick-red spots glowed on the old man's high cheek-bones,
and his one eye glistened. He cleared his throat shamefacedly, then
proceeded, solely addressing Cameron:

'Mr. Cameron, sur, 't were I ez poddied' (spoon-fed) 'thet child w'en
'er mammy fust weaned 'er. W'y, w'en 'er wuz liddle, an' they wuz a-
tryin' ter wean 'er, nut bite nor sup could they get inter 'er liddle
inside till I tackles 'er like this'--looking round; then, for lack of
illustrative matter, improvising with his hands. 'I grabs up a lot ov
bread-an'-milk sop, an' makes outside wi' it. "Come along, cock-a-
doodle-doo; come along, chooky 'en an' chicks, eat up all Lovey's
sop," sez I. "W'at!" sez I, "you greedy chooks, nut leave none fer
poor liddle baby Lovey!" sez I, a-spillin' ov it out, an' a-gammunin'
az they 'ad gobbled ov it all up out ov me 'ands. Lord Gord! ter see
thet liddle child, the spirit ov 'er, the pluck ov 'er, a--fightin'
wi' 'er liddle, liddle 'ands wi' them fowls! Game 'er is an' always
wuz, an' always will be--game az a liddle ant!'

Boshy wiped the admiring moisture from his eye with the red ear of
his handkerchief cap hanging conveniently near it, then ventured on
further memories connected with the child that he, like Mary, had
'pondered in his heart.'

"Oly Ghost!' said he, inadvertently but appropriately invoking the
Pentecostal Bestower of tongues--"'Oly Ghost! 'er could talk long
afore 'er could walk, an' plain az you an' me, too. I'll allow az 'er
were slow about walkin', an' 'er is ter this day if 'er can be
carried. Now, so 'elp me Gord! this is az true as Gospel. This is the
dodge 'er gut me up to t' try and wake up 'er dead daddy.'

He told of the crowing in his workshop, and he seemed to be gaining
his cause, for Cameron's Bush-worn face had grown fatherly and
Margaret wept; but he suddenly cut him short with:

'Boshy, we know you have been good and kind to the child, but she
must come with us for the time, then go to town to my sister to be
educated. Why, my boy Andrew is there' he added, to reassure Boshy.

'I've more rights ter ther child than any ov you strangers' said
Boshy determinedly. 'A nice time 'er'll give you strangers, or anyone
else oo wants to tie 'er liddle boots even! Nut me, even if I wuz to
put me two eyes out on sticks, will 'er let touch 'em. "Me father will
lace 'em," 'er says continerally. An' theere 'er is, a-waitin' az 'er
is, fer 'im as'll wake no more, to wake an' lace 'em up.' He paused
dramatically. 'But soon's 'er knows 'e's dead an' gorn it'll be,
"Boshy, you can lace 'em up," an' "Boshy, you can do this, an' do
thet, an' ther other thing." To tell yer ther reel truth, I wuz a--
thinkin', az I wuz a-makin' ov 'e's coffin, thet I wouldn' be
surprised if 'er didn' take to a-daddyin' ov me--poor liddle
motherless, fatherless lamb thet 'er is.'

Cameron Cameron moved towards the door.

'We must take the child' he said; 'she must be schooled. Suppose you
could do everything else for her, you'll allow you couldn't school
her, Boshy?'

'Boshy'll allow nothin' at all ov ther sort! Wait' he earnestly
commanded, as Cameron's hand went to the door, and something in his
tones caused the man to obey.

In the pregnant pause the cat rose from the fireplace and stretched
in a strained, listening attitude, with its eyes on Boshy.

'Get out ov this, yer listenin' tinker yer!'

He aimed a kick at her. and, again opening the door, drove her out.

'There's nut one in the 'ole ov this districk but w'at thinks I come
out to this country fer ther good ov me delicate constitootion.'
(Everyone in that district thought differently.)

'Also az well, thet I can't write.'

He went slowly to the topless table, and along its dusty frame
laboriously traced with his forefinger 'Hugh Palmer.' He raised his
suddenly shrunken, withered face to Margaret's, that had as suddenly
crimsoned.

'If so be az I were sent out, an' altered my name, yer may know,
young woman, I'm nut ther on'y one. "Yerhoo Pormer" thet young blade
calls 'isself, but Hug Pal-mer he's true name is, fer I see a letter
as a-cum to 'im from 'ome; in fac', ther mail-boy lef' it wi' me ter
give it ter 'im. "This fer you?" sez I. 'E takes it, looks at it.
"Yerhoo Pormer," 'e sez, thinkin' I couldn't read. "Hug Pal-mer," sez
I to 'im. An' if that young man 'ad a--owned to it theere an' then,
an' w'y 'e were sent out, to me, I'd a-tole 'im w'y I come, an' said
no more to one on yearth. There's more'n me in ther same boat, yer
see, Mr. Cameron an' young woman; an' my name is no more Boshy 'n w'at
thet young man is Yerhoo Pormer. "Good ov me 'Ealth" 's my name fer
ther cause ov my voy'ge. "Kerlonial Egsperience" is Mr. Yerhoo
Pormer's.'

Boshy's attempts at the English drawl of Margaret's lover, together
with his wrongly bracketing him with himself as a convict, caused a
burst of laughter from her father.

'My word! plenty worse than you out of gaol, Boshy, old man' he
said, slapping him on the back.

'An' you know w'eere to find 'em!' said Boshy, stung by his noisy
mirth; for it was to him a bitter confession, justifiable only by the
greatness of the occasion--one that had induced him to uncover his two
most hidden secrets.

Cameron Cameron jerked his head at his daughter, and again went to
the door.

'I've no wish to put atween you an' thet young man, miss. Gord
knows, a conspriricy sent me 'ere, an' mebbe 'e were sent out fer very
liddle. Yes, no doubt so were 'e, an' I'd rather yer didn' name it to
'im, fer I never be word ov mouth spoke about it afore' he said, in
agitated uncertainty following close after Margaret.

'I won't, Boshy' she promised, too tender for Boshy's coming trial
to enlighten him, even if she could.

To his further dismay, the child met them outside, her eyes
unnaturally open, her mouth unusually indrawn, and unnaturally and
unusually silent.

Cameron's man harnessed the horses and brought the buggy round to
the front-door. Old Jimmy immediately sidled up to the horses' heads,
and, in his disability to attract the bipeds, importuned the
quadrupeds for bacca and tucker.

Margaret Cameron, with Lovey in her arms, went into the bedroom,
turned back the sheet from the brow, and held the child's immovable
lips to it, then pressed her own, and went to the buggy. All the
household were now round it, as she placed the girl on the seat and
got in.

Boshy stood near, palsied, speechless.

The child drew away from Margaret's sheltering arms and shuffled to
the seat's edge near Boshy. She placed one foot over the side, and
moved it meaningly towards him. He rushed and with trembling fingers
laced it, then the other.

'Lovey' he said brokenly, holding both feet firmly, 'Lovey--this--
is--a--er--conspriricy--a put-up thing to part us! Jes' yer wait,
Lovey ov mine--jes' wait an' see can it be done. Wait, Lovey--'

His lips were disobedient, but his jaw worked strenuously for the
love of his heart.

'Long ago a--er--conspriricy parted me from me--mother. This is
another conspriricy to part us.'

He mouthed silently for some moments.

'Wait, Lovey--er--mine--an' see can it be done. Jes' wait, Lov--'

'Poor pfeller me!' importuned Jimmy as they drove off; 'poor pfeller
me! Poor Tumbledown Jimmy!' as ever his hand rose and fell.



Chapter III



ALL week long the puffing and panting throat of the flour-mill
belched vapour-columned arches, which, telescoping airily, spanned the
river from bank to bank, as if purposefully linking the mill with
Fireman Foreman's dwelling on the opposite side. Fireman Foreman--a
godly member of the Methodist chapel--shrouded by dawn or by vapour,
on his way to the mill to get up steam, was therefore seldom seen to
cross. Some little ones, superstitiously awed by the mill's funnel
belchings, credited him with crossing this waterway by the aerial
arches. But now, in the unillusioned light and broody quiet of a
Sabbath morn, the cold, silent mill, shorn of its nebulous halo,
looked old and worn--an aged actor off the stage. The same unsparing
realism foreshortened the river's width, and directed those
sentimental children's eyes to the mundane stepping-stones from
Foreman's to the mill. On the flat behind the mill, dawn-rising
Chinamen shogged with nimble bare feet under their yoke-linked
watering-cans. These busy brethren, meeting sometimes on the same
narrow track, would pause, ant--like, seemingly to dumbly regard one
another and their burdens, then, still ant-like, pass silently to
their work.

No schoolboys lingered round Bob Robertson's (yclept Roberson's)
blacksmith's shop, for this sleepy day no lusty throat bellowed
attention to the flaming tongues fanned from its bloodily blazing
teeth; no luminous stars flinted from the clanking anvil. The lips of
its wide-mouthed door were closed, and a cruelly prosaic touch were
the Scotch twill shirt and moleskin trousers hanging across the fence.
Their owner, George, the blacksmith's apprentice, always wore his
Sunday suit on Saturday night, while Granny Foreman as regularly
sluiced through his week-day gear.

The front doors of Pat the Jew's Courthouse Hotel and its less
successful rival, the Royal, were closed. Old Moore the pound-keeper,
Dinnie Donahoe the shoemaker, Tambaroora Phil the chemist, Fry the
tailor, and other thirsty back-door compatriots, viewed this
inhospitable restriction with equanimity.

Inside the National School the dusty emptiness, surrounding the ink--
stained, knife-mutilated forms, was eloquent of relaxation. Dickey,
the schoolmaster's old pony, roamed in solitary dejection all round
the bare school-ground. The untrodden nibblings under the fence were
dry and dusty, and from the quest of these he would raise his head,
and thrusting it over the bars, eye up and down the empty street, then
whinny gregariously--whether for the schoolboys who had
surreptitiously plucked every hair from his mane and tail, or for his
work-day acquaintances, the butcher and the baker's old horses, was
not clear even perhaps to him.

As she entered the main street, still empty but for her, Eliza
Hickson, commonly called 'Lizarixin' milk-girl from 'up the river'
crossed her leg and sat genteely sideways on her milk saddle-bags--
flour-sacks ingeniously partitioned into pint or half-pint
receptacles. When she passed the schoolhouse, Dickey raised his head
over the rails and dropped some of his dry gleanings in his whinnied
greeting to 'Liza's old horse. But neither 'Liza nor her mount
responded. Unguided, he turned round the corner of the school
enclosure, to Sergeant Toohey, their first customer, across the river.
The hollow resonance of her horse's hoofs crossing the bridge filled
the vacuous morning unduly, rousing old Granny Foreman, whose
nightcapped head appeared through the small bedroom window.

"Liza dear, do 'ee like a good girl, 'and I in George's clo'es:
'twill save I goin' out.'

But Granny bought no milk, so her double sentiment of hiding the
limited extent of her grandson's wardrobe and observing the sanctity
of the Sabbath appearance did not appeal to 'Liza. She turned her
expressionless eyes on the old woman, and with, 'Oo was yer servant
larst year?' went undelayed up the hillside to the gaol. She meant to
finish her milk delivery in time to attend morning Sunday-school, for,
notwithstanding her double milk duties on the Sabbath, she topped the
list for regular and punctual attendance.

Her next service would be the home of Widow Irvine, the well-to-do
sister of Cameron Cameron. The house was on the flank of the 'gravelly
hill' and as 'Liza topped this, she saw with surprise that apparently
all there still slept.

And as Granny McGrath's river-going geese waddled their way through
the paddock next to this house, they too paused to joyfully comment on
the unusual spectacle of an old and relentless dog foe still on the
chain. They were not of the order that take their pleasures silently,
so shrill laughter was in their gladsome beaked communings. But it was
even more galling to the fettered dog when rank and file came in a
united line, and through the space beneath the lower rail, slowly and
steadily regarded him. It was a relief when a chorus of triumphant
'Queg, queg, quegs!' burst from them. Now only the fence and the
chained dog divided them and the long coveted grass in the home
paddock. An old mother goose was for immediate action, but her less
martial spouse hung back for a further futile exhibition from the dog
to burst his bonds, then, as became a cautious general, he waddled
under and led the way, proscribing a safe limit.

Among the dewy grass they zigzagged their destructive bills, and
after each swallowing pause they craned their long necks towards the
impotent dog, and the aggressive, arrogant mocking of their 'Queg,
queg, quegs!' in varied keys under his very nose was maddening.

To add to his humiliation, old mare Cushla on the other side of the
fence ceased licking her newly-foaled offspring to gallop up from the
flat. She stretched over the fence her head, with extended pricked
ears and questioning eyes. Then she, with equine eloquence, whinnied
for an explanation from the dog of his lack of hostility to these
despoilers of her foal's domain.

Tightening every sinew and muscle, he gave a silent but violent
exhibition of his inability to reach or disconcert these invaders; yet
unappeased, she still demanded the same duty. Her want of ordinary
horse sense to grasp the situation almost scattered his extraordinary
dog sense of Sabbath sanctity. He rose, and, inflating his sides,
panted with mortified rage. Yet again he slackened his chain to the
last loop, then, with concentrated, soundless energy, he bounded with
an impetus that turned him tail end to them. When he reversed, he
found that Cushla's eyes had added contempt to complaint, and that
Daddy Gander was leading a whole orchestra of amused 'Queg, quegs!' He
turned his eyes to his dilatory master's room, and, raising his head
to the heavens, sent up a prolonged howl that was utterly free from
secularism. The startled geese flew incontinently, a change of
expression in their 'Quegs' and their falling feathers showed their
imaginations were anticipating.

Neither parsonage nor rectory kept the sanctity of the Sabbath more
sacredly than this household, for Mrs. Irvine was a strict Wesleyan.
Her home on week-days was often honoured by the presence of the
parson, and every Sunday at dinner. Indeed, it seemed to the culprit
dog that he and his canine companions had to take on the subdued
Sabbath atmosphere with the silence of the mill on Saturday
afternoons. His fault now was therefore the more heinous, and guiltily
he sent sidelong looks to the room of his master, Jim, man of all
work--but thankfully he saw the still closed door.

It was not the contented sense of a week well spent that had
prolonged Jim's sleep, but the fact that the night before had been his
monthly pay--night. There was no variety in Jim's personal mode of
celebrating these occasions, but much in his gifts to Fanny, maid of
all work, his fellow--servant, for in the first hour of their meeting
Jim's eyes had eagerly sought the third finger on both her work-wealed
hands. From their unadorned simplicity he instantly made up his mind
to wed her some day, and although passing years, chiefly of an
autumnal tend, demanded an undue deciduous toll from Fanny's meagre
locks and ample gums, Jim, to his credit, remained faithful.

It was to this home Cameron Cameron's daughter, now Margaret Palmer,
had some weeks back sent the child Lovey to be educated. There was
little need for Margaret, tender soul, to write to her brother Andrew
to bespeak his care for the orphan girl. Instinctively from the first
this silent lad took the brown-eyed Bush-girl in his charge; otherwise
it was a cold home for her. For there was little love in the barren
widow's buxom body for any child save Andrew, whose silence was his
strength, radiating security even to the inexperienced Lovey. Quickly
she learned to know that a word from 'Andree' meant more than a speech
from the others. The night before, under his tuition, his own savings
had been supplemented by Jim, who had pared down his gift to Fanny, to
assist Andrew in the purchase of a doll, much coveted by the
unsophisticated child, despite its fearful and wonderful shape. There
would be a heavy reckoning when Fanny found that instead of four yards
of flannel for a petticoat Jim had purchased only two.

Andrew knew this, and dreading her discovery, slept lightly, and
consequently was awakened by the dog's howl. Hastily freeing the now
repentant brute and impatiently noisy fowls, he took the milk-jug from
the kitchen window-ledge and placed it on the gate-post. Lizarixin,
ambling down-hill to fill the waiting jug, was almost shocked into a
standstill by the dog's howl; but later catching sight of Andrew, she
prodded her old Neddy into a hasty jog-trot. Quite unconsciously, this
youth had impressed her maiden fancy, and she had a little plan ready
for delivery at Sunday-school this very afternoon.

Liza filled the milk-jug, rather ostensibly draining the quart-
bottle.

'Good measure, Anderer' she said to him, demonstrating that not one
drop dripped from the inverted bottle. Most customers had accused her
of a tendency to short measure by retention.

'Yers' he said, hurriedly taking the jug and turning away.

'Anderer' she called.

'Want me?' he asked, looking at her foolishly-grinning mouth; but she
only prodded her heels into her horse's ribs. She had meant her plan
to mature at Sunday-school that afternoon, but though she realized
that this was a more favourable opportunity, it took time for her
slow, determined brain to make the transference.

'Know yer lessins, Anderer?'

He nodded.

'Find ther text?'

'Nuh.'

'It's in ther fourth--'

'Mus'n't tell' from him checked her.

'I'm orlways ther first at mornin' an' evenin Sundee-schule, an' ther
most reglerestest' said Liza, making this announcement as an offset to
his display of righteousness.

'Better be goin' on now or you'll be late this mornin" he advised,
turning away.

'Anderer' decidedly.

'Wot?' impatiently.

She took from the saddle-pocket a soiled pink wad.

'Ketch' she said, but it hit him on the chest.

He picked it up.

'Thanks' he grunted, unrolling and pocketing the acid-drop, and
allowing the sentiment on its kiss-paper covering to flutter away
unread, until her strategic--

'Oh, ain't yer goin' ter read wot's on ther kiss-paper? It's about
you' appealed to his egotism and he took up the paper and read:

'If I see thy head on another's knee, Then I'll knock saucepans out
of thee';

then ungallantly he put the lolly and its love-proxy on the
gatepost.

'I didn' give it ter yer; I throwed it at yer. Know w'y?'

'No.'

"Cause I throwed me rubbish ware I throwed me love' simpered
sex-sophisticated Liza, her sunburnt face flooded with a mulberry hue.

'Don't be a fool;' and he turned away his disgusted face.

'I ain't.' As a guarantee she called, 'Anderer, you be my
sweet'eart, and I'll be yours.'

'Urh you! Get on with yer milk-bags' he snorted, hastening into the
haven of Jim's room. Ignoring Jim's hazy invitation 't' give it er
name' he sobered Jim's 'shouting' hospitality by drenching him with
the contents of the tin jug.

Jim sat up and tried to moisten his palate with his dry tongue.

'W'a's er time?' he asked.

As if in answer, the cracked bell of the little Scotch church, first
to begin and last to cease, clanged its 'first bell' announcement.

'That's the last bell; an' aunt's up this hour.' Both were immorally
effective statements.

"Oly Ghost! w'y didn' wake me afore?' reproachfully asked Jim,
staggering up.

The bells of the rival churches were swift to follow their despised
leader, and the combined clamour awoke the little girl.

'Look' said Fanny to Andrew, as he with studied diplomacy went to
get the first, therefore the brunt, of her anger. 'Look at them
pertaters.'

In this Sabbath-keeping household all Sunday duties possible were
performed on the preceding day; therefore Andrew, in consideration for
Fanny curling the child's hair, had overnight pared the potatoes for
Sunday's dinner. Fanny's observation was very limited, and not till
this morning did she find that the whole dish of potatoes so thickly
shorn by Andrew in record time, now lay in the bottom of a small
dipper. Then in addition she enlarged on her real grievance, her just
share expended on Ursie's doll; but her tirade was cut short by an
unearthly wail from the child's room.

Ursula felt her curl-carbuncled head; the papers were all in; she got
up to look for her doll. Finding in her sleep contortions she had
broken off a leg, she gave Rachel's cry which the boy never forgot.
Its poignancy startled even Fanny, who went speedily to the room; but
her resentment rekindled when she found the cause to be the maimed
doll. 'Serves ther both er yer rights' snarled she. But Andrew soon
partially assuaged the tearful child's maternal grief; he could easily
mend this doll, and later he and Jim would get her a better.

And now the longed-for Sunday had come. Washed, uncurled, and dressed
in a grotesquely long black frock, and gloves, which to keep on she
had to shut her hands, Ursie was ready for church service at nine
o'clock, all but her hat. Her first hat lay in a bandbox in her aunt's
room, under the widow's new black bonnet, and the little girl's
impatient feet many times went to and from the shut door. Andrew
ventured at last to knock, then to intrude his head, and, discreetly
augmenting the time, made a demand for the hat. The bandbox was
produced, and Ursie was called, and joyfully elevated her eager little
face for this large hat, mushroom in shape. Wide strings tied under
the chin drew it down till the back brim grazed on the child's
shoulders. It was the style of hat worn when the aunt was a child, and
though forty years stood between their ages, she saw nothing
incongruous about it; and the wilderness had stood between the child
and all hats, so she was ignorantly content.

Andrew was sent to invite a visiting minister to dinner, and Ursie
commanded to wait on the veranda. The bells had started anew,
apparently refreshed by breakfast. Sunday--church--new dress--gloves
and hat: Ursula's heart bounded; she would be good on Sunday. A
buzzing hornet plied mud-laden between the river and his nest in the
chimney corner, above the honeysuckle. Working at his nest on Sunday!
She was shocked. Wicked twittering swallows were likewise disregarding
and desecrating this holy day. She rather feared the hornet, but she
vigorously 'shooed' the naughty swallows till both her gloves fell
off; but persisted in her devout efforts till the hornet, apparently
disapproving of her interference, circled above her head, buzzing
ominously. Despite the righteousness of her cause, she was vanquished.
Retreating, she watched these uninfluenced sinners fly riverwards for
more mud; and as the result of the past few weeks' teaching, meditated
on the judgment sure to overtake them.

In their garden just beneath her, and separated from her aunt's
paddock only by a gully, the Chinamen still laboured. They were bigger
than the hornets or birds, therefore wickeder. Her little heart beat
faster at the sight of these grown-up Sabbath desecrators, till their
offence was absorbed by a greater. Her aunt's fence ran along the
river-bank, and on the top rail of this several boys laboriously but
adroitly balanced their progress up the river: towels round their
necks made clear their purpose. In varied ways all were intent on
attracting the Chinamen, for the purpose of demonstrating the
superiority of the white over the coloured races. Some shouted
offensive orders, others, variegated Chinky-chows or Ching-chongs.'
The watching child got her first lesson in the gesticulative boy
language of contempt, supplied by thrust-out tongues, 'Bacon that fat'
and other indications of scornful disgust, but for her mercifully
confined to sight, not sound. However, it seemed all in the day's work
to the apparently oblivious gardeners. But the limit to the horrified
child's endurance was reached, when she saw these boys make a hasty
raid on the unripe peaches of a laden tree growing in the corner
between, and overhanging, both gardens.

With a bursting heart she ran to Fanny.

'Fanny' she gasped, 'naughty, wicked boys goin' t' bogey [bathe] on
Sunday are stealin' Aunt's peaches!'

Fanny, after making good the quantity of potatoes that Andrew's
prodigality of paring necessitated, was now ungraciously preparing a
salad--an extra order for the visitor parson.

'Let 'em bogey till they bust!'

'But, Fanny, they're stealin', an' it's Sunday.'

The child was tensely pallid.

'Sunday me eye an' Betty Martin!' retorted Fanny, blinking her eyes,
and in tones harmonizing with her radish-scraping.

'W'at Betty Martin?' asked the chilled child, looking at both Fanny's
eyes, and hoping for a more sympathetic guide and counsellor in
historical Betty Martin.

'Any fool knows!' said equally puzzled Fanny; and at the moment Jim
came hastily in with the day's wood, a duty ignored in the excitement
of the night before. The sight of him recalled to Ursula her maimed
doll.

'Jim' she said, her lips twitching tremulously, 'my doll's leg fall
off in the bed last night, an' naughty, wicked boys is stealin' an'--
an' going to go bogeyin' on Sunday.'

Sharp and not short was Fanny's lecture to Jim anent the shortage in
her flannel length, and emphatic her disbelief in Jim's assertion that
'ole Brooks' the draper had 'took' him in. The price of the doll was
the true explanation, and at the child's reference to it Jim
agitatedly buried his head in the dipper, and, blind to the potatoes
at the bottom, rapidly drained them, then went quickly out.

Disconcerted, Ursie went back to the veranda. Below the front of the
house, in the hollow that the boundary fence separated from the
Chinese gardens, numberless crickets 'filed their saws' with
impartial, unsectarian opposition to the again changing bells. Jim had
told her it was sure to rain when these earth-hiding creatures
'cricked' No church for her, then; and, as if in answer to their
spiteful request, goose-coloured clouds began to gather in the west.
However, across one cloud the end of a rainbow trailed fadingly.
Ursula eyed it with a meaning born of the day. 'A little bit of Mrs.
God's sash.' But the grey soon covered it. The child's heart was
leaden, for it might rain before church. Vague discontent with this
holy home stirred her, and indefinitely she longed for some place
where there was neither God to offend nor devil to fear.

When Andrew joined her she was wiping her eyes with her gloves.

'Wot's up, Ursie?'

'Andree' she said, in reverent tones, 'just now, up in the sky, I
saw a little bit of Mrs. God's sash, but she's gone now.'

He looked down at her, as she thought, in disbelief, so she
described it.

'That was a rainbow, Ursie; there's no Mrs. God.'

'Is she dead too, Andree, like my father?'

The boy looked at her wonderingly. It was her father's death that
had brought her to this loveless home, but she had not spoken of it
before. He led her to the end of the veranda, and pointed to the
Sunday-decked folk, then she brightened instantly, putting on her
gloves, in a fever to be off that moment.

However, they had not long to wait, for the widow was never late for
church. She took a coldly critical survey of the orphan and her
clothes--a replica, save for bonnet and gloves, of herself. And for
all her Sabbath emotion, the heart of this child of inexperienced Bush
years, noted enviously the dangling beads from the bonnet and the
tight kid-gloves of her aunt.

The last bell was still changing as they went in. Mr. Civil, the
local parson, was a listener to-day, and sat in the widow's pew, next
to her. He rose to receive them, and Andrew engineered and followed
Ursie to a seat near the end.

The moment the bell ceased a fair, thick-set man adorned the pulpit,
sent a pair of calculating eyes all over the building, then gave out a
hymn.

By the strenuous medium of Bella Watson's feet and fingers, the
inharmonious harmonium's preliminary was a challenge to cracked bell
and saw-filing crickets.

Andrew found the place, and Ursie, standing on the seat, felt a due
sense of importance in holding half his hymn-book. If there was
individuality in the time and tune of many of the brothers and
sisters, none were too critical, church being no place for the
critical.

The long prayer following the singing, despite its originality and
brogue, was very trying to the kneeling, restless child.

More singing followed, and then came an opportunity of studying the
preacher, as he, with suggestive unctuousness and double meaning, read
a selection from the various Gospels of Christ's healing the blind,
the sick, the lame--every miracle performed by the Saviour but that of
raising the dead. There was a deep and double significance in the
finishing passage, in which Jesus endows certain of His disciples with
the power to likewise heal--a significance accentuated by the
preacher's solemn, slow repetition of it as a text to his sermon.

According to a custom instituted by Mr. Civil, the collection should
precede the sermon, as many often made the length of his a pretext for
leaving, and so dodging the plate. Anticipatory Andrew slipped his
usual small coin into Ursie's palm that she might experience the
blessedness of giving. Plate-bearers, Brothers Foreman and Weldon,
conscious of the dignity of their high office, stiffened into willing
readiness. But to-day this visiting brother parson, though duly
apprised, ignored the rule in favour of one of his own. Vainly the
true shepherd sought to guide the collectors by directing, impatient
eyes; for he of the pulpit had been swift of action and had begun his
sermon. Both Brothers thereupon relaxed into flabby ordinariness, till
the unorthodoxy of the parson held even them. This preacher was
rapidly becoming notorious for his compound of soul and body curing,
with the emphasis on the body. He was ever most careful to explain
that he had been studying for a physician when he received his call to
go and labour in the Lord's vineyard. And if the pay for the soul
services was generally in the smaller coin, there were whispers in his
many and undulychanged circuits, that his body ministrations were much
more profitable. This circumstance quickly awoke virtuous resentment
in the ranks of the many orthodox, and therefore impecunious,
labourers. Complaining reports had been made to headquarters; but
though remonstrances had been made, the parson, wherever he got the
chance, continued to work his double cure. His sermons were mainly
anecdotes of his experiences in this dual capacity, differing only
from the advertised quack cures by suppressed signature and locality.
Nothing more definite than, 'I remember w'en I was on the diggings' or
'I wuz sent for-r once to visit a supposed-to-be dying brother-r or
sister-r that all the doctors had given up. Well, after-r riding day
and night for-r forrty-eight hours I kem to the place.' A graphic
description would follow of the body and soul conditions of the
patient, the ever-varying complaints breaking the monotony of the
never-varying happy endings.

Accidents and diseases had no separate place in Ursie's mind. Her
mother she could not remember; neither had she any fixed idea of her
father's death. 'He stayed in bed a lot of days, an' then Margret says
'e died, an' then we come away an' left Boshy, an' stayed a long time
till I came here.' She found it impossible to localize, or indeed
realize, any of these graphic anecdotes, with their miraculous cures
by the impassioned preacher. Suddenly she remembered poor old
Tumbledown Jimmy, who could walk only a few yards and then fall down,
and who was always hungry. Now, if he could be cured! Eagerly she
wanted to tell Andrew all about it, but he gave a sidelong look at the
aunt and grimaced Ursie into silence.

Her hat limited her view to the pulpit and its immediate
surroundings. She sighed heavily and drew up her dangling feet, for
even Andrew's hymn-book she was not allowed to play with, not to take
off her strange hat, and while nursing it give it closer examination.

She speculated uninterestedly as to the purpose of that little fence
round the pulpit, till she suddenly saw the white-spread Communion-
table, then swiftly took in the outline of the cloth-crowned 'cruet-
stand.' Rather a small table for such a lot of people; but they, so
near the front, would be certain to get some dinner. Her gratified
heart shone in her eyes and flushed face, as, sidling up to Andrew,
she whispered softly, 'Wen's the dinner goin' to be, Andree?'

He took a hasty look at the other end of the pew.

'It's not dinner, Urse' he whispered. She would have climbed to her
knees on the seat to be able to show him the convincing cruet but for
his restraint. He explained, 'It's not for us, Urse--on'y for big
people.'

She made doubly sure.

'Won't we get any?'

He shook his head.

She immediately divined the purpose of that yard round the little
table: to keep poor hungry little children, who ate only a mouthful of
breakfast, from getting anything to eat. She was on her knees with her
arms round Andrew's neck before he could prevent her. Her eyes were
tearfully agleam, as, audibly reckless, she sobbed:

'W'y don't all the people go home, Andree? Tell 'im not to talk to
'em any more.'

Andrew got up to take out the child clinging to him, but the aunt
placed a firm hand on her and drew her between the frowning parson and
herself.

Subdued and magnetized into submission, Ursula sat turning her
tearful eyes from one uncompromising face to the other; but their
attention was soon diverted to another weeper.

The parson was recounting a most wonderful cure of a cancer that had
eaten half the face, and the complete restoration of the affected part
by 'er bottle er medicine' the properties known only to the narrator.
Old Granny Foreman's husband, long past the Biblical limit of three
score and ten, had died lately of this disease. "E could a bin saved!
'E were cut off in his prime!' sobbed Granny, her grief an eloquent
testimony to the harmony of their half-century of wedlock and to the
moving ability of the parson.

Fireman Foreman's loose-lipped mouth widened in a filial grin,
dentally interesting. Grabbing his hat, he nudged his weeping and
likewise preparing parent; but the reverend story-teller anticipated
him.

'Sit still, brother-r and sister-r. You'll not distur-rb me. The
tears must flow--the tears must flow. Jesus wept' he added brokenly,
as a precedent for shrouding his own twinkling dry orbs.

Like other lawful emotions, licensed grief is generally short-lived.
Beside, Granny fully expected and wanted the distinction of being led
out. In the critical interval following she was resentfully silent.
The wary waresman in the pulpit saw her, as she wiped her eyes, thrust
in her consolatory peppermint, pass it from one cheek to the other,
then glare at him.

Unbaulked, the alert showman instantly shifted scene and subject, and
though these he varied often, the qualities of his brother in the Lord
sitting directly under him had no place in the discourse, neither had
church debt nor stipend fund. According to every known precedent, the
text of a visiting parson should be the great virtue of the leader of
the loaned flock, until, in modest self-deprecation, the recipient of
these clerical posters would be forced to shake his bowed head divers
times and oft.

It was beyond the local parson to remain passive while this spiritual
cuckoo pulled to pieces this little nest of his victim's weary
upbuilding. He passed his hand several times over his bald head,
cleared his throat, intimating so his disapproval of the unorthodoxy
of this sermon. But his palpable restlessness and disapproval had no
effect upon the flush-faced orator. The majority were with him, for he
knew his book of life, and was adroitly shifting the responsibility of
their spiritual shortcomings and bodily ailments to the shoulders of
their shepherd.

Suddenly the victim filled the accusatory pause with a violent cough.
The preacher waited in sympathetic silence till his reverend sufferer
ceased, then asked, with heavy emphasis, 'But how can a poo-er-r
mistaken mortal-l think of your-r immortal-I soul-I, when-n his-s own
poor-r body is racked and tormented-d with disease?'

The widow turned her usually unemotional face to the cougher, and the
concern on her countenance showed that the innuendo of the reverend
alarmist had reached even her. But the organist's pretty eyes had
forestalled her, and the glance she sent to the cougher said plainly:
'You want my care and attention.'

Dimly even the child knew. She sat near the object of attention, and
upturned her wondering eyes to the sympathized one. He glared back at
her; but as she had wasted no sympathy, she looked away unaffected,
and clicked her heels to break the monotony. The aunt, now limiting
her attention to the pew, laid a reproving hand on her. She sat
motionless for, to her, a fearfully long time, with her feet extended
stiffly, not daring to allow them to fall in relaxation.

The preacher was nearing the close, and intimating to those sick in
body or mind that he might be consulted on both matters at the end of
this service.

A stealthy glance before and to right and left revealed to Mr. Civil
that to sit tight was legible on the faces of many, who throughout had
audibly demonstrated their faith in the cures of the orator by their
'Praise God!' 'Bless God!' The rightful shepherd's countenance grew a
grey green, realizing that the concluding sentence of this spiritual
physician's exhortation, 'Ho! everyone that thirsteth, come ye to the
waters, without money and without price' though only Scripturally
figurative, would have a disastrous effect upon the collection surely
now to follow.

The word money reminded Ursie of her possession, and she took a hasty
peep at the coin in her palm, which did not escape the notice of Mr.
Civil.

But now, for the first time in Church history, the collection seemed
to have no place in the programme, for the preacher introduced a
closing innovation. Before sitting down and without mentioning that
'The usual collection will now be taken up' he gave out the hymn. Both
the Brother plate-bearers had been thrown out of routine by the
postponement. Collector Brother Weldon's big feet stirred nervously as
he looked behind for a cue from Brother Foreman; but he was no leader.
It was an agonizing few moments for Mr. Civil, and he spent them in
locking and unlocking his fingers. However, the widow, clear-headed
and practical, came to the rescue. She drew from her gloved palm her
offering and extended it towards Brother Weldon, who with unclerical
haste and noise took the office.

The little girl looked round at the Brothers working their way right
and left upward, and very quickly she took in the fact that the object
of these plates was for giving, not getting, and her hand closed over
her coin determinedly. The plate came to their pew, and the parson,
with his eyes turned upward, held it under her hat. The widow gave her
fat mite, then passed it to Andrew, who made pretence of a donation.
Eagerly Mr. Civil again took the plate and again held it down for
Ursie's church money. This time he looked at her and she at him, and
her mouth tightened in sympathetic tension with her hand. He placed
the plate between them on the seat, and seizing the child's hand,
forced it open; then into the plate went her only hope and solace for
a cruelly long and disappointing morning.

There was a momentary pause, filled with strenuous silence, as with
wide, mutinous eyes she looked up at this leader of lambs, looking
down at her with the insolence of victory. She raised her face till
her hat fell back, then venomously thrust her tongue at him, till her
sharp lower teeth sawed the under sinews. Given time she would not
have failed to reproduce accurately the 'Long-nose-bacon-that-fat'
antics of those naughty boys that very morning, albeit it was her
first lesson. Savagely the parson knocked up her chin, and with a
snarl akin to Jim's dog she fastened her teeth in his coat-sleeve. But
Andrew managed to distract his aunt, with his schoolboy trick of nose-
bleeding at critical exam. moments, and with handkerchief to nose,
passed the furious child. This immediately bespoke her sympathy.
Imagining him to have been the victim of their aunt, she flashed her
defiant face on her, and taking his free hand, unopposed went out.

'Andree, Andree, wot'll you do to 'im soon as you grow up a big man?'

In silence the boy looked into her eyes blazing at him. He hated
tears, but, for choice, he would have seen her weeping rather than
this passionate distortion.

'Tell me wot'll you do to 'im?'

He went through a list of injuries.

'An' will that kill 'im up dead like anything?' savagely asked the
bloodthirsty maiden.

He thought there could be no doubt. She laughed exultingly, and the
boy felt cold and strangely troubled.

'Won't that serve 'im right?' she gloated; 'won't it, Andree?'

'Let's run home' said he, to lessen the tension of her fingers round
his, and to get away from an indefinite sensation.

'Wot d'yer say yer done?' asked incredulous Fanny.

'Poked me tongue out at nasty ole Civil. Didn't I, Andree?'

He confirmed her without enthusiasm, remembering the reckoning.

Fanny grinned slow approval.

'Good on yer!' she said admiringly.

Even Jim nodded satisfaction, and so encouraged, the child gave an
illustration.

'An' look w'ere 'e made me bite meself' showing her bitten tongue.

'Knocked yer chin, chin-chopper?' inquired Fanny.

The new expression appealed to Ursie, and she nodded 'Chin-chopper.'

'Ther crool crawlin' cur' said Jim, 'might tackle someun 'is own
size.'

'I'll tell 'im wot I think ov 'im' promised Fanny, who had never
been known to even answer back.

'Get her something to eat' said the boy.

'I will, for if she done a thing like that she deserves a real good
crockroach' said Fanny, groping in the sugar-basin for a lump.

Ursula had barely finished when the click of the gate foretold the
coming of the judgment.

'Ursula!' called her aunt.

Led by Andrew, she went to her trial.

The parson cited his case: Making a noise in God's house; keeping
back His fee; and, yet more heinous, her tongue thrust out at him. But
the child, held by the unusual hue of the widow's stolid face, did not
even look at him.

'Did you poke out your tongue at Mr. Civil?' demanded the purple-
faced woman.

The child nodded her head.

'Answer me, miss!' stormed her aunt.

She replied, vigorously nodding her head, influenced by the widow's
vibrating with anger.

'You wicked, bold girl! You--you--'

'Limb of the devil' added the minister.

In the momentous pause the child drew the back of her hand across
her forehead, puzzled and perplexed over the different views held by
the two women of this house. Remembering Fanny's indignation over her
bitten tongue, she opened her mouth and again thrust it out.

'An' 'e made me go chin-chopper to I bite me tongue to it bleeded'
she defended.

'Hold your tongue!' said the widow. 'I don't know what to do with
her' she said feebly, almost appealingly, to the parson.

'Punish her severely, then shut her up fasting for the day' said the
shepherd. 'Flog her severely' he repeated, noting the effect on
Andrew.

'She won't be flogged. No one will touch her' vowed Andrew, moving
nearer Ursula.

The widow's surprised eyes had gone mechanically to his face as he
spoke.

'Don't you interfere' snarled the parson. 'What's it got to do with
you?'

For answer the boy's bravely challenging eyes met his blinking
vindictively.

'I think to shut her up for the afternoon alone, and not allow her
to go to Sunday-school, will punish her' the widow said to him.

'Fasting' stipulated he eagerly.

She hesitated, for to her fasting would have been the heavier
penalty; but her adviser pressed the point.

'Fasting' she pronounced, cowardly looking away from the child,
whose eyes had not wandered from her face.

The gratified shepherd sat back, made a Gothic arch of his long
fingers, and over it looked for distress from the sentenced sinner,
yet unmoved, still watching her aunt.

'No dinner; to be shut up all afternoon by yourself; no Sunday-
school, and no nice tickets' he added. But she would not look at him;
nor did her face show any emotion. She had enough service for one day.
Andrew would hit anyone who hit her; he also would get her doll for
her, so she would not be alone; and thanks to Fanny, she did not want
any dinner.

'Will I go now, aunt?'

'At once--go at once' said the widow sternly, for the parson was now
appeased.

'Lock her in, Andrew' she commanded.

'And bring the key to your aunt, young impudence' ordered the
parson, shaking the right side of the severed Gothic arch at him.

Her prison was the enclosed end of the veranda, and the boy shut and
locked the glass door on the child, who, according to his whispered
orders, stood in the centre, watching the skylight above the door till
the dinnerbell rang. But the watchful parson, intent on the carrying
out of the solitary confinement clause of the sentence, had shadowed
the surly Andrew, and made him repeat his Sunday-school lessons while
dinner awaited the muchoverdue visiting parson, evidently doing a
brisk business. Consequently it was a weary wait for the impatient
doll-mother, and at last it was hastily-instructed Jim's towering
length that darkened the window; and his long arm dropped the promised
doll through the skylight into the waiting hands, then vanished.

The troubled time of the true shepherd of this wayward flock did not
end with the morning, though he was now in his stronghold, fortified
by an unspoken engagement with its owner. Even here this visiting
brother in the Lord was tactful and steady to his purpose of disposing
of his stock of medicine, charging, he said, only for the best drugs,
bottles, and corks. Such moderate terms appealed to the widow, who,
woman-like, loved a bargain. If she could get a few bottles of
medicine that would insure her safety in eating and drinking as much
of what she liked at every meal without fear of gouty rheumatism, she
would, despite the sniffing, snarling irritability of her customary
shepherd. Ordering a good supply, she then demonstrated both frailty
and belief by partaking with her comfortable adviser of an equal share
of the second quart of porter. In righteous wrath, Mr. Civil left the
dinner table to walk off his bottled anger on the front veranda.

'Down in the swamps of Widgiewa--

'By-by, baby.

(Awesomely) 'All the big, bitey, black snakes are--

'By-by, baby. (Reassuringly) 'But our Tom 'll eat off all
their heads, (Revengefully) 'An' ole Civil's too;

'An' Andree 'll--'

The parson had sneaked to the door and looked through.

On a box, with her back to the light, sat the swaying singer, with
her doll held tightly to her breast. But though he made no sound and
stood back to trap her into a finish of Andrew's onslaught, her quick
senses had felt his shadow, and she turned quickly round.

She quite understood his vehement finger movements were for her to
drop her doll; instead, her hold tightened.

He thrust his jaundiced face round the door of the dining-room.

'Bring the key and follow me. Only you, please' with solemn portent
he commanded the well-fed widow, guiding her to the prison.

'This is her repentance' he said, 'playing with idols and singing
songs on the Sabbath.'

'Where did you get that from?' pointing to the doll, asked the
surprised aunt.

'Out of church money. She, like another not very far away, would rob
the church' supplied the clergyman, from his many injustices anxious
to kick the nearest dog. 'Take it from her; pull it from her; make her
put it down!' he gasped.

The childless woman, who had been a doll-less child, took this one
from the now unresisting girl. Under the widow's loose hold its sole
garment, a towel swaddling it, fell off.

'A nice play-toy that for a respectable girl' said the shocked
parson, his lean fingers indicating the naked, maimed doll and its
unabashed mother.

'You'll have trouble with her, mark me' he prophesied; and as he
went out his hostess followed and closed the door.

The child stood, when they left her, unnaturally still, her mind
skirting mature ideas, unwieldy from her immaturity. Footsteps along
the veranda past her prison and the click of the little gate at the
side brought her mind to externals. They were going to Sunday-school--
Andrew too, and she shut up here.

A hornet had entered with the other despoilers of her peace and
pleasure, and, as though it recognised it had been trapped, it buzzed
distressfully from skylight to window. She looked round, and with
sense of comradeship saw it bunting and bruising itself in futile
efforts for freedom. Much as she had feared it that morning, she was
fearless now. Evidently the hornet had regarded her as some inanimate
object, and her movements in watching it dispelled this illusion, and
brought it in a threatening circle over her head. She welcomed without
emotion the hostility of this foe, for with its dreadful sting it was
one worthy of her mood. Her lower lip relaxed, and the sense of coming
battle radiated grimly from her set face, as she picked up the towel
that a little before she had draped with loving maternity round her
doll.

'Shut up!' she commanded, twirling the towel preparatory to making a
bring-down onslaught. Majestically showing the advantage of wings, it
rose above her reach, and from, for her, an unattainable height it
seemed to buzz a taunt at her diminutiveness. Its noise attracted its
outside mate, and the child gloried in its buzzing butts to get in.

'Suizz, suizz!' she hissed in mad mockery at both. Making a ball of
the towel, she flung with an effect that increased with practice,
scornfully rejoicing at the cowardly discomfiture of a drowsing
blowfly that one of her towel flights had disturbed. Its clumsy
attempts to escape seemed to inculcate the same desire in many of the
lesser species, which swarmed round it satellite-wise. She hailed any
opposing force warmly, but concentrated her fight for the time on the
again descending hornet, suffering it to come quite near, then making
a vicious, well-calculated slap at it with the towel that sent it
partially stunned to the side of the room. For swift victory she could
have ended the conflict then, but she allowed it to revive and fly for
a breathing spell to the dried bush, acting as a fly refuge, in the
centre, rousing it to another attack, destined from its monotony to
end the battle. Pinioning its extremities with the edge of the towel,
she crushed off its offensive and defensive weapons with a splinter
from the wall. The blowfly was her next victim, but an unexciting one.
Pulling off its legs, she placed it with the hornet, and both lay side
by side unprotestingly.

She brushed back her hair and went from door to window. The insistent
'Kirr, kirr, kirr' of the crickets seemed to be the only sound of life
outside, and inside the little flies had settled again, so the room
was quiet. Both hornet and fly she had considered completely disabled,
but when she turned to them they had disappeared. The hornet had flown
to a dark corner, but the fly had unwisely soared again to the light.
She captured both, and, sitting down, slowly pulled off their wings.

'Ah! what do yer do that for, Ursie?' was a protest from Andrew,
looking through the skylight.

'Cos now I know ware they are'--defiantly. 'I'll make them stay.'

'Poor brutes!'

'I'll kill 'em all up!' she snapped savagely at him.

There was silence till the boy asked:

'Where's your doll, Ursie?'

She softened in a moment.

'Oh, Andree, that nasty ole Civil made er take it from me.'

'Wonder where she put it.'

She shook her head, intimating that she also wondered.

'Where are they?'

'Still in Sunday-school. My nose bled again an' I had to come out.
Look out, Urse, an'I'll jump down.'

He opened the skylight, and swinging with one hand on the ledge,
dropped into the room.

Hornet and fly, alive, but feigning death, were still in her lap. He
took them to the fireplace and killed them outright with his boot.

'Put them out of their misery' he explained.

Ursie's eyes widened and mouth tightened, but she was silent.

Later, when the boy's brow was moist with his earnest efforts to make
a satisfactory doll out of a bottle by filing a groove round its neck,
she, from a sense of her own shortcomings, began to talk of the
failings of others.

With a preliminary sobbing sigh, peculiar to childhood, she began,
her hand on his knee:

'Andree, you know wot that Gus Stein done?'

'No, Urse.'

'Pelted a stone at a poor cat, and hitted it' (sigh) 'like anything.'

Andrew expressed a contempt for boys generally, albeit it was he who,
just before the advent of this little girl, had been to a boys' party.

'Wuz they any girls there?' asked Jim, an advowed admirer of the sex.

'Girls? girls, Jim, at a respectable place like that?'

'An' Mina, too, know wot she done, too, as well?' for Ursie did not
choose to be the sole representative of a cruel sex. 'She took Mary
Wood's poor little doll and swinged it roun' an' roun' be the legs
till the sawdust all come out. Andree'--with a quavering sigh--'that
was worse en--en--en doin' that to them' jerking her head, but not
looking at the murdered insects in the fireplace.

Andrew agreed, and contrition was the outcome.

'Did it hurt 'em, Andree?'

'Same as t' pull off your arms and legs, Ursie.'

She put her arms tightly round his neck.

'Andree' she said brokenly, 'I won't do it any, any more' her
shaking head burrowing deeply into his neck in emphasis.

Shortly after there was the signalling click of the gate, and the
boy was up and out of the skylight instantly. The aunt had both
clergymen with her.

These were the days of the sovereignty of Moody and Sankey's hymns,
and presently the vigorous voice of the stranger parson sounded
meaningly in 'Scatter Seeds of Kindness.'

Mr. Civil was acrimoniously disputing the orthodoxy of this visiting
brother's intention to sing this from the pulpit at the close of the
evening sermon. In all matters of theological discussion the widow
took no part; being a worker, she had little to say, but she listened
to both impartially.

Then there was a call for Andrew, and the boy, self-briefed to
obtain Ursie's release, was prompt to appear. He was to go to the
visitors' quarters for Moody and Sankey's hymn-book. He first made his
request in an undertone to his aunt, and it was granted in the same
key.

While he, fleet of foot, sped on his message, the child wandered in
search of Fanny or Jim. The kitchen looked coldly deserted, for on the
Sabbath afternoon Fanny, according to immemorial custom, was out
walking with lady friends of like occupation, whose relaxation on
their Sundays out was a weekly synopsis of the shortcomings of the
various 'shes' they served.

Ursula found Jim, fully dressed in his Sunday best, sound asleep in
his little room, near the brick oven, at the back of the kitchen. His
red necktie had slipped above his collar, and its knot, twisted under
the left ear, looked like a halter that had crimsoned in doing its
work. Jim's sleep contortions had left a wide skin margin between the
bottom of his trousers and the top of his elastic-sided boots, so the
little girl credited his tightly fitting Sunday boots with the feat of
having swallowed his socks, after the manner of her own shoes. She
left him and wandered disconsolately about.

Frogs from the river now seemed to croak bass to the crickets'
shrill orchestra, but otherwise there was a stagnant atmospheric
stillness that boded well for the sky's leaden greyness.

But as though they anticipated nothing from the overcast heavens,
the Chinese gardeners still laboured. Ursie supposed the boys on their
return from bathing, and she in church, had stripped the peach-tree,
and hidden by the gully, she went down to see. A limb covered with
unripe fruit bridged the gully over her head. Digging her hands and
feet into the crumbling bank, then gripping the branch, she hung on to
it with one hand, and stripped off a shower of peaches with the other.
From the rosy side of most she took a bite; then, from a sense of
mischievous revenge, she repeated the stripping, till the limb snapped
in her struggles to reach those on the highest parts. She came down
under it, and then the shock begot by her fall increased to terror at
the sight of a China-man on the bank of the gully jabbering threats at
her, and brandishing a pitchfork. The fruit overhung their ground, and
mock them at a safe distance the boys might, yet not one of them had
dared openly to touch this limb.

'Oh, mister man, don't kill me!' she pleaded. But he thrust at her
with the pitchfork, then made as if to jump down. The gully tunnelled
through to the river, and she ran in frenzy that way till she came to
the mill; creeping behind a pile of firewood, she crouched, almost
paralyzed, draining in her terror the cruellest of Nature's
cruelties--unreasoning child fear.

The river zigzagged through the little town, and from where she lay
presently she heard a woman's voice raised in weird lament.

Rising cautiously, she stood on a billet of wood, and saw old Granny
McGrath running along the river-bank. Her feet and head were bare, and
her grey hair was straggling in unusual disorder.

'Arroo'Enery! arroo, arroo!' she shrieked piercingly as she flung up
her arms to the leaden sky, then breathlessly beat her breasts, and
the weird cry she seemed to strike from them awed the child
indefinitely. Two other old women, with the sympathetic bond of race
and creed, were with her, and when their efforts to comfort her
failed, they joined her in their national cry:

'Arroo'Enery! arroo, arroo!'

The child, for protection, ran to them.

'Poor granny!' she said, catching her skirt.

'W'at's the matter, poor granny?'

'Oh, me bye--me darlint drownded! 'Enery, arroo, arroo!' beating her
breasts. 'Oh, Mary, Mother o' Christ, pity me!'

A tongue of forked lightning illumined the sullen heavens, and after
a swift interval the rumbling thunder followed. As they turned along a
bend of the river, men, two abreast, parted from those in the rear by
a burden borne on their shoulders, came in view. At the sight of them
the women's cries increased.

The men stopped, and, placing the door on the ground, allowed old
Granny to take into her arms the dead body of her grandson, Henry, the
light and love of her lonely life. His eyes were wide open, and the
tensely--strung child quickly recognised him as one of the boys
foremost in trespassing on God and man that morning, trespasses all of
which she had committed, but in this boy's case so quickly followed by
a righteous revenge. As if to assert omnipotent omnipresence, a flash
of lightning splintered a tree on the flat near, and the noise of the
thunder terrified the child into immediate flight; but this time she
ran homeward.

White and recklessly wild with fear, she ran into the parlour, and
with starting eyes looked from the surprise of her aunt to Mr. Civil's
unrelenting countenance.

'Oh, aunt, w'at's that?' she gasped, for the vibration of a sudden
clap of thunder had rattled the crystal pendants of the lustre vases
decorating the mantelpiece.

'The voice of an angry God' said God's servant, extending his
forefinger at her, apparently as an index to his Master.

She was not safe here; frantically she rushed out.

'Andree, Andree!' she screamed, catching sight of the boy, who had
been seeking her. 'Andree, Andree, plant me, plant me! God's after me;
He's after me! Plant me in the brick oven!'

He ran with her in his arms, and to comfort her let her creep into
this refuge; then putting up the lid, stood there till the violence of
the deluging rain silenced heaven's flash and fire.



Chapter IV



URSULA'S church experience tempered her expectation of pleasure from
school. The aristocratic master and mistress had failed in every other
exploit in life, and sad and sour to the childless mistress must have
been the elementary teaching of these often ill-kept little ones.
Favouritism was so well understood that it provoked no protest: no
matter how flagrant the offence, an excuse from the favourites
cancelled the penalty, as even the most natural request had to be
preferred through them. These were selected ever from the girl ranks
of the prosperous, and therefore better dressed. Personal qualities or
ability were with the mistress unconsidered ciphers, unless
accompanied by the numerals of outward prosperity.

Ursie, weird of face, her diminutive body dressed in misfitting
clothes, was from the onset a target. An unconscious smile would be
styled an insolent grimace, and as such chastised; the following
soberly ordered countenance was a sullenness equally punished, by
inexhaustible quince sticks, as an example to the school. Justice or
injustice grew into the impotent routine of daily life. But, despite
the teacher's inefficiency, omnipotent knowledge sent illuminating
shafts through the child's active brain, and rapidly she ripened into
a reader. On Saturday nights Andrew usually read to the kitchen
audience the 'Multum-in-parvo' column of the local paper, which but
for this column might have been called Cuttings and Clippings; but
instead it blossomed once a week as the World-wide Advertiser. Trained
so by the vivid personal atmosphere of the 'Multum-in--parvo' column,
even the most elementary school fiction took on locality and
individuality for Ursula.

'Can it be Pat or Sam?' laboriously spelled by Mary Woods from the
primary reading tablet on the wall, referred to the difficulty the
short--sighted master felt in knowing which was which of Pat or Sam
Toohey. Though when Mina Stein--who had been in the same class for
months--glibly droned to an apathetic audience, 'Ned-'as-broke-'es-
arm' Ursula was puzzled. The only Ned she knew sat near her
industriously designing and drawing a horse freaked generally and with
figure fours for hoofs.

Gradually soaring above the limit of the weekly paper, she examined
the few books on the parlour table. From familiarity, 'Pilgrim's
Progress' she disdained to inspect; Fanny, who could not read a word
of it, had been given one for a Sunday-school prize. The 'History of
Jerusalem' though in red covers, was heavy and unenticing. The volumes
of the Old and New Testaments, standing one on the other in the
centre, were uninteresting because of their titles. Shakespeare,
coverless and shabby, though not from much reading, had pictures
certainly, but one illustrating Lear as a man convinced her that it
was not worth perusal. Leah was a girl's name, for didn't she know
Leah Cohen? Such a glaring mistake was the book's condemnation, and
she tore out the leaf picture to show it to Leah. The list closed with
hymn-books and another little book--'Maria Monk.' Maria! her aunt's
name was Maria, and even the preface of this wieldy little book owned
that Maria was a girl. Lying on the sloping river-bank, hidden from
the house-hold, she spent hours daily absorbing theto her, absorbable
in Maria's ugly story. Summing up her facts and fancies finally, she
was convinced that her aunt had been poor Maria, and earnestly she
hoped that those in search of her very visible and incautious aunt
would never succeed in kidnapping her. Lest they should, from that
moment she constituted herself her aunt's bodyguard, and she went home
instantly to duty. She found her in the dining-room with Ann Foster,
the little dressmaker, who was endeavouring to scissors through the
right side of her underlip with her teeth as proof that the compiling
of a list of requisites was no tax to her. Ursula noticed that her
aunt was standing when she might have sat, and that her eyes were
wider open than usual; also she breathed quickly and kept picking up
and laying down various of Ann's craft on the table.

The child's face grew grave, but with wonderful patience she stood
watching the widow.

'You're to go a message' said her aunt, embarrassed by her steadfast
scrutiny, and handing her the list.

It was the first time she had been so trusted, and she felt the
importance as she walked swiftly with the commission held securely, to
the little store styled the 'Commercial Exchange.' She stood undecided
in the middle of the entrance, then advanced and handed the order to
the grocer, and he gave it his amused attention, then took it across
to the drapery side. After steady perusal the draper remarked to the
grocer:

'Things are rather hot for this time of the weather.'

'Bit sultry' agreed the grocer.

'Pleasant morn' this' the draper remarked to the girl to lessen her
keen attention.

'Think it will be wet if it rains?' asked the grocer.

She was silent; intuition told her they were mocking because she was
little, and their frivolity flattened her sense of importance. Her
eyes darkened, but, controlling the will of her lips to tremble, she
said:

'I'll tell me aunt you won't give me the message that I came for.
Give me that message' she excitedly demanded, reaching up her tiny
hand to grasp the paper.

'Sit down, miss' said the grocer, hastily bringing forward a chair,
'an' in two shakes ov a lamb's tail you'll be served. Presto, pass
quick an' begone, sir!' he commanded the draper, who so adjured double
vaulted the counters hastily, in his flight striking the grocer across
the back with the feather duster.

Again he consulted the list, and producing a box of silk reels,
remarked:

'Nice-lookin' young lady that you've got in ther kitchen over there,
miss.'

The child knew he was talking to lessen his previous offence, so she
only glared at him till his next remark.

'Fine head of hair she must have, to be sure.'

'Who?' she inquired, wonder costing her her silent dignity, for
Fanny was nearly bald.

'Miss Fanny' supplied the grocer. 'It's me she comes to see, isn't
it, miss--not him?'

'Yuh!' snorted the draper; 'you're no Weserleyan. Was it your book
she looked on with the other night? She's a fine scholar, miss, isn't
she? Why, she can read my book upside down. Did she write this?'
tapping the order.

'No' said Ursie shortly.

'No? Not Mrs. Irvine?'

Ursie shook her head.

'Not aunt.'

'You did then' he guessed, bending his head condescendingly down.

She hesitated; then, not having seen the writing, truth conquered.

'Andrew?' was another wrong venture.

'Not me, an' not Andrew, an' not Jim wrote it, so there now' she
said, triumphant in his assumed curious distress, till he, being no
artist, overdid it by pretending to faint with bewilderment.

'Give me my message.'

'Don't be trifled with, miss' advised the grocer.

'Go on you' ordered the draper, pointing to another customer. 'Give
that young gentleman his ha'porth of specked fruit, an' not too many
water--melons.'

Not one melon could the little girl see, though she stood on her
chair the better to inspect. In angry silence she waited till the
parcel and order was handed to her, then she, much disconcerted, went
home.

But Fanny's interest in her description of the contents of her first
commission was most soothing and gratifying.

'Notice everything was w'ite?' Fanny remarked, winking vigorously.

Ursula promptly assented that it had struck her; then waited for
further enlightenment, which, however, came that Saturday night from
the 'Multum-in-parvo' columns, which Andrew, as usual, read.

'"They say a certain buxom widow will not be so much longer."'
Without pause or comment, Andrew united it to its suggestive follower:
'"They say a certain lean shepherd is about to take unto himself a
long--haired mate."'

Fanny instantly called a halt.

'I know who they mean; see it you?' she asked Jim exultingly.

'See w'at?'

'Certainly not--catch you see anythin' you can't eat.'

'Well, I'd better eat you, then' with cannabalistic gallantry offered
Jim.

'Can't you see it' turning to Andrew, 'and it stickin' out a foot?'

'I can see that you are a fool.' He was suddenly violently angry.

Fanny looked at Ursula.

'Of course you're too young and senserless to see it, though you done
the shoppin' for it this mornin'.'

Ursula flared into precocity under her scorn.

'I'm not young, and I can see it' she declared.

'I dessay you ken' agreed Fanny. 'The babe unborn could see it; a
suckin' dove could. I see it meself from the very first jump.'

'So did I too, as well too' declared the child, her face crimsoning
in her efforts to maintain her perspicuity.

'That'll do fer another lie. You wuzn't 'ere et first' grunted Fanny.

'I was. Wasn't I, Andree?'

'Wuz she 'ere w'en Mr. Civil first come after yer aunt?' appealed
Fanny, enlightening Jim.

Andrew crushed the paper noisily, his face white with disgust and
anger.

'Fanny, shut up! Go to bed, Ursie' he said curtly--a curtness that
for once the child, anxious to escape from her bewildering
surroundings, did not resent.

The World-wide Advertiser's bald statements were soon verified, but
the installation of Mr. Civil as a member of the family made no great
change. One night, soon as Andrew had gone out, Jim hinted to Fanny
that he and some others were going to tinkettle some pair whose
identity puzzled Urula. When next morning she said her aunt did not
want two cups and saucers on her breakfast tray, Fanny turned to
Andrew with a slow grin.

'Remember 'er gamminin' she knew all along.'

'One good thing, you'll soon get your walking ticket' said he, in a
white heat.

He pointedly avoided his aunt for days, and when Ursie, who watched
both, would have told him what she saw, 'don't, don't, Ursie!' he
pleaded so earnestly that she ceased, and, touched by some subtlety,
she refrained from talking about them, even to Fanny.

But 'Maria Monk' lay neglected on Fanny's bedroom table, for 'Ole
Civil' was aunt's guard now, and Ursie regretted her violent sympathy.
And the parson, true to the shepherding instincts, soon began to
extend his vigilance to every member of his domestic fold. It seemed
to Ursie that his mission was to either catch her bootlaces untied or
a not untiable knot in them. She, Fanny, Jim, all but Andrew,
submitted and bent under the yoke of his economical reform. Even his
wife--tuned to obedience--ate her cold dinner on Sunday without
porter.

'It is not seemly for Andrew and Ursula to be continuously together.'

'Why?' challenged the boy, in tones that surprised Ursie and startled
her aunt.

'Nor for James to be in the kitchen with Fanny' piped the parson,
ignoring Andrew.

'Hur! You to preach propriety' came like a blast from the boy's
throat, and defiant glints of fire sparkled from his clear eyes
flashing scornfully on the parson's shifty orbs.

Ursie observed, too, that now Andrew was taller than this guardian of
morality. Yes, how tall and strong Andrew had suddenly grown! She felt
a sense of security when she looked at him as he, in open disgust,
stood towering over the perturbed ex-parson. Then a strange thought
troubled her: was Andrew growing away from her? for she assuredly was
very little.

That afternoon, when, with Mina Stein, they were coming from school
through Stein's paddock, she stood on a log to gauge their heights,
but even tiptoeing did not equalize Andrew and her. She lay on the
grass, vaguely troubled, for when Mina stood on the log to measure,
her head was level with Andrew's.

'Sit down! get off!' said Ursula, suddenly storm-swept.

Mina laughed, and in pretence of falling, put her fat arms round
Andrew's neck. But her watching mother called her harshly, and in
wonder Ursie got up.

'Urzie, oh, you there, id's allrighd' said Mrs. Stein, 'but I want
Mina to stdir the pig's bloodt.'

'We are goin' to kill our pig, and she wants me to stir the blood for
the black puddin's. Come and see' invited Mina.

'I can't go, and don't you--Ursie, you'd better not' advised Andrew.

'I will. I want to' and in her perversity she went.

Mr. Stein's foot, pressed into the pig's flank, was levering the last
blood and breath through its gashed throat into a dish held under it
by Mrs. Stein. Gus was attending to the boiler of scalding water.

'Run, gedt a spoon, Mina' said her mother.

As she returned with it, 'Take this' handing the dish, 'andt mindt
you dondt let it thicken, lazypones.'

The pig to be scalded had to be raised to the trestles, and Ursula
was terrified that it might not be dead.

'Come, Mina!' all called.

'You stir while I go' said Mina, handing Ursie the spoon.
Involuntarily Ursie drew back.

'I couldn't' she said, with white lips.

Mina let the spoon fall into the dish and ran to help.

When she returned she dived for the disappeared spoon, and went on
with her work, alternating the movement from right hand to left,
taking the same occasion to slip a lolly into her mouth from her apron
pocket.

In sullen discontent Ursie stood, for why should Mina be taller and
stronger than she? Her brown eyes darkened and her bloodless lips,
though trembling, wealed into a determined line.

'Now I'll stir' she offered.

'Sit here, then, an' min' always ter keep it goin' the one way. See,
this way.'

'I see' said Ursula, and looking away, took the spoon.

Round and round it went, and when it clicked against the tin dish
Ursie felt an electric shock. Her brows, eyelashes, and eyes showed
definitely hard on her colourless face. Her nostrils, filled with the
steaming odour, dilated ominously.

Soon her movements became spasmodic, and a few splashes stood out
like crimson beauty spots on her bleached face. Still round, though
slower, went the spoon. Suddenly it dropped, but her hand stirred
space, till blindly lurching forward, with an inward heave, she
plunged both hands into the warm blood. Partially conscious, she knew
someone laid her on her back, and she, a willing sacrifice, turned, so
that, like the pig, the blood might be pumped thoroughly from her
side. Quite reasonably, she considered the cold water thrown over her
useless for scalding her. Ah, but someone was raising her, so they
were going to lay her on the trestles, and she not dead. She opened
her eyes, took a deep breath, then limply and contritely placed both
arms round Andrew's neck.



Chapter V



IN the autumn, that melancholy avenue to the dreaded winter, the
subtle shadow of the infinite enthralled this Bush-girl; for the South
was in her blood, and she loved the sun, and sighed regretfully as
daily it sank earlier to lighten God's fireside. Bravely she did
battle against the deciduous fate of her fuchsia, sheltering it in a
warm corner where no wind could come. But inexorably the season
demanded its toll, till the plant was leafless and bare, then she,
with an inward shiver, laid it aside for its frozen, sapless sleep.

In solitary mood she would wander to the gloomy hills. At this season
the dismantling wind, in its greedy intent to disrobe the Bush, seemed
to have designs even on the impregnable evergreens. She would watch
this bluff, invisible shepherd winnow a variegated leaf flock, garner
it assiduously, then drive it on before, whither she in sympathy would
almost as speedily follow, only to see it, by this capricious captor,
cruelly scattered.

Ah, but she knew the wind's master--those hill-set rocks. Let it blow
and beat against them as it might, there they stood, unaffected,
unafraid. But how she feared them! One, 'The Flat Rock' lay like a
vault, and under it, buried in its sudden fall, were said to be a mob
of blacks. Suppose they were not killed, and were merely hiding,
waiting to catch some unprotected one, preferably a little girl. With
ears straining and starting eyes she would hover near it. Her fear
peopled and animated even the steep upright rocks, and from their
pinnacles and turrets and towers, faces with shaggy brows, hiding
malignant eyes, looked down frowningly at hers, turned in magnetic awe
up to them. At such times a falling leaf (for the wind in league now
was still) meant a lurking human danger to her. A bird's sudden flight
signified such discovery, its silence being akin to hers, for since
the Sunday of the storm she had met all dangers silently. Even the
waving grass betokened the stealthy steal of a snake. Yet often, very
often, she braved them--all but one--the noiseless creeping of the
cold shadows of winter's sunset: never must that lifeless shroud fall
on her. Seeing her fleeing wildly from it, her face, white with fear,
turned over her shoulder, watching the pursuing shadow, One galloped
swiftly after her, calling reassuringly. She saw and heard, but,
undeterred, she fled the faster, as though from double danger in
double fear.

'God! to see her run, and from nothing that I could see' he said.

These wintry nights, if she turned from the fire and the beguilement
of Jim's songs, to shudderingly look outside at the frosty moonlit
world, Andrew's prediction that their waiting pints of water would be
all ice in the morning was often a little consolation. But there were
other nights, wild and stormy, when the moon had gone to another town
and every star was dark side down, and when the wind, while she slept,
had left the she-oaks by the river to moan forebodingly round the
house. Waking, she would for comfort light her candle; but it was only
a feeble flame, wind-driven in the blustering darkness. Nor could
covering her head keep out the sound of the humanly howling tempest.
Andrew she wanted, and he, though uncalled, almost as often came,
lessening by his presence her fear of the outer violence, and
comforting her with the assurance that the deluging rain meant an
earlier spring, which prematurely she watched for.

'Spring 'll soon be 'ere now, Ursie' one day said Jim, after the
consolatory manner of Andrew. 'I see a cat-an'-dorg flower upon the
'ills to-day.'

'Where? What hill, Jim?' she demanded eagerly.

He gave a comprehensive sweep that took in the world's circle. But
she, of great faith, sought earnestly, and none were more surprised
than he, when, after many days' search, she returned with a precocious
specimen of those tiny orchids. Joyfully, yet tenderly, she had
gathered this solitary harbinger of spring, well knowing that the cold
hillside would in a few weeks be carpeted with them.

With the spring she had brighter moods that carried her to the side
of some flower-flecked slope. Among the blossoms she would lie content
but for vying with them for the honey kiss of the transitory
butterfly, busy garnering the wild-flower seeds for God. Then the
distant rock-garrisoned hills became castles--homes for angels. From
their breath, the clouds, she peopled the sky--for to hold her there
must be a human strain. The bluebell's mission was to summon the
flower folk to church; gently swaying it, she would assemble her
perfumed flock, and in whispers soft as the breezes tell them of duty
Divine. So, imbued and resolute for righteousness, she would go
homeward.

One afternoon passing Granny Foreman's cottage, she stopped to watch
her thriftily gathering seed from balsam, stock and four-o'clock.

'The butterflies gather the wild-flower seeds for God, Granny.'

"Deed they doesn't. They fills their bellies wi' ther 'oney' bleated
Granny blastingly.

Partially disillusioned, Ursula stood regarding the prosaic old
woman thoughtfully till the intermittent blare of Ashton's circus
rumbling down the hilly roads caught her ear. She ran and joined the
mob who had turned out to honour its coming. The tinkling cymbal and
sounding brass of its itinerant band stirred her strangely. Heedless
of everything, she followed with the barefooted, bareheaded children
of the street, till it disappeared into the capacious back-yard of
'Pat the Jew's' livery stable.

'Wait' said Nellie Lewis, the shoemaker's big-mouthed daughter,
points of light blinking from her porcine eyes--'wait and yous 'll all
see 'em pitchin' their tent over on the flat.'

Obediently Ursie waited, and a gratified thrill widened her eyes and
warmed her heart when, among the great actors about to pitch the tent,
she recognised Jim. An exalted flush tingled over her body as he, no
way puffed up by his artistic employment, recognised and beckoned her
with one long, dirty finger to come within whispering distance.

'See Fanny, Ursie, an' tell 'er ter come an' 'ang roun' about 'ere
ter-night, an' I'll git 'er in.'

'Me too, Jim?'

'Yerz' promised he.

Never would the girl forget that night, with its tinselled and
spangled glories. She had never danced a step in her life, but that
experienced girl capering with circus grace in the Highland fling
would, she knew, be as nothing to her given such inspiriting music.
Were she but the daring equestrienne jumping through the flaming
hoops, little it would matter to her if her gauzy skirts did catch.
Death before the wonder-held eyes of such a throng would be painlessly
sweet. She had been astride old Cushla led by Jim, and a mild trot had
been an ideal; but she felt that the maddest freaks of those circling
horses could not unseat her now, if the band played while she dared.
She sighed heavily, for, alas! her wonderful potentialities were known
only to herself. Lucky, lucky Kate Ashton to enjoy this triumph, and
she so big and tall, yet, as the bill-posters said, only seven. But,
of course, living always with such clever people, how could she help
being big and clever for seven? Never for a moment could she be sad,
with the clown continually saying such funny things or cutting such
curious capers.

Her mind tragically focussed the cruel contrast between the morrow
Sabbath's programme for the bespangled circus girl and herself. She,
seated between her aunt and Mr. Civil (now retired from the ministry
on a pension), listening to the wind (for it was autumn) howling
vengefully round the porch; while this envied, bedight girl eating her
manifold chocolate gifts, would merrily go forth to further triumphs,
laughing at the clown, so philosophically funny, despite the cruel
ringmaster's whip cuts. Ah, to be of them! Tears shrouded her
sleepless eyes, and her introspection made her oblivious to the fact
that the circus arena was emptying of the actors. Jim, seeing and
misinterpreting her evident sorrow, remarked that, 'The ole cirkis
company is a roguin' lot ov robbers; it's on'y a little after ten, an'
'ere's the b--s pullin' down the tent about our ears, cuttin' it short
because ov its bein' on'y their one night.'

It was even so, for with indecent haste and indifference to the
vehemently disapproving, waiting audience, the circus men began to
untie the ropes, and amongst the last Ursie went out sorrowfully in
the rear of Fanny. But not the circumstances of the unduly ended
performance, dismantled pole, nor Jim's loud assertion, 'S'ep me Gord!
I've see a better cirkis among the blacks on the Warrego' could take
the ambitious taste from Ursie's unsatiated mouth.

Oh, to be one of them, with the clown, merry, smiling, and whip--
oblivious, for an uncle, instead of Mr. Civil!

She sighed hopelessly, for difficulties great and unconquerable stood
between her and these light-hearted folk of the tinsel and spangles.

At dawn next morning she climbed on her bedroom roof to verify that
the glories she saw on the night before had not been dreamed. Like
dutiful Lot [unremembered but for his daring wife], she saw a cloudy
mist going up to heaven--nothing else! Her mighty had flown, but they
had taken her heart with them to that great world beyond these hills
and near the sea. Soon as opportunity was hers, she took from the
sitting-room shelf a shell, and placing it against her ear, she
listened to its sea call to her. The river suited best this mood [for
it led to the sea], and thither she went; nor could she be found that
morn for church.

Fasting, she crouched, in hiding even from Andrew, beneath the she-
oaks bordering the bottomless hole that had trapped Henry Magrath. But
the oaks' dirging melody no longer moaned for him; to-day she caught
her own sad reflex in their shivering lament. Gratefully she crooned
with them, so inimitably that old Christine Inglis, on her way to
early Mass, vowed the girl was fey. Hopelessly her eyes flitted from
point to point that in brighter days and moods had given her
distraction, if not pleasure. To-day, in accord with her, they were
suitably, sombrely shrouded. They, of course, would change, but not
again could she; henceforth no music for her in the Bush birds'
minstrelsy, no pleasure in rivalry with buttercups for the
butterflies' kiss. They and the flowers might all go, die, anything,
even before their mutually hated winter came; all seasons would now be
alike to her widowed heart.



Chapter VI



PAT the Jew, Boshy's first mate, stood with his broad back supported
by the bottle shelf. He was smiling, and the satisfaction stretching
his thin lips and twinkling from his squinny eyes seemed to illumine
the complacency overspreading his broad face. The Quarter Sessions
were now on, and His Honour the Judge--'the Jidge' to and from Pat--
had, for the first time, put up at the Court House Hotel, thereby
justifying its name, and discrediting its older and more select rival,
the Royal.

Pat, after parting with Boshy, had drifted back to town possessed of
two horses. These and himself he hired to the improvident landlady of
the Court House Hotel, and gradually, steadily he worked upward. A
driver so careful of beast and vehicle is always to be trusted and
tipped, even in his own way.

'I'll pay for a drink for you, Pat.'

'If 'tis orl the same t'yer, sur, I'll take the dry sixpence' begot
him 'Pat the Dry Sixpence.'

Slowly but surely he drove his feckless landlady into an inescapable
corner, then made a hard loan bargain. Prosperous Paddy's thoughts
then turned to matrimony, but not towards the much-curled and
beribboned maids of the Court House Hotel.

In all his wanderings he had met but one woman whose thrift matched
his own, that was the widow mistress of 'Gi' Away. Nothin' 'All.' With
a load of merchandise suitable for the Bush folk Pat started a-wooing,
and it was while on this quest his keen business propensities begot
his first cognomen, 'Pat the Jew.'

Pat found subject and scene of his wooing unaltered, but all his
specious blandishments could not induce the matured matron of 'Gi'
Away Nothin' 'All' to join fortunes, though his perseverance would
have delighted Bruce's spider. But in the end Pat, acting on the
mother's suggestion, had sorrowfully to shift his affections to the
red-haired, speckled-faced daughter. With her he came again to the
town and opened a livery stable. Shortly after a business announcement
came out in the local paper with surprising suddenness--the Court
House Hotel was for sale. For a thin cracker of horsehair a schoolboy
chalked on the door of Pat the Jew's livery stable, from his
dictation, 'Back after the sail'; and when Pat came back he was the
proud proprietor of the Court House Hotel.

The townsfolk dwelt long and seriously on the moral aspect of the
'dry sixpence' dodge; but, fortunately for its author, the dryness of
the subject was its refutation.

Jim (now styled the Swigger), for the run of his knife and fork and
tips from customers, was, he said, groom at the Court House Hotel; but
Fanny called him 'Wood-an'-water Joey for Pat the Jew an' 'ees crew.'

Jim, dressed in his 'other clothes' had just driven the well-lunched
Judge back uphill to the Court House.

"E' jerking thumb and head toward the Court House, "e sez t' gim me a
wet.'

'Hiz Honour the Jidge?'

'Yerz.'

'Thin I'd 'ave ye min' yer manners, sir, an' be afther namin' 'im so'
snarled the landlord, taking up a smeary glass, holding it at long
range from the tap, and filling it partially with beer but brimful of
froth. Jim would have allowed it visibly to settle but for the 'Now
thin!' of the landlord, and in two gulps it was down Jim's throat.
While he went back to duty, the landlord, in lettering and figuring
absolutely his own, proceeded to chalk up another item to the Judge's
score.

Then again he smiled, till a dusty swagsman dumped down his heavy
swag beside the bar, and fixed his seeing eye steadfastly on the
rotund proprietor, then greeted, 'Day, mate.'

Pat's squinny eyes rested for an unwelcome moment on the wanderer,
then he turned his back on him.

'Don't yer reckernise me?' inquired Boshy, as his salutation was not
returned.

'Yor got the idvantige ov me' distantly replied Boniface, still with
his back turned and industriously intent on polishing Jim's tumbler.

'Well I knoo you at once' said Boshy. But still Pat was not affected.
'Reckerlec' Ulundri Creek, an' me an' you a-campin', an' us a doin' of
a perish there op'osite "Gi' Away Nothin' 'All"?'

'Noa' said Pat harshly, and noisily rearranging the bottles on the
shelf.

'Look at me' almost pleaded Boshy the lonely. 'D'yer mean to tell me
that yer carn't reckernise me?'

'Noa' decidedly, but without looking.

'An' yer don't reckerlec' me an' you 'umpin' our Blueys an' Redman's
outer this very towen, nur our campin' at Pinchgut Creek, op'osite
"Gi' Away Nothin' 'All"?' Only angry silence from the landlord. 'Nur
ther owed woman an' the girl wi' ther majenter 'air an' ther turkey-
egg complexion?" inquired Boshy, eager for comradeship. But the
landlord only rattled the bottles on the shelf till the door behind
him swung back. For a moment Boshy thought his senses were playing up
with him, for there in the door entrance stood the identical girl--the
same turkey-egg complexion, stubby nose, and her red hair only changed
from unkempt to kempt. 'Squinny eyes mus' be catchin" thought Boshy,
for with increasing wonder he saw that now she possessed a pair like
Pat's.

'Pa' she said complainingly.

'Yis, dea-er' replied Pat.

'That Jim won't saddle me pony t' 'e eats 'is dinner, 'e says.'

'Sen' 'im ter me, an' it's me that'll dale wid 'im' promised pa.

Then to Boshy, mouthing in silent wonder:

'Wud yourself be afther shiftin' yerself an' yer swag? The gintleman
from ther Coort will be comin' in jis now this minit.'

'Ther Lan' Coort?' asked Boshy, in hopeful adaptation.

'Sure what's ther differ to you anny way what Coort, or ther likes
ov yer?'

'My Gord! thet from you to me' said Boshy tragically--'you thet till
I took up wi' yer was too slow t' trap maggots.'

In white heat the publican stood glaring with his cross eyes and
tasting a dry mouth.

'Git outer this orr--'

A waving bottle finished the sentence. But, as a customer entered,
he put it down hastily, and stood glaring through his misleading cross
eyes.

'May the Lord look down on me cross-eyed if I can tell w'ich ov us
ur you a-lookin' at!' shouted Boshy, covered by the newcomer, and
comforted by his grin, dodging out.

The run of Jim's knife and fork was often strategically delayed till
two meals ran into one. He came round to the front entrance with the
saddled pony, and from him Boshy inquired the whereabouts of Mrs.
Irvine, keeper of 'me liddle Lovey.'

Jim's last glass, however small, had risen from his empty stomach
into his head, thereby loosening the hinges of his usually rusty
tongue.

'Yer'll get nothin' there' advised he. 'She's spliced to a parson
chap. If he'd pay me wot's owe to me I could stan' me groun', 'stead
er bein' wood--and-water Joey in this 'ungery 'ole' he growled.

'I'm a-wantin', an' awaitin', an' a-wishin' fer nothin' from man ur
mortal, thenks be ter Gord Amighty'explained Boshy proudly. 'I've come
fer ther chile Lovey.

Jim, with a customary side look, took in the abnormal size of
Boshy's bulging swag.

'Bin graftin' long?'

'Forty-seven 'ears' informed Boshy.

'Niver bin lambed down, nur run through, nur dosed?'

'Never' said Boshy, 'an' ain't likely to so be.'

'Be Ghos! if ole yallar lugs the parson gets wind that yer got a
sprat 'e'll try an' work yer' cautioned Jim.

'Think so?' said Boshy, with offensive security.

'Know so' from Jim curtly; 'that's w'y I've got such a 'ell of a
down on 'im ther way 'e razzle-dazzled me for all I wuz worth for e's
blastid church.'

'Yer doan mean yer bits er savin's?' inquired Boshy sympathetically.

'Yerz, me bits er savin's fer forty-seven years--forty-seven years
'ard graft. That's w'y I carn't arst yer ter 'ave a wet, an' no one
'ere won't ast me the way t' my mouth, though I'm d--d well as dry as
a emp'y bottle.'

'Fine cheek 'e mus' 'ave; but 'ow did 'e git 'em outer yer?' said
Boshy anxiously, ignoring Jim's hint.

'Oh, arst me somethin' easy w'ile yer about it' said Jim irritably,
having nothing ready.

The resentment and injury in Jim's tone made Boshy uncomfortable. He
listened respectfully, and Jim went on:

"Ow d'e git it outer me? W'y, I know for a reel fac' that a little
chap swallered a thrippence. Orl ther doctors went a-fishin' after it,
but 'ad ter giv' it up. "Sen' fur Mr. Civil," says ther boy; "'e'll
soon git it outer me."'

Jim's laugh brought the landlord to the door, but he drew in his
head when he saw Boshy.

'Mick' he called to a brother in blue.

Michael came at his bidding and stood in solemn, speechless wonder
at the spectacle of the landlord about to shout.

He took the gratuitous glass of swanky, but suspicion conquered.

'What's wrong?' he inquired.

'Down with it, mann' said Pat, swallowing a small dose himself, in
token of safety and fellowship.

'D'ye see thon?' he asked, coming straight to the point, as the
policeman put down his empty glass.

'Is't they swaggie beyant?'

'Yis, that same.'

'I do; what ov 'im?'

'Thin, Micky, do be afther givin' 'im ther roight about.'

'I'll do that same.'

But when Bobby came out, Boshy, ignoring the foot-bridge across the
river, was making a bee-line for Lovey's home.

But now Lovey was indeed lonely, for under the new régime Jim and
Fanny had gone, and Andrew was at school in a distant town. All this
afternoon Ursula was down by the river feeding her discontent with
stories supplied by the new maid. On that same bank 'Maria Monk' first
told stumblingly her tragic tale to Ursie. She knew better now, for
Fanny's successor was an up-to-date maid, who nightly burned low her
tallow candle reading of lovely Muriels, Daphnes, and Gladys, with
their titled, but snubbed suitors. When she came to the scene where
the haughty and pedantic Princess Machuski bids the coachman to
'Repair to the equine establishment, dismissing him with an imperious
wave of her snowy, shapely hand--' Ursie closed the book. The contrast
was too cruel, the matter hopeless. Her aunt's hand, if she ever did
wave it, was but a blob of red fat. Nor ever, Ursiefelt sure, could
her aunt be got to call their little stable the equine establishment;
and if she did, lame Tommy, Jim's successor, would not understand.
Sighing sadly, Ursie came up the gully leading from the river to the
house, as unlike the coveted castle of the Princess as everything
else.

As she neared it she saw a swagsman making for the side-gate, and the
multi-coloured patches on his faded clothes reminded her instantly of
the clown in Ashton's circus. Nestling close to the screening grape-
vine, she waited. Mr. Civil was reclining on the veranda, waiting to
insure good measure from Lizarixin; for, like himself, Liza did not
allow religion to interfere with profitable business.

The little gate insuring that privacy indicative of a front entrance
swung back noisily.

Boshy stood, as he sighted Mr. Civil and--to use his own
description--'me 'art began to kick ther wind out ov me w'en I see
'im, a cross between a crow an' a Chinyman.'

The minister's well-trained eyes soon sized the swagsman.

'What are you seeking?' he asked coldly.

'Ur--ur--khur, missis in?' asked Boshy throatily.

'There will be a meeting next week at the schoolroom respecting the
relief of the poor. Call there if you are in need of clothes.'

'Me in want!' said Boshy indignantly. 'I like thet. W'y, man alive'--
tapping his swag--' thet's orl clo'es 'cep a few 'undred kengeroo an'
dingo scalps, an'a couple o' bottles ov goanna ile fer boots. I've
saved over fo'teen shillin' in kerridge alone, a-luggin' an' a-lumpin'
ov' em down me own self.'

He looked, but there was no surprise from the parson.

'Mebbe me meself ull gi' 'em one or two little things for ther pooer'
yielded Boshy coaxingly.

'Don't trouble' said the parson distantly, unmoved by the bepatched
swagsman's splendid offer.

'Money perhaps more suitabler?' Boshy faltered, and had his reward in
a darting gleam of interest from Mr. Civil's close-set eyes.

'Where have you come from?' he asked.

'Merrigulandri' promptly replied Boshy, relieved that his terrible
expedient had not been instantly snapped at.

'Merrigulandri' repeated Mrs. Civil, emboldened by the familiar name
to join the interview.

'Are you Mrs. Irvine?'

'I was' she said.

'Cameron Cameron's sister?' asked Boshy eagerly.

'Yes.'

'I'm Boshy, jis come from theere' extending his hand. 'I've come fer
Lovey, Mrs. Irvine' he said, relaxing his intense grip.

'For Ursula?' she asked incredulously.

'Lovey, ther liddle un az you gut from Cameron's six 'ears come nex'
November.'

'What's all this? What's all this?' broke in the parson impatiently.

'Ursula' suggested Mrs. Civil to Boshy.

'Lovey t' me' he said grimly, the light of battle on his face.

'Come, come! stop this fooling, my good man, and get about your
business.'

'Thet's my business, Mr.--Mr.--Wat's-yur-name. Thet's w'at I've
padded ther 'oof an' 'umped me swag fer the lars' week fer--fer the
chile Lovey.'

Unprecedentedly Mrs. Civil's curiosity conquered her lord and
master's attempts to silence her with an acrimonious, 'Maria, go
inside.'

Then the appearance of Ursie aided her distraction to his commands.

Listening Ursie's attuned senses saw but one solution: a clown--not
the one familiar, nevertheless welcome--had come for her.

'You've come for me?' she asked eagerly, revealing herself, her eyes
excitedly blazing, her face crimson. Her fearlessness struck the
parson dumb.

'Nut you' replied Boshy, slowly swallowing, and regarding this big
girl with his troubled, uncertain eye, the empty socket quivering
sympathetically.

'You never see me afore? Yer carn't reckernise me?' he broke a long
silence to ask.

She nodded affirmation diffidently but determinedly.

Then, with trembling lips, 'Wat's me name?'

'Boshy' she answered glibly.

'You're nut me liddle Lovey, shooly nut? Yur carn't be.'

'I'm Ursie' sorrowfully admitted the girl.

Boshy's eye, staring into hers, seemed set.

'Show me yur 'ands.'

She held out the left--she had the book under her right arm. His eye
went from it again to her eyes. Suddenly his face grew ghastly, then
shrivelled, and his swag seemed voluntarily to slide from his shrunken
body. Weakly his aimless hands went to his bewildered head, but did
not reach it, while his eye never left hers, nor hers his. At the
bidding of his beating throat his mouth opened helplessly, but for a
time his tongue clicked inarticulately against his dry palate.

'Christ Gord! yur gut yur mother's eyes' he gasped, as he fell with
his hands outstretched to reach her.



Chapter VII



HUGH PALMER, now husband of Margaret Cameron, came into the town on
business soon after the advent of Boshy. In maudlin confidence brewed
at the Court House Hotel, he told Mr. Civil that Boshy, in addition to
his forty-seven years' "ard scrapin's' was credited in the Bush with
having discovered the dead shepherd's hidden hoard. Thenceforth the
tender, patient attention of the ex-parson was at least interesting,
and stay with them Boshy must; so Boshy did, and accepted these
attentions and all others, paying only by diplomacy. To Ursula he
explained that he knew for a real fact that Cameron had paid enough
for her keep to feed them both. He effectually dodged all forms of
present contributions with hints of big bequests; neither would he
borrow nor lend, However narrow the rule, the close study he had made
of the borrowing devices of the few men met in the Bush served him in
good stead for those in town.

'As fer ez money's concerned, I wudn't trus' me right 'and wi' wot
belongs to me left' was his advice to Ursula. But to Mr. Civil, 'On'y
wait t' I'm safe in ther arms ov Jeesis.'

'But God bless my soul, Boshy! you are hale and hearty. You may see
us all out' was Mr. Civil's remonstrance.

'Ah, thet's all you know, ur any ov you. It'll nut be long now. I'll
never scratch a grey 'ead' shaking it in a manner suggesting a
sinister foreknowledge. 'On'y a few mo-er tri-uls, on'y a few mo-er
tee-urs' he disconcertingly bellowed into the keen face, indecently
searching his for indications of coming dissolution. There was no way
for the ex-parson, but to wait, patiently or otherwise.

Therefrom Boshy's saving propensities, being but the idiosyncrasies
of the rich, were mercifully endured and spoken of by Mr. Civil. Even
his amazing miserliness was passed over acceptedly, for of such are
the kingdom of shepherd millionaires. But one, alone, in that town
stood apart from Boshy's coveted acquaintance. The prosperous landlord
of the Court House Hotel 'wud 'ave nather thruck nor dale wid 'im at
all, at all.' And Boshy, after the manner of all victors, unsatiated
with homage, troubled incessantly how to make Pat the Jew, Pat the Dry
Sixpence, bow the knee.

'Kerry cows 'ave long 'or-rns and far-r off fiel's do be green' Pat
would remark when talk of Boshy's wealth went round the bar-room, Pat,
who knew his Bush, would demand: 'Shure now, an' where ud 'e git it?
Say now for-r ar-rgimen's sake thet Boshy found an' grabbled ould
Baldy's plant: I'd arsk yez 'ow much ud it be--orl himself an' Baldy
could put together the whole ov thir nat'ral loives graftin' in ther
Bush? Shure, the Lor-rd help yez an' your great forchunes. Shure,
wouldn' some ov yez git 'im till tell yez, what bank houlds it? Faith,
I'm thinkin' 'tis the river-bank.' And Pat's squinny eyes would
twinkle time to his harsh laugh.

That was also the ex-parson's perplexity. Where did Boshy keep it? or
was it safe in such keeping? In solemn anxiety Mr. Civil sought for
this information, likewise, by pressing into his service the lawless
element among them to instil fear into Boshy. But Boshy's one eye
winked security to friend and foe.

'Don't fret, Mr. Civil; me bits ov savin's is weer no crows won't be
a--takin' me yaller boys fer cough lozengers, nor me fifty-pun notes
fer pocket-'ankerchers' was the nearest location or clue he could get
from Boshy.

Vainly the ex-parson preached eloquently on the Hidden Talents, and
spoke of profitable interest to be obtained under various
speculations; beside, to keep money hidden in a napkin (Boshy would
smile) was sinful, wilful waste, and instead, many and varied alluring
investments were suggested.

'I'll tell yer w'at' said Boshy one day, after another lengthy
investment sermon--' I'll tell yer w'at: I'll buy the Court 'Ouse
'Otel if you'll run it fer me.'

Incongruous it might be; nevertheless, the ex-parson took a week to
come to a decision. Even then Boshy considered that he owed his escape
to Bella Watson.

Bella's disappointed resentment against the union of the parson and
widow Irvine had gradually disappeared. She was now a very frequent
visitor at the Civils', though Boshy soon discovered, and said, that
she received 'on'y a lopsided welcome.'

'Before you came she used always to come here to dinner on Sundays,
then after dinner they'd go into the parlour, and Bella played the
harmonium; but aunt went into her room and shut herself up' informed
Ursie.

'To be a-snoozin' or a-sulkin'?' questioned Boshy.

'No; it was the porter. She drinks two big bottles on Sunday, and it
makes her sleepy. Haven't you noticed?'

'Yes, 'er drinks be 'arf too much porter. You could crack a flea on
'er face, fer she's jus' a-breakin', an' a-bustin', an' a-bulgin'wi
nourishment' he said in sudden heat. 'Git 'er ter knock it orf or
'er'll crack up. Tell 'er so, Lovey. 'Er ain't a bad sort for a
female.'

Boshy was thoughtful for a few moments. 'Yes, sure's Gord made liddle
apples, 'er'll crack up, an' seems ter me thet would soot some people
to a nicety. Git 'er t' knock it orf be jinin' ther Band ov 'ope.'

'Oh, I couldn't! I daren't speak of it to her. It's Mr. Civil's
fault. At first when he came he would not let her have any, and now he
makes her take more than she wants sometimes' said Ursula.

'I see' said Boshy, Knocking the ashes out of his pipe. 'An' ther
Lord 'elp 'er, fer 'er doesn't wunt much makin'!'

It was Sunday night, but neither Boshy nor Ursie stayed for the
prayer--meeting, for Mrs. Civil was sick. Both were sitting outside on
a stool in a shadow cast by the house, near the sick woman's bedroom.

'Rum yarn thet et church t'-night about them couple or more knowin'
ole virgins, Lovey.' Boshy's remark referred to the parable of the
Wise and Foolish Virgins.

'Don't you think now, Boshy, that the wise ones might have either
wakened, or given a little of their oil to, the other poor late
things?' asked Ursie.

Boshy sent a disparaging grunt through his nose.

'Nut on'y thet, Lovey, but the way ther greedy beggars crowed over
'em' was his comment.

In silence his mind went away to 'Gi' Away Nothin"All' and as a
similar case he told Ursie the story.

'But Lord, Lovey, 'ow in ther name of Gord them fools over theere'
indicating the chapel, 'can be kidded ter fill up thet money-plate
reg'lar beats me. They mus' git it easy--thet's all I gut t' say.
Seems you've on'y t' git up in the box an' make out thet on'y for you
a-bein' sich a sheep-dorg a--busnackin', an' a-blatherin', an' a-
barkin' roun' 'urdles day an' night wi'out meat an' drink an' sleep,
thet Gord A'mighty 'ud be a-snoozin'; then like a dingo, ther devil
'ud be over ther 'urdles a-woolin', an' a-worritin, an' a--woundin' ov
ther yeos an' lambs. An"--with a laugh--'s'ep me Gord! ther d--d ole
yeos an' wethers seem t' be ther wustest, an' ther frightenest. Right
enuff t' go t' 'ave a go at ther songs, same 'uz I do. I enj'y ther
songs an' toons.'

Then to his own tune and time he sang some as an example.

For though Boshy was a regular attendant at church services and
prayer--meetings, his sole offering was discordantly vocal. Moody and
Sankey had sung their way into every dissentient chapel, and Boshy
appreciated their words thoroughly, and sang them to a wrong tune
incessantly.

'Ther's no mistake, them songs an' toons of them coves 'as gut me be
ther wool proper' was his excuse for bawling them night and day.

'Why doesn't aunt tell Bella Watson she doesn't--'

'Lis'en, Lovey' Boshy interrupted her. 'W'at's that they're a-singin'
ov now--"Safe in ther arms ov Jeesis"?'

No; "Dare to be a Daniel,"' Ursie informed him.

'"Dare t' be er Den-e-i-al,"' intoned he softly, mindful of the sick
woman. 'Nut much go in among 'em over theere wi'out me' he broke in to
remark. 'An' moosic seems t' gi'e me twice ther wind. I tell yer w'at,
Lovey: you mus' begin t' learn chunes on the memorium. It's a-been on
me mind fer some time, but the egspense pulled me up. Learn you must,
then us'll 'oist me Lady Bella outer both inside 'eere an' out ov ther
church over theere. You'll play ther 'ymns, an' I'll start ther
singin' meself.'

'Here they come' said Lovey, indicating two figures descending the
hill.

Boshy looked.

'Arm acrook, too, a-thinkin' thet in ther dark all cats is grey. Sit
still t' us sees 'ow they sez their "Gord be wi yer t' us meets
agin,"' advised he.

But there was no leave-taking between the parson and Bella: Mr. Civil
came hastily to the house, leaving her in the shadow of the tree. He
would have passed without seeing the pair on the stool but for Boshy
solemnly chanting his best attempt at 'Sound the loud timbrel'--' "Ole
P'aro is dead, but I'll never, wot never, no never, go back into Egyp'
agin "'--to the tune of 'St. Patrick's Day in the Morning.'

'Oh, ur, you Boshy?' blustered Mr. Civil; 'looking at the moon?'

'No, a-lookin' at Miss Wetson; 'er seems to 'ave loss somethin'.'

'Oh no; she's waiting for me to bring out her music-book.'

'Jis so' said Boshy, much implied in his tones.

The parson went hurriedly inside, and Bella, who had seen the
meeting, came down to Boshy and Ursie.

'I was thirsty, so Mr. Civil said he would bring me out a drink'
explained Bella.

Neither Ursula nor Boshy commented.

'Peculiar how thirsty singing makes you.'

'Very pecoorial' agreed Boshy.

Mr. Civil appeared with, Ursie perceived, the wrong book.

'I found your book' he said, tapping it.

'I told Boshy and Ursie' bleated Bella confusedly,'I wanted a drink.'

'Ov Porter--a cupple ov bottles?' Boshy inquired.

'No; water' said Bella lamely.

'Certainly, certainly; I forgot.'

Mr. Civil went in hurriedly to make good his forgetfulness.

'"Ho, everyone w'at thurstieth, come to ther water,"' chanted Boshy,
to encourage Bella to take more than sacramental sips. 'W'en Lovey
'ere wus a liddle girl I cured 'er completely ov a-arstin' fer a drink
w'en 'er didn' wunt it, be a-makin' ov 'er drink it all up--poor
chile!--w'ether or no. It's putty 'ard t' drink w'en yer nut dry.
Ain't it, Miss Wetson?'

Bella heroically gulped several mouthfuls; then, handing back the
glass to the silent shepherd, began fumbling for her handkerchief.

'Strange--igh--you always--igh--want to wipe your mouth after
drinking anything; but being so thirsty, I must--igh--Isn't it
peculiar?'

'Very pecoorial' assented Boshy. 'An' you've come a long step out ov
yur way 'ome fer a drink.'

'Yes, indeed, and I must be getting back' she agreed, including Mr.
Civil in her farewells.

'That was not Bella's music-book Mr. Civil had, Boshy. It was aunt's
Sunday at Home.'

'Well, it's gorn abroad now, Lovey.'

'Well, why did he say it was Bella's book, and why did she say she
wanted a drink when she didn't?' asked Ursie.

Boshy's pipe had been out for some time, but he slowly and carefully
tested it, then put it into his pocket.

'Why does she?' repeated Ursula.

'It seems t' me, Lovey, that these lambs ov Gord in this towen must
play putty well ther same games as ther lambs in ther Bush.'



Chapter VIII



'LOVEY, no mistake, yer mus' learn t' play ther memorium' gravely
Boshy repeated next morning. 'Be 'ook or be crook, yer mus' learn t'
play. If I could but fine out w'at Cameron Cameron is a-payin' fer yer
'ere I'd know 'ow 't ack; but if I 'ints t' either ov 'em any sich
question, both ov 'em buttons their lips thet insten' minute. I mus'
git out o' this, for I'm beginnin' t' get full up ov bluffin' ole
yeller lugs about a-leavin' 'im me money, an' it's time I was earnin'
more. So onct more agen I'll be 'umpin' me Bluey, but afore I go I
mus' get on to Andrer w'en 'e comes 'ome t' root in among ther
parson's papers, an' fine out wut they gut from Cameron fer you; me
an' you keepin' ov 'em on ther string w'ile 'e does ov it.'

'Oh, Andrew wouldn't touch their papers' said Ursula.

'Nut if you wus t' ast 'im?'

She shook her head decisively, and Boshy mumbled disparagingly about
Andrew and youth generally, then suddenly broke out:

'But Lord Gord! yer carn't expec' t' put a nole 'ead on young
shoulders. W'y, Lovey, w'en I think ov the chance I 'ad t' root an' a-
rummage among yer dead daddy's papers afore Cameron come thet time--
w'y, I 'ad all one night, an' best part ov nex' day. Se'p me Gord! I
wus so honest thet I never so much ez laid a fing-er on 'em, fer I
never giv' it a thort t' I see Cameron 'ad a-snavelled ov 'em.' The
muscles in his maimed eye quivered regretfully. 'W'en I'm abed an'
begins t' think over it, I turns quick on me other side t' distrack me
'eart away from sich thoughts, t' think w'at a fool I was. Bought
sense is the best of sense if yer don't pay too dear, as ther sayin'
is, an' don't lose yer receipt. I allus paid putty dear fer mine.' He
was smilingly silent, then added slowly and softly, 'Cep' oncet' and
again he paused and pondered, then suddenly: 'Tech wood, Lovey! tech
wood, t' stop bad luck!' he said excitedly, jumping up and tapping and
making her touch the seat. 'Me a-boastin' an' a-blatherin' like thet,
a-knowin' pride goes afore a fall;' and he grew strangely disturbed
and troubled.

Then, under pretence of being reassured by this touch-wood charm, he
spoke of a subject that continually appeared to be in his mind--the
doings of Pat the Jew; for though Boshy did not again enter the Court
House Hotel, some magnetic influence continually caused him to pass
the bar. His mood was always indicative of Pat's trade, for if the
rapacious publican happened to be in the bar alone, Boshy's one eye
would take a steady, disconcerting inside survey. To Lovey he would
joyfully prophesy that Pat the Jew's day was done. 'Nut a soul a-nex',
nur a-nigh, nur a-near the place; everyone's a-droppin' down t' 'is
terbaccer-juice. I've cooked 'is goose.' In justice to Boshy's
prediction, this was a culinary kindness that he lost no opportunity
of attempting.

Several times Boshy passed and repassed one afternoon, gloatingly
nothing that only the discomfited landlord loomed gloomily with his
back to the empty fireplace, gnawing his thin moustache, or, as Boshy
said, to as many as he could intercept, 'a-champin' an' a-chawrin',
an' a-chewin' ov ther terbaccer--us knows wot fer.'

But next time the insatiable Boshy saw that Pat's daughter, named by
her admiring parents 'Vi'let' but nicknamed by the Philistines 'The
Fuchsia' had joined 'Pa.' They stood each end of the mantelpiece, and
between them on it rested a large canvas labelled 'Topical Birds at
Home' the lack in etymology being equalled by the ornithology of the
subjects, these being seven large tropical parrots 'at home' on a
spray of asparagus. Boshy needed no index to the artist, for the
knowledge that The Fuchsia was learning to paint pictures was common
to the whole town.

'It's a potygrap. I'll take me oath thet's wut it is' he declared to
Ursula. Nor was he comforted by her assurance that it could not be a
photograph, because of the fragile impossibility of the perch of those
gaudy, well-fed perchers.

'Could you paint one, then, wi' them a-roost-in' on a rose-bush,
Lovey?' sentimentally he inquired with eagerness.

She, sorrowful for his apparent disappointment, admitted that even
The Fuchsia's achievement was beyond her.

'Then don't be jealous, Lovey' he snapped irritably. 'But se'p me
Gord! if I gut t' go barefoot you'll go t' learn' he said as he
disappeared.

Nothing the ex-parson could say against the expense could dissuade
him from this decision. Even the girl's own opposition he beat back,
resolutely meeting her unwillingness to part from him with the news
that he was about to return to the Bush on important business. Andrew
also, by his father's command, was going back to the station.

'I wouldn't leave you 'ere, Lovey, wi'out Anderer.' Waving away the
suggestion, 'No, you can't come wi' me this trip, Lovey ov mine'--
whispering--'but please Gord you will nex' time. An' us'll take a
memorium wi' us. But Lord, us'll stay no time up theere.'

Perhaps it was the over-zealous opposition of Mr. Civil that
strengthened Boshy's rash resolve, for even when the initial expenses
multiplied from pence into shillings and progressed into pounds, he
would neither waver nor retreat. Certainly to enforce the shopkeeper's
respectful wonder he paid all silver outlays in copper, and pounds in
silver, and all with a painfully slow reluctance; yet in the end the
girl was, all circumstances considered, fairly equipped for this
venture.

The memorable morning found Boshy and Andrew and her beside her boxes
on the veranda, awaiting the preliminary horn blast of Jimmy
Nancarron's night--journeying coach.

If Boshy's mind had dwelt on the parting, the strenuousness of many
other ordeals had suppressed mention. But now as Jimmy's team topped
the gravelly hill, he raised his horn, and proudly blew his
annunciatory too--tooly-oo-too, too-tooly-oo-too, too-tooly-too-tooly,
too, too, too, then he noisily tooled his team to the gate.

It shook the girl distressingly, but she made no sign; only she took
one swift look at Andrew, and noted that he had suddenly changed from
a boy into a man, with a brave, grave face.

Boshy began to tremble violently.

'Me ole mother called ther ship as I a-sailed in out 'ere Ther
'Earse, en now all of a instan' minute I begin t' feel ther same' he
said, turning to silent Andrew.

'Boshy, I won't go' said Ursula earnestly.

'My Gord! an' them expensie boxes, an' more'n expensie duds wuts in
'em, a-lyin' orl aroun'. Up wi' yer, Lovey, inter yer gran' box seat'
he said in the coaxing tones of her childhood. 'A box seat's egstra
egspense, but I wunt all in ther towen t' see yer. I'm orlright,
Lovey, so's Anderer' he encouraged, looking at immovable Andrew; 'us
is both orlright w'en us thinks on ther picksurs you'll paint and ther
toons you'll play when us orl meets again.'



Chapter IX



EVEN in the first little school every lesson subject but reading
baffled Ursula, and it was so in this more pretentious establishment.
Arithmetic, geography, grammar--strive as ardently as she could, the
girl could not get an enlightening glimmer even into their elementary
principles. With music, unless she knew the tune, the teacher's
efforts were wasted. But on wet days, when the attendance of day
scholars was few and the lessons were confined to poetry and history,
save for dates, then Ursula shone; and though aided by the ruler she
could not draw a straight line, her colour sense was wonderful.
Teachers are never students of the scholars, and none of Ursula's
gifts were calculated to score in that absolute, but unfortunately not
obsolete institution, examinations. Disheartened by continual failure,
gradually she made no effort to improve, consoling herself when she
reflected on the peculiar protégés that Nature selected, for from the
mistress downward these learned spinsters had little of what was
lovely to the girl. But when Boshy's ill--spelt, hopeful letters came,
her heart charged her unsparingly, though her carefully school-
dictated replies to him were destined to contain no hint of failure.
Then, one day, came her first letter from Andrew, telling his aunt was
very sick; he thought Ursula should come to her. Where, wondered
Ursula, had he got all the money he enclosed for her fare? as she
excitedly began her preparations for her return journey by train, for
during these school years trains had usurped the place of Jimmy
Nancarron's coach.

In the early dawn as the train slackened speed she saw Andrew waiting
for her on the platform. Despite his added height she knew him
instantly, for his steadfast, unchanged eyes shone, and had also
sighted her. Eagerly Ursula thrust her hand through the window in
greeting to him, but his was by then busy opening the carriage door.
Her heart shrank and her face crimsoned as she stepped past him on to
the platform; his whitened, and almost in silence they went homeward.

That afternoon they stood at the foot of Mrs. Civil's bed. She was
propped up by pillows, and through the little window looking westward
the afternoon sun blazed unsparingly on the discoloured face of the
sick woman, speechlessly rigid. Ursie stood, her eyes going from her
aunt's bloated face to her swollen body, outlined and augmented by the
white covering. Andrew, intently watching the girl, saw no understood
sign of sorrow. Her mouth had set into a straight line, but her eyes
were dry and staring. So she had left them all years ago--Boshy, he,
all she knew--dry--eyed and almost silent. A sullen, laboured grief
against her seized him, and as he stood there he felt without
analyzing that not years but the world had rolled between him and her.

'Sit--in--the--light' said the patient to Ursie that night.

The girl moved, and Andrew raised the lamp to the shelf, so that its
rays fell on Ursie's face.

'You--have--your father's brow--and--chin, and--your--mother's--
mouth--and--eyes, but your--grandmother's--hands. They--were--
painted--by--. She had fine hands--'

Ursie's eyes, intent on the gravely shaking head, gleamed
expectantly, but the woman's face turned to Andrew.

'Andrew!'

'Yes, aunt.'

'Merri--gu--lan--dri.'

'Now, now' stormed Mr. Civil, noisily pushing in the door. 'Is this
keeping quiet? Out of this, out of this, both of you.'

'I--want--to--talk--to them' said Mrs. Civil, raising her hand
imploringly.

'Another time, when you are better, my dear; plenty of time. Come
out--come out, Andrew; come out, you, miss.'

Mrs. Civil's hand fell back heavily, and she closed her eyes.

'Another--time--Andrew' she panted.

'I hear, that before I came' Andrew told Ursula, 'if Civil went out,
that Bella Watson would come on guard, till one night aunt threw the
lamp at her, then took a fit. Bella has not been near her since I
came. But he is always upsetting her by taking her death for granted,
so I am constantly on the watch. Listen' whispered Andrew, 'what's he
reading now?'

Both moved close to the patient's window.

'"For as in Adam all die, even so in Christ shall all be made
alive."'

Solemnly the ex-parson read some verses from St. Paul's mournful
masterpiece, then, kneeling by the bed, prayed for the soul of one
surely in the Valley of the Shadow of Death. And like a muffled drum
the stertorous breathing of the woman on the bed beat time to the
service. Looking through the window, they saw him rise from his knees,
raise the lamp, and holding it close to his wife, peer keenly into her
face. She lay with her eyes half closed, taking short laboured breaths
through her open mouth. He put down the lamp, then harshly partly
chanted and intoned--

'If Thou shouldst call me to resign

What most I prize, it ne'er was mine;

I only yield Thee what was Thine.

Thy will be done.

Thy--'

Andrew's broad hand closed over the vocalist's mouth, the other had
him by the neck. Ursie held the door wide open, and before the
startled man could openly protest, Andrew had flung him into a corner
of Ursula's one--time prison and shot the outside bolt. From some
cause the ex-parson accepted this violence in silence. Waiting his
opportunity, he tapped at the window as the servant passed, and she,
in unquestioning surprise, freed him.

His shadow fell across the window only once during Andrew's and
Ursie's nightwatch by the aunt's bed. Baffled by the blind, he crept
softly to the closed bedroom door, but hastily as he opened it,
Andrew's angry countenance went more than half way to meet his livid
visage.

Towards midnight the mill, now working overtime, ceased. After this
it seemed to Ursula that the sick woman's pants grew more feeble and
irregular. Unblinkingly the girl kept her first vigil. Andrew, looking
into those sleepless eyes, thought they alone, through the wonderful
change--transfiguring her from gawky girlhood into supple womanhood--
had not changed.

The woman on the bed gave no sign of their presence. Her mouth had
fallen apart; round it a white weal threw into high relief the
stagnant purple hue of the lips and cheeks. Her eyes were partially
closed. If only she would wake and close her mouth, mentally prayed
the outwardly unflinching girl. Later the doctor came, and sheltered
by his presence the sick woman's husband stood in the doorway. Nothing
must be done to close that open mouth, but Ursie might, at set times,
moisten the breath--dried tongue and throat. Soon after the doctor's
departure a woman who 'laid out' came and stood at the bedfoot in
steady contemplation. 'About dawn' she said to them, and went out.

They heard her rouse the sleeping servant, and with her enter the
kitchen; then the noise of a fire being lighted and the fountain being
filled came to the watchers.

The sick woman's breathing became more fitful. Her head fell aside,
and the liquid Ursie would have poured down her throat oozed back.

'No more' whispered Andrew, taking the spoon from Ursie. They were
each side the bed, watching the sick woman.

Gradually the power of the lamplight appeared to be limited to a
blurred circle.

There was a long unbroken quiet, seemingly blank from its intensity,
till with horrible suddenness a cock crew. The girl and youth had
risen, and their hands simultaneously outstretched met across the
body, now limp and motionless.

Dissolution did not beautify Mrs. Civil. Her great body lay shrouded
in stiffly bulging outlines, and in deference to an old custom a plate
of salt, to arrest swelling, lay with significant immovability on the
stomach. Ann Foster's scissors had perforated elaborately a linen
face-spread, which rested as still as the salt. The white curtains and
blind screening the window hung lifelessly; white drapes and covers
and flowers were everywhere; and a stifling scented stillness filled
the room with an intolerable odorous heaviness.

As ever an unreality girt and governed the girl's normal senses--
surely this bed-scene must be familiar, An indefinable impulse seized
her to go outside, find, then softly sigh through, a crack, but low
down--she wanted it almost level with the bed.

Dazed, deathly white, but dry-eyed, she followed Andrew outside.
There they parted without a word, he going swiftly up the hill,
anywhere away to lose sight of her, she purposelessly watching him.

She felt that he had failed her, why and how was not clear, nor how
much it mattered. How tall and strong he had grown, but she would not
think about him, so mentally she fell apart from her old mate. Thank
God, she was sure of Boshy.

From the kitchen came the smell and clatter of food being prepared
for breakfast. Mercy! how could any one eat? She went to her room.

In the afternoon the maid came saying somebody wanted her. Outside,
partly screened by the paling fence, Ursula found Fanny, who anxiously
inquired the whereabouts of Mr. Civil. Ursula assured her that he was
in his room, and it was quite safe for her to come in. But another
purpose also kept her outside, waiting for Jim, who had promised to
bring her some flowers to decorate the dead woman. Jim came downhill
hastily to them, a few flowers of many hues in one hand, the other
holding something under his coat. Fanny instantly complained of the
colour and paucity of the blossoms displayed, whereupon Jim produced
from beneath his coat a dilapidated porcelain wreath, which Fanny
scorned, declaring that she knew it well--that it was off old Shiel's
grave; but Jim swore that he had bought them at great expense. Then
they bandied:

'Grave-robber! Pat the Jew's loplolly boy!'

'Old raddle-cheeks! 'Oppy-go-fetch-it.'

Till the grotesquely angry scene was interrupted by the arrival of
Mina, who came asking for Andrew. With her, from a sense of duty,
Ursie went again into the silence with its sickening scents.

'Can I see her?' asked Mina, with orthodox interest and intent,
groping for her handkerchief. Ann Foster was in charge, and
ostentatiously withdrew her work of art facecover. Mina bent and
kissed the partly open mouth.

'Poor Mrs. Civil, don't she look peaceful an' nice?' she whimpered,
dabbing her dry eyes.

'Very' agreed Anne, replacing the facecover, then resuming her seat
with an ordered, solemn countenance.

Andrew continually disappeared, on pretext of duty, and Mr. Civil, as
became a disconsolate mourner, kept himself and his grief in his room.
Mina stayed for tea, and with disconcerting wonder Ursula watched the
food pass through the lips that had so lately kissed the dead woman's,
for to Ursula even here the cold presence of death seemed to
penetrate.

'Why don't you eat? Isn't Andrew gone?' asked Mina suspiciously.

'Come outside' ordered Ursula, with scant ceremony rising and forcing
out her unsatisfied guest. There in the twilight they sat on a seat
that Boshy had built in the recess facing the hill. From the trees
crowning it, magnified, pinnacled shadows fell towards them. Below in
the river valley a belated bird called plaintively to its mate. Ursula
listened to it for a moment, then her eyes again sought the impelling
shadows.

Down the hillside came two men bearing the last solemn symbol on
their shoulders. Ursula rose, then stood in a line with the bearers,
motionless as though waiting for inexorable fate. She suffered the
grotesquely and inhumanly lengthened shadow from the men and their
burden to fall on her.

'Mina, Mina! Oh, God!'

Ursula's arms went round her irresponsive friend, and her surprised
tears deluged and embarrassed her.

'Lord, Urs, what's the matter with you?'

'Mina, Mina!' She sank on her knees, then she fell face downward,
blind with tears and grief for an undefinable sorrow.

It was nothing to her that in the ghastly details of the following
days Mina seemed to have usurped her place. A waiting quiet possessed
her, but she felt alone, though even this was, or appeared to be, of
her choice.

Lessons in life are seldom as moral as they should be, and Mrs.
Civil's will left all her personal and real estate to her dear
husband. Her beloved nephew Andrew Cameron of Cameron and her ward
Ursula Ewart were unnamed in it. Boshy had hoped otherwise, but Ursula
had given it no thought, even when she wrote to him--her only friend.

After due delay Boshy wrote saying he was 'a-comin' down at once' and
for Andrew to wait till he came. With veiled hostility to Andrew, the
widower suffered him to await Boshy's coming. Ursula saw that now
Bella Watson's chance meetings with him had to be strategically and
singly planned by Bella, whose wifely attentions to the bereaved man
were markedly meaning. But those prophets of the past were surprised
by the coldness and palpable annoyance of the recipient. Even in the
first week his manner to Ursula, without being fatherly, had changed
to the tender solicitude of a watchful guardian. He consulted her
continuously on all subjects, not even excepting the indelicacy of
Bella's unwelcome visits, discountenanced by him now, because of
Ursula's and his adored dead wife's dislike to her. Ursula felt like a
trapped animal forced to feed from her hated captor's hand. But till
Boshy came she would keep her mind in abeyance. Again and again the
girl wrote, earnestly importuning his speedy return, but unaccountably
he still tarried. Andrew, man-like, saw only Ursula's discontent from
being with them, and a moody constraint was always upon and between
them. Mina, after the manner of her sex, saw much, but, unlike them,
said nothing. She came very often, considering that her parents had
now added 'accommodation' to their wine business.

Weeks, leaden for Ursula, went by, bringing only messages from Boshy,
still on his way down. Mr. Civil's kindness daily increased to her,
and but for Andrew's open hostilities would have reached him.

Then widower Hugh Palmer came down from Merrigulandri, his wife
Margaret having paid the toll of motherhood; and from him Ursula heard
that Boshy had been camped on a far-away creek, waiting for the season
of the birdling Galahs.

'He told me to tell you that he is up to his eyes a-ketchin' an' a-
snarin' an' a-takin' of 'em into Coolabadarin, an' a-sellin' of 'em,
but that he would soon be down now.'

Andrew was now to go back in Hugh Palmer's place, and Mina began to
crochet a red-and-purple necktie as a parting gift. Hugh Palmer
commented privately to Ursula on the harmonious blend, but said openly
with mimic tragedy that it would cause bloodshed between Andrew and
him.

The outward and visible signs of moral ethics likewise were strong
points with this learned Englishman. To him, despite the housekeeper,
there was an impropriety in Ursula, the elderly ex-parson, and Andrew
living under the one roof--a matter that, for all his aforetime
vigilance, had escaped Mr. Civil.

Mina's mother agreed emphatically with Palmer, too emphatically for
her English.

'She gan goom mit you, Misder Pommer; dare is room in Mina's room for
doo bets.'

'For doo bedts plendee room' was emphasis to an inaudible objection
from Mr. Stein, who, as Palmer disappeared, added:

'But vot erpout Mina? Keep off der krass, den, for Mina ant Pommer.'

Mrs. Stein's mouth pursed scornfully.

'Oh, ant so is to-morror' she said with an air of finality.

'Vaid, den, ant ve shall see' prophesied Mr. Stein.

'Alvays you growel, or yap-yap "Vaid--vaid." I go do my vork' she
said meaningly, pinning up her skirts and taking up a broom.

'Orh, a damt lodd you do, dond you? You ant your vork. Ven
somesbodies--'

'Orh, somesbodies will dare ees shirt' sneered Mrs. Stein.

'Urzler's nod so kreen as hers kabbidge lookin'. It vill be all up
for Mina mit Pommer. Then you mit a long mout'.'

'Shust you get vork' said Mina's mother, slamming the door.

But Ursula would make no movement without Boshy, though she longed
earnestly to lose the attention of her self-constituted guardian.

On her solitary bush wanderings one afternoon she had come to a
felled wild apple-tree. There it lay, denuded by time of leaf and
branch and even bark; yet still clinging with parasitical tenacity was
the bunch of mistletoe that had brought about its downfall years ago,
because its impregnable fruit and height had taunted her. Jim,
importuned, had come with his axe and at her wish had felled it with
the fruited but unripe mistletoe. She recalled everything as she stood
there. Mr. Civil, warned and guided by distant axe--whangs, had found
them, and had been unsparing in his condemnation of Jim's stupid waste
of time in coming an unnecessary mile to chop down a tree uselessly
far away.

'She kidded me to' was Jim's defence, and she recollected that then
she had none. Nor could she now define her motive.

Thoughtfully she went over all old haunts that had tempted and
terrified her childhood. But they begot little of the old emotion,
even when from the coign of a precipitous rock she surveyed the whole
of this little town that, to her--bush-born--had once seemed so
boundlessly vast. It had been the arena for all she read from 'Maria
Monk' to 'Jesus of Nazareth.' On the hill to her left was the convent,
and above it, topping its fellows, stood Mount Murrillo--the exceeding
high mountain where Satan had led Christ, to tempt Him with the
kingdoms of the earth, such surely for Christ and Satan, as for her
then, had been this great town, though now so cruelly shrunken and
changed.

The river-flat facing the principal street still kept an encircled
space for the crude glories of the passing circus show. But not for a
moment even now could she dwell upon that mocking epoch, and she came
down hastily.

In a fertile hollow between river and hills were the remains of an
aforetime vine-garden, full of old-world fruit and flowers. In its
centre still flourished, in native independence, a gigantic tree. Near
it a forgotten family vault, gaping and mouldering: as if to hide its
neglect, a tangle of rank creepers climbed over and about it. This had
been her childhood's Garden of Gethsemane, and this the tree beneath
which Christ, lonely, had wept. Today, through the fulness of years,
she stood possessed with the right time and place, still she hallowed
the old memories. From the garden a track led along the river to the
two graveyards--creed-separated, but only by a stone's-throw; she
followed it to them. Every turn and twist, every she-oak and shrub she
passed, was reminiscent of some callow illusion that touched her even
now. The 'snaggy hole' that had been the death-trap of Granny
Magrath's darling and of many others, was as treacherously quiet and
still; seemingly its only duty was to reflect the heavens. As
unchanged were the Chinamen, too, and as mechanically labouring, but
their gardens, dotted along the river-flats, had surely shrunken, and
all landmarks, even the hills, had come nearer town.

Her aunt was now numbered among these silent sleepers, and in the
misty twilight her white headstone gleamed with ghostly effect.

Here, on the tomb of one who had been done to death, and lay still
unavenged, was a verse that to her had always read as a threat:

'Before the morning light I'll come, with Magdalen to find, With
tears and sighs to Jesus' tomb, and there refresh my mind.'

Leavened by the old influence, she saw, in the grey dawn of a long-
dead day, the tomb from which Christ had risen, and Mary, that
picturesque sinner, coming with spices and sweet perfume to the tomb--
empty, for Christ had gone. In the ages that had passed there had been
no sympathy for Mary--Mary, not His mother, but another Mary, who had
waited through the long night, then 'very early, while yet it was
dark' had come; and He, though knowing, was gone.

'Ursula' came like an echo to her, then a well-known 'Coo-ee.'
Instinctively, she fled back into the garden across the river, and
from it again to the hills. And not till the darkness governed her
mood did she suffer Andrew and Mina to find her.

'Oh, w'at a one you are for sulkin'! We've been 'untin' for you all
over the place' complained Mina. 'Let's sit down: I'm knocked up.'

'Andrew's goin' next week, an' you're to come and stay with us till
Boshy comes. Then what are you goin' to do, Ursie?'

'Write a book' she said shortly.

It was a statement that took her by surprise, for till she spoke, her
future plans had not been within her mental focus.

Andrew was silent; Mina laughed mockingly.

'I'm sure--I suppose just because you've been down the country to
school you've got that in your 'ead. Bah! Boshy's got no money to keep
you writin' books.'

This also was a new aspect for Ursula.

'Ursula has money of her own, or will have' said Andrew.

'I know, I know' said Mina, resuming her old manner.

'Yuh whur! w'at's bitin' me? Arnts, arnts! We're sittin' on an arnts'
bed' she yelled, grabbing her thighs.

Both she and Andrew had an active few minutes, but Ursula stood
apparently unmolested.

'None on you?' inquired Mina, after much crushing defeat of her
invisible foes.

'No.'

'Not one?' Mina reasked in surprise.

'No' again stormed Ursula, fiercely and unreasonably angry.

'Well, don't bite me 'ead off. They must be sugar arnts, Andrew, to
tackle on'y me and you. Yah! there's another. Grab 'im, Andrew, and
squeeze him. He's down me back.'

As they came down the hillside, they met the full moon rising. By its
light Andrew, who had been keenly watching Ursula, saw, among many
ants, one crawl towards her ear. He tore it off hastily.

'Let's run downhill' he said; and taking her hand, they speedily
outdistanced Mina.



Chapter X



WHEN Ursula woke next morning, the once familiar sound of someone's
personal washing, outside on Jim's old stool, caused her to peep
through the window. For many minutes she stood silently watching Boshy
making his morning toilet.

He, with everything else, was cruelly altered. The sparse grey locks
he combed were fewer and greyer: and though the accustomed mouth
circle was as obdurately set as of old, his head waggled
purposelessly: and his hands fumbled stiffly as he folded and replaced
his pocket comb. As of old, he took down his portable glass hanging on
a nail, and carefully wiping it, replaced it in its case. But instead
of sending the water from the basin with a broad, well-directed swirl
over the grass, he now poured it carefully into the drain.

The girl, only half dressed, rushed out to him.

'Lovey'--he looked at her steadily--'either you growed up or I've
growed down; w'ich is it?' With his eye set on her face, his trembling
hands sought hers. 'Your dear liddle 'ands. Thenk Gord, your liddle
'an's an' feet's same az ever. Oh, Lovey, but I'm glad t' see you; an'
we'll part no more. "We meet t' paart no mo-ur,"' he sang joyfully.

Now, at the wrong time, she could have wept--wept with the violence
of a winter's sudden storm. She drove her tongue to the roof of her
mouth, and set her teeth and trembling lips, as she helped the bowed
old man put on his coat.

'Learn plenty et schule, Lovey? S'pose you can make the nole memorium
in theer all but talk?'

'Boshy' she said, eager to divert him, 'everyone says I can't stay
here now aunt's dead--everyone but Mr. Civil.'

'Weer t' go t', then, Lovey, do they say?'

'To Mina's. Mrs. Stein says I'll be quite welcome.'

'Lovey, theys a nole sayin', an' a terue one, thet fish an'
frien'ship stinks in twenty-fower howers. The ole man in theer'es ole
enough to be yer gran'father, an' it ud be all right t' you if 'e
wasn't. It's ther cracked crockery yer mus' take keer on, nut ther
sound, and theere's a good many in this yeer same towen is ser busy a-
lookin' after others people's char-racters thet they let their owen go
t' blazes. I can un'er'stan' becus ov 'em, thet young ez you are, an'
ole ez w'at 'e is, yer couldn' stay 'ere on yer lonesome. But now I'm
'ere--'

'My good Boshy! When did you come? What an unexpected pleasure!'

'Las' night' said Boshy, smiling grimly and taking the widower's
outstretched hand. 'Sorry t' 'ear ov yer terouble. But we've all got
t' face ther same moosic. Funny, though, but I s'pose it's becus it's
a sich dead certin thet we don't waste no time a-thinkin' about it.'

The widower wiped his little eyes with a black-bordered perfumed
handkerchief, and shook his head as one impressed.

"Ear about 'er a-goin' t' go t' Steins's?' asked Boshy at the
breakfast table.

Mr. Civil's side jerked.

'No, I did not' he answered. 'There's no necessity for Ursula to
leave here. Mrs. Stein is a deep, designing woman.'

'For onct I agree wi' yer, parson: theere's nut ther slightest
needcesity' said Boshy with blunt honesty. 'Ole mother Stein didn't
come down in ther last shower.' He shook his head impressively.
'Though 'er's gut a 'ard inside, 'er knows wut side to bite a bun.
W'y, w'en they kep' ther wine--shanty at Widgiewa there wuz a sayin'
thet 'er could dose any man till 'e ud be deaf an' dumb an' blin' fer
a month ov Sundees. An' Lord! 'er ud skin a flea fer its 'ide an'
taller--nut thet thet's anythin' ag'inst 'er fer bein' savin'.'

'She's still a deep, designing woman' repeated Mr. Civil fiercely.

'Well, let 'er be deep an'--ther other thing. I think me an' you's
'er match, don't you?' inquired Boshy jocularly.

Mr. Civil did not appear so sanguine; but with the coming of Boshy
Mrs. Stein stayed her hand.

At first it seemed sufficient for Boshy to be near his Lovey, but
gradually he began to probe for her accomplishments. Chiefest to him
was her music, and in this, of all, she shone least. The grief
proprieties in connection with her aunt's death helped Ursula to stave
Boshy's knowledge of this inefficiency; but though she clambered
through the Sundayschool window to practise, it came. Sore was his
disappointment to find that after three--to quote him--'abnormous
egspensie 'ears' Ursie could not play nearly as well as Bella Watson.

'Lord, Lovey! I thart ez yer'd a licked 'er inter a cockt 'at in less
en no time. Lovey'--gravely--'yer mus' a bin a-spongin' and a-slungin'
ov yer time, fer yer gut more brains 'n any of 'em, an' yer liddle
'an's nut a--stretchin' far enough is on'y a egscuse.'

He would listen in sad silence to her slow, laboured efforts to play
even a simple hymn.

'Lord! ther way I been a-blowin' an' a-boastin' an' a-blatherin'
about yer moosic. Oh Lord! rattle into it, Lovey, and makes believe es
w'at yer wuz on'y a-gammonin' ez yer couldn't.'

'Then the notes would be wrong, Boshy' she said brokenly, for she
felt his disappointment keenly.

'I wouldn't know, no more would none ov 'em know, if they wuz wrong,
Lovey, if yer could make a bellerin', thundrin' n'ise' he assured her.

To console him she set her mouth, and battered from the wheezy old
organ a spirited effect of discords.

'Christ! if they wuz on'y right w'at 'd I give' was his fervent
comment. But his daily request for a repetition of her improvisation
filled her with a nauseating dread. Yet he met any hostile remark
about her loyally with 'How can yer expec' 'er, wi' 'er liddle 'an's,
t' kick up ther same row ez you wi' your lanky triantelopes? W'y, look
at 'er 'an's--no more 'en a muskeeter meal' was his offensive defence
to Mina. 'I never trus' a woman wi' long 'an's'--looking at hers--'and
a liddle mouth full ov teeth like a cross-cut saw. I find they're jist
about as warm'-earted.'

Daily Ursula would hear him muttering the sum total of her school
cost that Cameron and he had sent. Then he took to morning rambles in
the Bush by himself, coming back at irregular hours, always weary, but
in varying moods.

'Nothin' t' be gut er made in this one-eyed 'ole' with a smokeless
afternoon, displayed one mood. 'Things isen ez good ez they might be;
still'--between pipe-puffs--'they could be wurser 'n w'at they is' was
the other.

The girl instinctively felt that he told as much as he cared to, and
forbode to question. She filled in every moment of his absence with
strenuous, determined efforts at the organ in the Sunday-school.

'Come and listen, Boshy.'

It was one of his self-denial afternoons.

'Listen to w'at?' he asked sulkily, for he had long ceased to ask her
for music.

'Come on.'

Taking him by the arm coaxingly, she led him into the sitting-room
and gave him a time--varied rendering of one of his old favourite
hymns; then, to her own setting, 'My pretty, pretty bird.'

'But thet's nut correc', out ov yer book' was his despondent comment.
'I mean the 'ymn chunes ain't.'

'Yes, they are, every note of the hymn, and I made the other tune.'

He sat down heavily.

'Oh, Lord Gord! but I'm thenkful' he said solemnly. 'Lovey, I'll 'unt
no mo-ore fer shenk--bones, nur 'orse'air, nur 'orns, nur nothin'.
I've bin a--goin' ov, an' a-getherin' ov, an' a-gittin' ov 'em fer
months past, ter sen' yer back t' learn proper; fer it's a abnormous
egspense, and I brought but a few poun's wi' me, a-thinkin' as 'er
would 'ave lef' us both somethin'. Se'p me Gord, Lovey! I'd ruther
then a fi'-pun note thet you ken play proper. Ho! ho! I gut ther larf
ov 'em now. Shooly t' goodness I hev. Lovey ov mine, ye'll break out
yet; I allus knowed yer would. Gi' me me pipe t' I smoke off me
shakes. Gi' me me pipe; I'm all o' a shake. See'--holding out his
trembling hands--'but it's in real downright j'y' he explained, as she
soothingly held and stroked them, and it meant as much to her that he
was content.

Then passed a period in the girl's life when the present held in
abeyance all thought for her future. The high-flown love scenes of her
precocious reading had grafted into her mind certain ideals of both
sexes, fortunately lifeless in law, though still alive in literature.
Comparing those about her with such highfaluting heroines, she thought
the only emotion she possessed was pity. She had this even for a snake
being done to death, but immeasurably for this old man who loved her
only.

For Boshy was daily becoming more bent and breathless, and
occasionally he had vacant intervals. Always after these he ignored
the years that had passed, and would startle her by wild, ambitious
plans for their future--when she would be grown up. Then he would take
her to London.

'Lunnon's ther on'y place fer your brains, Lovey. Yer nut a--goin'
t' be no potwolloper, Lovey ov mine, fer none ov 'em. No! no! nut be
long chalks. But us must wait t' yer grow up--yer on'y a liddle girl
yet, Lovey.'

He would lie back, muttering his plans for her brilliant future,
then doze till roused by his falling pipe. She learned to watch and at
the right moment catch it, but the dread of its setting fire to him or
the surroundings, some time in her absence, used to fill her with
sickening fear. Was it this same dread, she wondered, that caused his
heart to beat with such violent breathlessness when he woke from his
momentary slumbers? and why did he lift his arms above his head so
often? To get her breath she had to raise hers even while wondering.

'Are you sick, Boshy?'

'Me, Lovey? Wut's put thet nonsense inter yer liddle 'ed--yer preddy
liddle 'ed? Never wuz better in me life nur stronger, but fer a liddle
bit ov cole on me ches'.'

He paused breathlessly, and she, watching keenly and uneasily, noted
the fluttering pulsations from the hollows of his sunken throat.

'O Lord, Lovey! w'at a nole woman yer wanter turn me inter, wi' yer
a--rubbin' and a-rootin' and a-runtin' ther tuppentine inter me ole
ches' like this 'ere way. It wouldn' take much t' rub them liddle
mouses of 'an's away. An', Lovey, from wen yur wus in long clo'es
you've ed a breath like ther smell ov ther scenty stock flowers w'at
used t' grow in me old granny's garden at Englan'. Some used t' call
'em gilly-flowers' he explained, 'but sweet-scenty stocks wuz the
right name. Now, don't rub off them liddle 'an's.'

But he opposed her treatment mildly, for he loved the feel of her
hands.

'They's no mistake, Lovey ov mine, but yer take some beatin', take
yer all roun" he said, looking with fatuous eye at the glow on her
face from this exertion. 'None ov 'em 'ere can see your dust, Lovey;
an' theere's no mistake, but I'm ridiculous fond ov yer, an' allus
was, an' allus will be. W'en I wuz young, wi' two eyes in me 'ead for
a likely gel, fust I'd look at 'er feet, then 'er 'an's, then 'er
ears--an' I mus' say at 'ome or abroad I never see the ekal ov yourn--
then, by 'ook or by crook, I'd menage t' git a sniff ov 'er breath.
But'--after a pause--'w'at's Andrer say about yer?'

'Nothing, Boshy.'

'Nothin'?' incredulously.

'No.'

'Nut even about yer 'an's?'

'No.'

'Ur! 'im ther idjut. W'at's it matter? W'en us goes t' London, us'll
see who ye'll get. Anderer!'--scornfully--'Anderer! 'e's in no
pursition t' marry, w'ich ever way it goes. One comfort, yer'll want
fer nothin', thenk Gord.'

He was now breathlessly angry and lay back panting, yet vowing
disgusted threats against Andrew for a few days.

After a short time she scarcely left him except for sleep, and even
then she took on some of his conditions, and the smothered beating of
her own overtaxed heart would waken her again and again through the
night. Softly stealing to him, she would often find him, if awake,
muttering some pleasant plans for their future; but always first they
had to go back, for some obscure purpose, to the Bush.

Then one night she found him wandering about in terrible agitation,
moist with an agony of fear, straining with eye and ear to discover
someone outside with pick and shovel that he heard. For a time she
could not soothe nor convince him that it was fancy. He was off that
moment to protect something far away in danger.

'Oh, my Gord, Lovey!' he would gasp, 'if anyone finds it an' snavels
it, w'at would you do? w'at would become ov you? It'd soon cook me,
but w'at would become ov you? No, no, you must not stop me; I must be
off.'

'Why? Would you leave me alone?'

'No'--weakly--'I wouldn't leave yer, Lovey. Mee-et t' paa-art no mo--
ore, he droned, diverted, tremulously clutching her. But he would not
go back to bed, and again his fear returned. To convince she led him
to the window, and together they looked out on the tranquil, empty
night. He thrust his head forward, listening fearfully.

'Try--can you 'ear anyone?' he pleaded.

To humour him she obeyed, and her face grew ghastly, for above the
thuds of his excited heart audibly pounding into the night's
stillness, she heard footsteps guardedly enter the house.

'W'at's it, Lovey?' confidingly.

How could she tell him? For answer she put her arms round him and
drew him back, then spoke hopefully of Andrew to him till he slept.

But gradually his sleep day or night was fear-haunted by a near enemy
with a pick and shovel. He muttered guardedly about this dread at
first, but sometimes he shrieked it in uncontrollable agony.

'Lovey, w'at woke you? Was it the n'ise ov someun wi' a pick and
shovel?'

All night she had sat outside his door listening to him moaning or
muttering or coughing.

'No, Boshy. You coughed.'

'Certain sure it wuzn't nothin' else? Yer wouldn't deceive me?'

She was quite sure, kissing his moist brow, and she wouldn't deceive
him.

'No, thenk Gord, I can trus' you' he said, relieved.

He was feverishly excited, but after a while he yielded, and to
please her lay down.

'Go you ter bed, Lovey ov mine' stroking her face with his shaking
hands. 'Go and git yer beauty sleep. Lovey, go w'en I tell yer'
imperiously; and, as ever, she obeyed his old command.

Her rest had been broken for weeks, but now she felt no inclination
to sleep. Wide awake, she was lying on her bed, when distinctly she
heard the front door stealthily opened. Boshy had not stirred, she
knew, for his harsh cough now, though it disturbed, did not break his
sleep of exhaustion. Again she heard the noise from outside, also
footsteps. She sat up and listened breathlessly. 'Clank, clank'
metallically came from outside the wall near Boshy's bunk-head. She
rushed into his room. He was sitting up, his eyes protruding and his
mouth helplessly open. He raised his arms above his head, then they
fell uselessly by his side; but instantly she had hers round him, and
wildly as his heart beat her own dulled his.

'Lovey' he panted.

'Hush, Boshy dear! Wait till you are better' she coaxed evasively.

'You 'eerd--thet--time--don't deny--it' he pressed, for she was
silent. 'You--'eerd? Lovey, own up.'

'Yes.'

'W'at?' he gasped, eagerly.

'I don't know, Boshy; perhaps it was some stray dog or cat.'

'No dorgs or cats 'ere, Lovey.'

'You keep still, Boshy, and I'll look out.'

She opened the window. There by the wall near his head lay a pick
and shovel. She instantly closed the window, and, conquering her
horror, said calmly:

'There's nobody, Boshy, not a soul; and it's nearly morning.'

'Yes, theer's ther cocks a-crowin" he agreed, 'an' I'm fair winded'
he panted, lying down, for the dawn seemed to reassure him. 'An',
Lovey, us'll 'ave some breakfuss, an' thet'll pick us up. Soon as I
pick up a bit we'll be out ov this. Thet sort ov thing's been a-goin'
on fer some time.' Again he listened for outside sounds. 'Our name 'll
soon be Walker, won't it?'

'Very soon' she soothingly assured him. 'Sleep now, while I get your
breakfast' she suggested, straightening his bed, and bathing his worn
face that showed his unfitness to rise. When he dozed she went into
the kitchen to make tea for him, going first to where she had seen the
pick and shovel--but they were gone.

Later he made several brave attempts to rise and walk about, and
when overcome by breathlessness made light of the cause.

He wanted no doctor's medicine. 'Every dose is a nail in yur coffin
an', wut's worse, a pound in the doctor's pocket.' This view he shared
in common with the ex-parson, who daily recounted instances of speedy
and inexpensive recoveries, without skilled aid and the reverse with
it. Against both the girl's gentle demands were powerless; besides,
the fears of the young lift easily, and Ursula knew nothing of
sickness.

Gradually, and not without a great fight, Boshy gave up his pipe.
But he instructed her to put his tobacco carefully into his pickle
bottle, with a cut potato to keep it from undue dryness--'agin' I git
meself again, Lovey.'

Shaving that morning he had gashed his cheek with the razor.

'Somethin' bumped me elbow' he said. 'Come, now' reassuringly, 'you
look an' see, Lovey: me 'an's as stiddy as th' Rock o' Ages.' He made
a brave but futile effort to steady his extended hand. 'It's not as
stiddy 's it might be' he sadly admitted, as she took the razor from
his shaking, uncertain hand.

'Drink this. It will do you good, Boshy.'

But his hands seemed scarcely able to hold the cup.

'Nut yet--I'm nut thirsty--but by-and-by, w'en I stiddy up a bit' he
promised, turning his face away, wishful to hide its trouble and his
disability.

'Boshy, let me feed you, like you used to feed me long ago' she
coaxed, understanding.

He smiled with grim bravery, and thinking to humour her, gave her
the spoon.

When she had finished, 'S'ep me goodness, Lovey' kissing her hands,
'but yer a-poddyin' ov me, an' me a full-tooth weaner' he bantered,
adding with a flicker of his old manner: 'I allus knowed them liddle
lambs wuz well able ter feed 'emselves, but they jis wanted t' 'ave
someun az they was fond ov a-foolin' roun', an' (after a cough) in
that respec' I'm no better un them.'

He was silent for a while, with an introspective aloofness on his
face, which seemed grey and drawn when he spoke.

'Lovey, ez true ez Gord, I've see an' known a wile dingo act ther
tame dorg, t' 'e fooled ther rest ov ther dorgs an' me; then all of a
sudden one night, my Gord! ter see ther way 'e mangled them poor
unfort'nit lambs. Nex' mornin' t' see ther way them poor ole mother
yeos looked et me, much ez t' say, "If they'd bin yer owen flesh an'
blood, yer wouldn' a-risked it." Fer frum fust t' last they never
trusted ther dingo, an' I know now in me 'art I never trusted 'im
neither.'

He was very excited and exhausted, and the perspiration gathered and
ran on his forehead.

'Lovey, I often see yer mother's eyes a-lookin' et me ther same.'

Ursula laid her cheek on his tremulous mouth.

'Oh, Boshy! My mother could not--she could not. You have been mother
and father to me--both, both' she said brokenly.

'I dunno, Lovey, but I oughter tell yer all I know, an' I will some
day, please God, I will, an' thet afore long.'

This resolution soothed him, and he went to sleep.

Next day, after a breakfast which Boshy made a determined but vain
attempt to eat, the two were sitting silently in his room when Mr.
Civil came in. His manner to Ursula of late had undergone an
indeterminate change: courtesy had almost become familiarity. His 'my
dear' gave her a convulsive shiver; still, she made no spoken sign of
aversion, for already she was experiencing the inequality of her
struggle to alter the thing that is. But though she acknowledged the
personality of his 'my dear' she never looked at him. To-day when he
left the room, she followed him.

'Boshy is very ill;' and now she looked at him steadily as she spoke.

'Not worse than usual, I hope?

He didn't look at her.

'Much worse. What about a doctor? I'll go across and tell him.'

There was a challenge in her tones.

'I'll go myself--I'll go at once' he promised, and a little later she
saw him leave.

When she went back, Boshy was again lying down.

'Lovey, yer ortn't t' go a-giddin' an' a-gaddin' about wen I want
yer' he complained huskily.

She covered his gnarled blue hands, then wiped the tears of lonely
grief from his cheeks, kissing him again and again, till in penitence
he said:

'S'ep me goodness! if yer out ov me sight fer a moment, I think yer
bin gone fer hours an' hours, an' thet I'll never see yer agen.'

'I'm going to stay with you all day, Boshy.'

'That's ther talk, but git yer stitchin', Lovey, an' doan be a-idlin'
of yer time. But I forgot: yer not one ov ther stitchin' sort, are
yer, Lovey? An' them deear liddle 'an's wur never made fer work; but'
condolingly, 'never mind, I'm kintent wi' yer. They's none ov 'em, wi'
all their fancy stitchin', I'd a swop or change yer fer. W'at's
Anderer say about 'em, Lovey?--I mean ther liddleness ov yer 'ands.'

'Nothing, Boshy.'

He grew irritable at once.

'Well, 'e's gut no money, ennyways. No, 'e's gut no money.'

He ceased speaking, but Ursula saw that he was distressfully deep in
thought.

'But, Lovey, make no mistake. Anderer's gut no money now, but 'e will
ev it--'e's (cough) old man Cameron Cameron's cunninger then any
dingo. 'E gut off wi' yur daddy's papers, an' no doubt all 'is money
thet time' (cough) 'w'en 'e cum fer you. But, Lovey, wait t' yer
comes' ov age an' us'll show 'im us--'

He lay back panting and coughing.

After a painful effort he swallowed a mouthful that she held to his
lips, and, despite her entreaties, began again:

'W'at does Anderer tork t' yer about?'

'He hardly speaks to me, Boshy.'

'Ah, Lovey, yer oughtn't ter tell me wut's nut true. I often see 'im
a--lookin' at yer; 'e would if yer encouraged 'im. Yer know, 'e's nut
ther torkin' sort.'

He was bitterly disappointed, but he waved her into silence when she
sought to explain.

'Yer see (cough), I carn't expec' t' live fer yever an' yever, an'
surposin' I wur gorn, w'at then?'

Again he motioned her not to interrupt.

'I'm 'ale an' 'earty at present, but, Lovey ov mine, I'm a good ten
'ears older en w'at any ov 'em knows. S'pose, fer argimen's sake,
anythin' 'appened t' me?' Gasping mortally, he repeated: 'W'at then,
Lovey?'

For answer she bowed her head beside him, so that he could not see
her stricken face, then laid her head on his, but only for a moment;
even there his heart seemed to be throbbing.

'For my sake, sleep, Boshy' she pleaded, then stroked his brow till
he slept, though lightly, and with an ease that almost disarmed her,
till he began, as ever, to mutter about a pick and shovel. Waking
suddenly, he asked:

'Lovey, ever 'ear tell of Scrammy 'And?' then irrelevantly, 'I gut
plenty t' do up theere, Lovey; soon ez I git roun' a bit we mus' be
orf. There's plenty fer you t' know, an' I'll take yer and show of yer
the very exac' spot. W'at'ave I been a-tellin' yer?' he said abruptly,
with a return to his old secretiveness.

'Only about us going away.'

He seemed relieved.

'Sooner er later yer mus' know; but, Lovey, nut one word out ov yer
lips t' no one. Remember, a still tongue makes a wise 'ead.'

She promised.

'Didn' I tell yer about Scrammy 'And a-frightin' the ole shep'e'd t'
death fer his money?'

'No.'

'Well, can yer reckerlec a-'earin' anythin' ov it up et Cameron
Cameron's?'

'No, Boshy.'

'Good Gord! then s'posin' I should some day be a cooker, yer don't
know nothin', nor weer an napenny is to be foun'. Lord above me!'
raising up his hands, 'w'at em I a-goin' t' do wi' yer, if so be as I
shouldn' pull roun'?'

'Don't, Boshy, don't worry; I'm all right.'

'O Lord! yer know no more'n suckin' dove w'at's afore yer.'

Breathless and weary, he lay back, but staggered up, and with sudden
determination began preparations for their journey on the morrow. The
futility of it stung her keenly, yet to humour him she made pretence
of help; but he was soon exhausted.

'O Lord! me ole 'eart seems all of a skewwif' he panted
complainingly, lying down; but from his bed he directed her: 'Me
boots, Lovey--don't forget 'em, Lovey; but'--anxiously--'w'at about a-
wearin' ov them?'

For days his swollen feet had worn only socks.

'Cut them and let them out, Boshy' she suggested humouringly.

'By 'eavens! them good boots.' He was indignant at her proposal.
'Leeches 'll do ther trick, Lovey, an' take down me feet. I'd soon git
sandy blight in me 'eels a-wearin' an' a-walkin' in boots now.'

He dosed, and again woke to ask the same question about Scrammy
'And.

'Reckerlec all erbout Scrammy 'And, Lovey?'

She nodded.

'An" shaking a warning finger at her, 'an' thet a still tongue makes
a wise 'ead, an' thet a dorg ez brings a bone 'll kerry one back, so
lis'en to no yarns nur tell none.'

She would be careful.

'Oh yes' querulously, 'w'ile I'm a-nex' an' a-near an' a-nigh yer.'

She tried to stroke the trouble from his brow, but he moved his head
for her to cease.

'Nut now, nut now; you lis'en t' w'at I say. I'm a-goin' t' tell
yer.'

He sat up, but she caught and held his swaying body, and gradually
the effort to concentrate weakened him into forgetfulness. With half-
closed eyes and open mouth he slept for a few moments.

'W'at erbout a pick and shovel?' he asked, sitting up the moment he
waked.

She said she could soon get them.

'Nut out theere, Lovey. In the name ov Gord, nut out theere, or Civil
'll drop down;' 'e's a-watchin'.'

'Not out there' she promised.

He then kept waiting for her to unfold her alternative.

'Weer else can yer git 'em, then?'

'Get what, Boshy?'

'Oh, my Lord!' he moaned, 'theer yer are: yer fergit everythin'; yer
won't try t' reckerlec a thing.' He thrust out his hands and
frantically fastened his fingers in his hair. 'I've lef' it too late.
W'at will she do? w'at will she do?'

Loosening his hands and wiping away his tears, she begged him to be
calm and trust her. She remembered everything he had ever told her--
every word, everything, she emphasized.

'Now let's see w'at yer do know, then' he said suspiciously.

'Begin with Scrammy 'And?' she stipulated anxiously.

'Right yer are' he encouraged.

She went on: 'Who frightened the old shepherd to death for his
money.'

'Lovey, talk liddle' he whispered, drawing her face down to him.
'Lovey, think Scrammy gut the ole shep'e'd's money?'

'Yes' taking her cue intuitively.

'Stick to thet, Lovey ov mine' joyfully. 'Think the'e wuz much?'
eagerly.

She thought so.

'Ah yes' complainingly; then sagely, 'Renember w'at comes over the
divil's back goes under 'is belly; an' a narrer getherin' often gits a
wide scatterin'--reckerlec thet. Now go on.'

Her face was crimson and her breathing as strenuous as his own, but,
strive as she would, she could not, mentally even, stumble along with
the desired description.

'Come, now, weer d' yer think Scrammy' dropping his voice, 'or me a--
planted it? Speak liddle, ez you used t' say.'

'Rest now' she coaxed.

'Rest! Me rest!' he repeated angrily--'rest, an' you nut knowin'
nuthin'? Come now, Lovey, don't be lazy: weer d'ye think ther money
wuz planted?'

'I don't know' she wailed.

'Oh, my Gord! w'at 'll I do? W'at 'll I do?'

In a frenzy of purpose he stood up. Ursula, facing him, rose also.

'Go back t' wen yer wuz liddle' he commanded. 'Can't yer see Nungi
and Queeby, an' yer father, afore 'e wuz buried, an' ther yeos and
lambs and ther wattle flow-wers, an' you a-chewin' and a-chawin' of
ther wattle gum, an' a-getherin' of ther fi'-corners.'

'Five-corners' corrected she, going back.

'Go orn!' he implored, suddenly breathless. 'Go orn, Lovey!'

Her visualizing eyes were fastened on his hypnotic face. Hers grew
ghastly with intensity.

'I can see a little river.'

'Creek, Lovey.'

But, unheeding, she went on: 'I can see a little river. On the other
side there's a hut with no door, and the roof nearly off.'

'Twuz, but nut now. Someun 'as a-burnt most on it' Boshy interrupted,
but almost under his breath.

'Over away from it' waving her hand indicatively, 'there are some
trees.'

'Them's ther myalls, Lovey.'

'Under them I' straining her head forward, 'can see two graves.'

'Yer mother an' father's; an' ther ole shep'e'd's.'

'The palings are down and some men are there. They' doubtfully till
she tip-toed--'yes, they have picks and shovels. They, they'
stumblingly, but Boshy was speechless--'yes, they are throwing up the
dirt. They are opening the grave--'

A choking squeal from Boshy silenced her.

'Christ! Gord! Me money--they've foun' me mo--'

In the old helpless manner he threw up his arms. She staggered, but
caught his swaying body, and slid with it to the ground. Then, though
she loosened his neck, his laboured breath reached only half-way up
his throat; as though spent, it sighed in a thwarted throttle. Aided,
it rose again successively in a seething gurgle that forced his mouth
apart. She caught and rested his helpless head against her shoulder
and listened--but he was still; then she wiped the blood from his nose
and mouth. Drops had fallen on her hands and wrists, but they were
left.

Mina, coming in later, could not distinguish the living from the
dead.



Chapter XI



BOSHY'S will was duly produced from an unexpected quarter, for with
his usual cunning he had gone by a detour to the lawyer's private
residence. Meeting there the wife, he told her much of his
perplexities and anxieties for his Lovey's future. Her sympathy begot
his confidence, and with her he had deposited his will, which, from
beginning to end, contained but one beneficiary, Ursula Ewart, who was
sole legatee to seventeen hundred and eighty-four pounds (£1,784),
hidden--where Ursula knew, he testified. Despite her protestations,
many agreed that of a surety the girl must know, and searches for
Boshy's money--as thorough and as unavailing as those for the old
shepherd's--raged for weeks in Boshy's room, Ursula's, all over the
house, and for an unreasonable space around.

Recalling his Bush ramblings, the ex-parson wandered many times and
oft; aided by his walking-stick, all hollow logs and stumps were
explored. At length this gave place to personal espionage of Ursula's
every movement.

Less than Boshy's savings would gain the legatee the goodwill of any
small town. Besides, many argued, that was merely the sum stored by
Boshy; who could tell what he had with him when he died? Sufficient
only to bury him was found; but he had been notably cunning and sly,
and had trained this girl, whose tragic brown eyes now seemed to hold
some mystery. Was she not deep, going about pretending that she didn't
know where the money was? What an actress she would have made! Still,
each vied in outward kindly attention.

Mina stayed almost nightly with her, because, despite Mrs. Stein's
importunity, Mr. Civil constituted himself the girl's guardian, giving
the substance of a conversation with Boshy as his warrant. None outdid
him in considerate attention.

'Trust none of them my de-ear' he advised, his small eyes agleam with
double meaning. 'They are all self-seekers--every one.'

He saw this heiress one day assiduously repairing her well-worn
clothes.

'That's right, my de-ear, save your money; don't waste it on things
that perish' he commended.

She looked at him. She had told him so often that she had none; but
she had told all who questioned her the same, yet all agreed she would
have made a fine actress. And she understood them.

'Do you mean my father's money, Cameron Cameron told Boshy he had
sent to aunt to keep for me?'

'No, no; there was no money sent to your aunt, my dear--Boshy's
money. don't touch it yet--too many Paul Prys; by-and-by, you
understand.'

One night his stealthy footfall woke her, even before his gentle
tapping. She put on her dressing-gown and slippers; and, opening her
door, candle in hand, went past him; then she faced him, her raised
candle level with his eyes.

'What?' she demanded.

He was fully dressed, though the hour was late, and the sleek
blackness of his freshly-dyed hair and brows threw out his sallow
pallor.

'What?' again she challenged.

Twice his long hand went to his throat, but, though his lips parted,
his tongue only clicked with a dumb dryness. To gain time he made a
hand motion for silence, making a pretence of listening for some
sounds; but his ears were not helped by his eyes. These smouldering
lasciviously under his raised, dye-clogged eyebrows, were set as
though fed by those of the girl, blazing with a tigerish hate into
his.

'Good time to--er--'r find his money, my dear--your money' he said,
between breaths.

He waited for her to speak, but her set mouth seemed frozen.

'No--rather not, my dear? Well, another night' he said, hastily
translating her speechlessness. 'Say good-night to me' thrusting out
his face.

He advanced to her, misled by her passiveness.

She aimed a heavy blow at his leering face with the candlestick, but
he dodged it, and, terrified of a noisy scene, he rushed to his room.

As he lay fully dressed on his bed he heard her movements for some
time; then came a stillness that he, with all his cunning,
misunderstood.

On the afternoon of the next day, after many long hours' wanderings,
she sat by the river, concealed by some briar-bushes. Andrew and Hugh
Palmer were expected, and long since, she had seen the dust of
travelling sheep. Mina, soon after dinner, had walked to The Range to
meet and welcome the drovers, and Ursula saw her now walking beside
Andrew, both leading his horse. Hugh Palmer was not in sight, but
after Andrew and Mina and the dog-driven sheep had crossed, he came
along at a brisk canter. Catching sight of the bareheaded girl, who
had mounted a flood-jettisoned log, and was absorbed in watching the
two passing, he guided his horse to her; but when she saw him she
shrank again among the briars.

'You, Ursie! What's up?' he asked, quickly dismounting.

She rose; her sun-scorched face was deathly, but she seemed calm.

'Mr. Civil came to my room last night, Mr. Palmer.'

The orphaned look in her eyes struck the best in him.

'Curse him, the dog! Never mind, Ursula, you'll be all right now
we're here. No hat?' he asked divertingly, looking at her sunburnt
face.

She shook her head.

'I came away in the night.'

He took a partially emptied flask from his pocket and poured some
brandy into its tin shield. She took it, strangely obedient, meaning
to drink it; but the smell nauseated her, though she knew he was
reeking with it.

'Wait' he said, 'and I'll water it for you.'

With manly tenderness he would have placed her on his horse, but she
resisted.

'Give me your little hand, then.'

So hand-in-hand they went in the twilight to Stein's.

'Fust der 'andt, den der 'ardt' Mrs. Stein observed to watching
Andrew.

One afternoon a few days later, Palmer and Ursula were sitting on a
stool outside, where they had spent many hours since their coming to
Stein's. Palmer, with wine-begot sentiment, found a wavering pleasure
in trying to probe the depth of her elusive mind; its elusiveness
fascinated and enthralled him. He knew from the papers that Cameron
Cameron had taken, and Boshy so much regretted, that her origin on her
father's side threw back to the Spanish invasion. There was little in
Cameron's possession that had escaped his son-in-law. He took a side
look at the girl beside him. No particular beauty distinguished her
face, but the dainty harmony of it and her body, appealed irresistibly
to him. His dead wife had brought him a home but no money, and though
he knew from her father's will that Ursula some day would have money
despite Cameron's intrigues, yet there would be first a tussle; and he
loathed all exertion, mental or bodily. Full fed, with a satisfied
stomach, and no duty but inclination, which was now to sit watching
her--this for the time seemed to fulfil all desire. For the ease with
which he could ring-bark and sap the crude tastes begot by the
readings of her callow days was an unending marvel and solace to him.

Ancestry, he thought gloatingly--but instinctively he kept this
knowledge jealously. Quickly he realized that to meet her noonday
reason a tale must be possible and logical. But he liked best when her
twilight mood saw only the poetical; then her soul shone through her
face like a star, joyfully radiant or mystically shrouded. This
afternoon, in accord with it and her, he began with Ulysses and
Penelope. Then next, to watch how at his bidding he could radiate joy
or grief from her mood-flecked face, he took Charon and his mystic
river and silent freight. Then the beast in him stirred, and he for,
the first time, tested her with voluptuous scenes between Anthony and
Cleopatra. Vainly did he feelingly paint the perfumed love passages of
the passionate pair. The Puritan strain from her mother asserted
itself, and this girl beside him saw nothing but lawlessness in the
lotus--loving queen's infatuation for another woman's husband, and
unfaithfulness in Anthony. Impatiently Palmer got up, and, most
unusual for him, walked briskly away. When some time later he
returned, she was still sitting there. He noticed the spiritual
aloofness of her face, and though he shifted the disinfecting clove in
his mouth, he forebore to speak. It was early autumn, and like a
regretful sigh, the warm mist about them was floating to the valley of
the shadow below.

'See' she said, sighing and pointing to the mist, 'the summer's
passionate essences float to a mirage ocean where Charon waits.'

'River, Ursula' he corrected, holding out his hand for hers, which
she, absorbed, withheld.

But this action dispelled her mood, and abruptly she said:

'I want to work for my living; tell me how?'

'So you want to work, do you?' he asked, to quell his disquiet. 'Oh
Lord! work!' and he grimaced in disgust, for to work even for himself
was appalling.

Almost earnestly for him he wished for a few hundred pounds a year
with this girl; then the reformation he had so often promised himself
would be possible, but now how impossible and far off! Who but she
cared for the Latin or Greek classics with which he had dazzled her?
Hand and body work was what others wanted, and horse sense. As an
object-lesson to ear and eye, he turned from inward to outward
contemplation.

Below them from the cultivation paddock came the sound of Mrs.
Stein's mustering incantation to the turkeys. 'Cri-li-lati-turii-didi-
wit-wom-wom.'

'Tom--tom!' echoed the empty tin dish she drummed.

'Gool-gool, gool, dee-ri' responded the gulled turkeys, flocking to
her decoy.

In the paddock below them Peter Stein, Mina's uncle, bent and
twisted by undue labour, staggered stiffly and unwillingly behind a
jolting plough. Peter's one vice accounted for his outdoor task: he
was trusted with any work but wine-making or bottling. There was a
saying that two men and a boy could not watch nor keep him sober in
the wine-season.

Principally to avoid the labour, Mina copied his vice, and several
times practised it with such success that, her mother, though giving
no reason, often barred her going on this duty in the wine season.

But other likes or dislikes were nothing to Mrs. Stein, and Mina,
though she would have shirked it, was now sand-scouring the milk
buckets. Gus was away on his afternoon milk delivery, but Mr. Stein
was still in sight, driving the cows to their night's grazing. When he
came back, if no moon, he would light the swinging lanterns in the
milking yard; then he and Peter would clean up the yard and bails for
a morrow that would begin long before dawn, for all in this busy
household.

'For how much?' Palmer asked himself, his eyes going from Mrs.
Stein's work-worn face to the bandaged, swollen leg showing beneath
her tucked--up skirts; 'for what purpose or pleasure is she
labouring?' Then aloud:

'Ursula, here comes Mrs. Neal. Ha! ha! Look at her trying to squeeze
through the fence. I'll bet she doesn't.'

The fat proprietress of the Shearers' Rest could not pass, and Peter,
though he saw, did little without being told, so waited for her shrill
summons to come and let out another panel. Mrs. Stein, who expected
her, had now, with the aid of the empty dish, deluded her brood to the
drying--green near Ursie and Hugh Palmer, and stood with them awaiting
the bi--yearly, waddling coming of her customer. It was an open and
audible transaction; volubility of the untoward influence of
friendship on business, was the foil of the landlady of the Shearers'
Rest; firmness and brevity was Mrs. Stein's.

Mrs. Neal, according to her statement, had been besieged by poultry
vendors, yet, from habit and motives of silly sentiment, had come to
Mrs. Stein. But she couldn't dream of giving as much for this lot as
she did for the last, every one of which died disappointingly poor.
Neighbourliness was all very well, but she had a duty to herself;
besides, the bad times didn't, rightly speaking, allow for poultry on
the table. Still, she took, and was acceded, great pride and credit in
and for her table; and as Mrs. Stein had reared these; and for the
sake of friendship for an old neighbour and many other circumstances--
well, now how much would Mrs. Stein take?

'Same prize' was Mrs. Stein's laconic answer. Through minding her
brood she must have missed much of her customer's speech, yet when the
crux 'How much?' came, her 'Same prize' was readily forthcoming.

Throughout the whole interview, her watchful eyes found work for her
hands and guidance for her tongue.

'Go t' sleep, Peder, choost do! Yor ged a goot supper thad way' she
bawled; and Peter, thirsty soul, who was eagerly awaiting the order to
drive the feathered flock to the Shearers' Rest, grabbed the plough
handles and went on, knowing this command would come later, although
there seemed no prospect of a deal coming off. For Mrs. Neal
apparently had abandoned all negotiations, but appeared fully
compensated for her unusual exercise by the beauty of her
surroundings, seemingly, from her appreciation, seen now for the first
time.

Bending painfully by reason of her bad leg, Mrs. Stein had
industriously filled the decoy dish to overflowing with chickweed,
weeded from the vegetable beds; at the same time keeping at bay her
clamorous brood, and replying, when necessary, to her sentimental
friend's discourse.

'Goom on, Peder; chook yurself aboud ant pud dese turkeys der bed.'

Victoriously she turned away, cutting short with 'Goot day' Mrs.
Neal's vivid praises given even to the seedy turnips.

Peter's horse, like himself, always awaited moving orders. It was
safe to leave him stationary while Peter helped his sister-in-law
drive the still expectant turkeys into an unaccustomed pen--a task
that brought Ursula to their assistance. The chickens burst unitedly
into a hungry clamour, as Mrs. Stein, with the full dish in her hands,
leant over the yard to count them. They were all there. She turned
away, and emptied the dish into another pen.

'Are you going to feed them?' Ursula anxiously asked Peter.

He stopped and, looking at Mrs. Stein, inquired, 'Veedt 'em?'

'No; they are soldt.'



Chapter XII



'GOOD to be you two' Mina said to Ursula and Palmer.

'Better to be another two I know.' Hugh Palmer's eyes held more than
his words. Mina, standing on the bench, laughed, then, shading her
eyes, looked townward.

'See anyone you like better than yourself?' His double meaning was
keyed this time for Ursula, but Mina half understood.

'Yes--Ursie.'

Ursula for the first time noticed that Mina's eyes, looking down
into hers, were the colour of green grapes, and that her little teeth
were pointed like Jim's cross-cut saw.

'Andrer's goin' to call for my dress for the party. We're goin' to
have a little party.'

'For two?' chaffed Palmer.

'When?' asked Ursula.

'To-night. Didn't I tell you long ago? Ole Falkenmeyer's comin' to
play. Here's Andrer.'

Mina went off with showy delight to meet him, and to avoid them
Ursula went to her room.

Standing by her bedroom window, she wondered why she stayed in a
household where even Andrew, the friend of her childhood, now kept
purposely out of her life, and her out of his. She wanted nothing but
advice from him or anyone. Long ago Boshy had sewn a five-pound note
in the flap of her winter coat 'for a rainy day.' To-morrow she would
pay Mrs. Stein for her week's keep, then--

'W'at are you goin' t' wear?' Mina burst in--she never knocked.

'I'm not going' said Ursula, without looking at her.

'Course not,--sulk in your room an' tell Andrer and Mr. Palmer I
never told you. I know you' said Mina bitterly.

Ursula rose.

'I'm not like you, any way.'

'Me? W'at 'ave I done? W'at's wrong with me?'

'Urgh!' said Ursula, in strong disgust.

Mina's mouth opened and her lower lip fell. She looked inquiringly
at Ursula, who, watching her, thought her unduly agitated.

'Oh, that's me gentleman, is it?' Then between short breaths: 'You,
you! W'at are you? an' ole Boshy an' ole Civil, an' Andrer even, if
ther truth was known?'

'You're mad' said Ursie, wondering at her sudden outburst. The sound
from outside of the well bucket rapidly descending broke the hostile
pause.

'Shut up! there's Andrer' said Mina, drawing back hastily from the
window till he passed with a bucket of water, then she went after him.

The hungry discontent of the unfed turkeys distracted Ursula from
herself. From her seat at the window she went into the kitchen, where
all were busy preparing for the supperparty. Old Mrs. Falkenmeyer had
cut off the crusts of several loaves before slicing them for
sandwiches.

'Ach! I'af'ardt to vurk' she complained to Ursula; 'alvays, alvays I
'af 'ardt to vurk.'

Ursula gave willing help, piling up huge plates of substantial
sandwiches, then into a dish she swept the loaf crusts.

'Keeb all crus' for der fowl' admonished the old woman.

'Yes, oh yes' gladly agreed Ursula.

Making a détour she went, sheltered by the rows of decadent scarlet--
runners, to the turkey-pen; then noiselessly scattered her gleanings
among them, huddled in an unaccustomed corner. Disappointed that none
attempted to eat, she crept round to them, meaning by disturbing to
entice them. The sound of Mina's voice held her.

'Don't be a fool; she doesn't.' That was Hugh Palmer.

'I tell you she does know. She--'

Ursula stood straight, and rattled the dish against the pen, looking
into it.

Palmer alone came over to her.

'That you, Ursula?'

'Yes' said Ursula simply, ignoring the obvious.

'Mina's in a great state of agitation; she had planned a surprise to-
night, and she thinks you and I know about it.'

'I don't, then.'

'No, nor--'

The late moon was level with the wide, child-like eyes looking up at
him. He looked away from them, for their sincerity challenged his
insincerity into silence.

'They'll not eat at night' he said, with abrupt irrelevance.

Then he looked at her, and his eyes and mouth took a new light and
shape as placing a trembling hot hand on hers, he asked:

'Ursula, will you marry me?'

She was quite unembarrassed.

'No, oh no; if I can't be an actress, I'm going to write a book.'

Her manner snapped his intensity, and he laughed.

'That's right, little woman, you'll do something yet; there's stuff
in you.'

Despite his coppery breath, she stretched out to him the hand that a
moment back she had withdrawn.

'Mr. Palmer, you really think so?'

She seemed part of the radiant moonlight in her exultation.

'By God, I do!' he said solemnly. 'You have all the instincts; you
want only experience, but'--looking at her tenderly--'you must fall in
love first.'

Old Falkenmeyer drew the bow along his fiddle critically.

'Come on' said Palmer, 'you'll be late.'

'I'm not going, Mr. Palmer; I'm in black for Boshy.'

'You needn't dance, don't dance with any of them, they're either
colts or fools. We'll sit in a corner and talk' he said, leading her
inside.

Now old Falkenmeyer's fiddle feelingly quavered a few notes, then
sonorously heralded the preliminary bass of the first set. Daddy
Stein, standing in the middle of the room, clapped his hands for
attention.

'Ladtties andt gentlemens, chooss your pardners for der--der--'

'Firsd sed er kiddrills' Mrs. Stein rasped.

The numerous guests surprised Ursula. All had made some brave attempt
at festive finery, but she, in her present exultation, felt not of
them, and would have gone back but for Palmer.

'What do you care for these cattle?'

And feeling that she did not, she went into an angle. Hugh Palmer
brought her a seat and stood behind her, she watching the gathering,
he watching her.

Andrew led the much-bedecked Mina to the top; then followed Jam
Toohey with his selection, Pat the Jew's gorgeous daughter, and duly
others, till top and bottom and both sides of the first set were
formed. Talking between Ursula and Palmer was impossible, nor had
either wish to speak. To the experienced man, the boorish gaucheries
of these countrymen and maids in their methods of pleasuring, but
accentuated his own failure and fall; he looked down at the girl near
him. It was unwise, for many reasons, to keep markedly near her, but
he felt he must, if only for a time. Her face was a puzzle; it
reflected neither disgust nor anger. The music had sent her mentally
triumphing over a glorious future, if not conceived, then quickened by
Ashton's circus. She saw neither room nor dancers, but a vast theatre
filled with homage tributers, and for her, though for what rare
attribute was not clear.

A half-audible oath from Hugh Palmer, and her chair being drawn
further into the corner, recalled her. The first set was ending in a
mad gallop; its guerdon, tiring each other down. All sense of pleasure
had gone; nearly all faces had exchanged the weak smirk of gratified
distinction in participating in the very first set for one of giddy
but grim determination to outdo and be last. Gradually the couples
decreased till only three remained--Mina and Andrew; Sergeant Toohey's
son with the Fuchsia; Widow Neal's daughter and Percy Snade, a local
bank clerk. He, a Captain of the Volunteer Regiment, to show his
contempt for the company, or his knowledge of military etiquette, kept
on his spurs. From various signs, Ursula could see Andrew was for
ceasing; but Mina, fiercely determined, forced him on.

'Mina vill vin! Vell don, Mina! Go id, Mina!' shouted old Stein
encouragingly.

Hugh Palmer noted with an indescribable feeling of impotence,
tempered by relief, that the glow had gone from Ursula's face. She was
quite oblivious to him and very silent and still, moving only when
Mina's intentioned incursions right into her corner made it necessary
to shrink closer to the wall.

Suddenly there was a shriek as Percy Snade swished past Mina, with
the best part of her muslin-flounced skirt entangled on his
spurrowels. Instantly the music ceased and the parties disengaged,
while Mina, in unconquerable passion, blurted:

'Yer beast! yer brute beast! yer duffer brute!' advancing to him
with hands clenching and unclenching like claws.

'Now den, Mina, dond looze yer 'ed' said her father, holding her
back so that she could only claw at Snade's laughing partner, to whom,
womanlike, she had shifted the blame.

'How green her eyes are!' thought Ursula, and more than ever her
teeth seemed saw-edged.

'No good der cry aboud spilled milk. Pud on yer green' said Mrs.
Stein, who had left her occupation of serving drinks to see what
caused the commotion. 'Andt, young mans, if you wandt der dance again
any mores, dake off yous spurs.'

'A dastardly action' Jam Toohey remarked to Palmer, 'coming into a
ballroom with spurs on.'

Some of the girls gathered round Mina, offering pins and advice in
the restoration of her skirt; but it was beyond this, and she
disappeared to change. There was a meaning pause, broken by old Stein
again clapping his hands.

'Ladtties and gentlemens, once more, der nex' dance vill pe a song.'

'Goot on yer, ole sour crouts' encouraged Teddy Neale, the dissolute
droving son of the proprietress of the Shearers' Rest, who had come
too late for the first set and had already sought and swallowed a pint
of consolation, though Mrs. Stein said afterwards that he was 'haff
drung wen 'e koms.'

'Now then, toon up again' he bawled, having selected his partner.

'Silence' weakly demanded Jam Toohey in his father's official
manner.

'Was that fur me, Jam?' asked Teddy, threateningly advancing.

'No, certainly not, Teddy' Jam denied, edging closer to Palmer.

'Generally a sign er rain w'en frogs croaks, ain't it, Mr. Palmer?'
said Teddy, retiring to his seat beside his sweetheart, gentle,
trembling Teresa, Jam's sister.

'Now then, let 'im go, Golligah. Give it lip!' he shouted, but the
silence continued. 'Waitin' for me, I suppose, t' give you a leg up.
Well, here goes for a start' he said, standing up.

'The Cobar Road is a beggar of a road.

For on it there's neither grass nor water;

I met an ole gin with her 'ead caved in.

And she wanted me to marry 'er daughter.'

'Chorus' he bawled, but instead gave them a few minutes' brisk step--
dancing.

Before its echoes had ceased, a stout woman, Babyfinder Thompson,
rose and stood beside her husband, seated with a concertina poised on
his knee. But Teddy had his plans.

'Now then, Teresa, giv' 'em me old favourite, "Bole Maryann," an' gi'
yer Sergeant Daddy a tap.'

'Sing "Jewnita," Teresa' advised Pat the Jew's daughter Fuchsia,
thereby currying Jam's favour.

'Sing w'at I tell yer, Tressy' ordered Teddy.

Weakly obedient to him, she, in a voice in utter variance with the
theme and rollicking tune, began:

'The Bobbies they run after me
To catch me if they can.
But there's none of them smart enough
For bold Maryann.

Chorus: Fry the Bobbies in the pan.
Fry the Bobbies in the pan.'

As a filial protest Jam walked outside, but though Teresa looked
appealingly at her sweetheart Teddy, he insisted on its finish. Then
with much ostentation the Babyfinder's husband rose and dexterously
sent angling through the room some congested chords. His wife had
risen before the finish of the last song; she coughed, cleared her
throat, sniffed, smoothed the front of her best dress, then in a long-
distance range began:

'Ther bibee wors sleepin', eets mother wors weepin'.
Eets father wors ploughin' ther deep ragin' sea.'

She sang it through, and before the weak applause had ceased,
forestalled an encore by starting another. The virtue we lack is the
one we covet or assume; therefore, despite her vigorous interpretation
and execution, the following song was a tribute to 'Gentil Hannie
Lisle.'

'Wave willers, murmur waters.
Goldin sunbeams smile;
Hearthly music cannot wakin
Gentil Hannie Lisle.'

However, at its conclusion, and apparently to test the earthly
futility to rouse 'gentil Hannie' her spouse rose to his feet and made
a daringly gymnastic musical display, producing at the same time the
tune unbrokenly. Beginning at arm's length above his head, travelling
an incredible distance down his spine to within jumping range from
back to front, then from the front to the starting-point above his
head. Like his bigger half, not waiting for encouraging plaudits, with
startling abruptness he began a vocal and instrumental duet:

'I went ter T-O-W-N'-- he sang, and spelled T-O-W-N, as did the
concertina--

'Me name was B-R-O-W-N; They took me D-O-W-N When I went to T-O-W-N.'

It was a long song independent of the instrumental repetitions, but
rollicking Neddy Neale, who had again drenched his troublesome throat,
soon interrupted.

'Damn it now for a fair thing; better go down an' 'ire ther School o'
Arts. Give someone else a show. Toon up, ole buck, an' give us a
polka' he ordered old Falkenmeyer, and dragged drooping Teresa into
the middle of the floor.

When Mina, more composed, returned, she came over to Ursula, and
Palmer directly asked Mina to dance. As they turned away she looked
back at Ursula in malignant triumph. Andrew had disappeared, but Gus
Stein, standing near, immediately came into Palmer's place, while
Daddy Stein from the middle of the room loudly besought Ursula to
'Come ouder yer corner, siddin' there likge a liddle 'Orner, andt
dance.'

'Come on, Ursie' begged Gus Stein, taking her by the arm.

'I won't dance to-night, Gus.'

'That's because 'e didn't ask you' pointing to Palmer.

'He did' she asserted. 'He--it's got nothing to do with you who asked
me.'

'You needn't tell me what I know' he said bitterly.

He sat beside her, nervously biting his incipient fair moustache, and
early as it was she could smell the wine on his breath and felt sorry.

'Gus, why do you take wine?' she asked.

'Oh Lord! I like that from you, I do. You that won't look at a man
unless he does.'

'I don't know what you mean' she said.

'Well, ask Andrew, then. Ursula, look 'ere, now' he was boyishly
eager. 'Say I swear off, will you give me a show? I'm dead nuts on
you.'

She did not answer him, for the nature of his words outdistanced his
personality. 'That's twice to-night I've been asked to marry' was the
gratifying circumstance that held her. Certainly neither was her
ideal, but, later, when she had done some great thing, there would be
a possibility even of her ideals. She took refuge now from Gus's
importunity, in the noisy, colliding movement of the dancers. Palmer
had been swift to drop out, Jam Toohey, too, soon followed, and came
to her importuning for a dance. His sister, too, would have been glad
to stop, but her boisterous admirer was still twirling her round and
round, for the polka had given place to a valse. Andrew joined Gus.

'Are you not dancing?' he asked Ursula.

She shook her head.

Then someone called him, and he replied with such surprising
jocularity and recklessness that wonderingly she looked at him. His
hair was cut close, showing a white margin all round his head; his
eyes blazed excitedly, and his face was flushed unduly. He was
unusually confident, and seemed altogether strangely alien and
changed.

'Not dancing, Ursie?' he said again.

As before, she shook her head.

'Why?'

'Oh, ask 'im' said Gus Stein, pointing to Hugh Palmer, now talking to
Mina--'ask my grandaddy, and 'e'll tell you why.'

He laughed discordantly.

She looked up at Andrew, half expecting to see her resentment
reflected in his face. For a moment his dilated eyes unmeaningly met
hers; then she turned away from their unsympathetic glitter, feeling
desolately alone.

'We've no show, old feller'--Gus Stein brought his hand resoundingly
down on Andrew's back--'no show against--' He threw his body forward,
and sank his neck into his upraised shoulders, in forcible imitation
of Hugh Palmer. 'By Christ! 'e's like--like--wot's 'e like, Andrew?'

'The bull on Keen's mustard' added Andrew, applauding Gus's graphic
mimicry with a loud, reckless laugh.

Looking at Palmer shudderingly, Ursula saw the awful resemblance
which Gus had demonstrated and Andrew had avowed.

'You've hit it, Andrew, old boy--the bull on the mustard-tin. After
you with the mustard, please, miss' Gus said mockingly to Ursula; then
again his and Andrew's laugh rang out.

'What's the joke?' asked Palmer, coming to them.

'Too sultry for you' answered Gus, in offensive tones.

'Mr. Palmer, will you come out to the veranda?' asked Ursie, in
purposeful attention.

'Certainly.'

He bowed and gave his arm.

'Hook yer mutton, Andy, for ther next spin' advised Ned Neale,
noisily bearing down on them with his partner, as Palmer and Ursula
left.

Ursula was silent. Even by the night-light Palmer thought she was
very pale, but he was in no mood to sympathize. Her open preference
was rather disconcerting, and he was half afraid of his previous
impulsiveness, though mingled with it was a subtle sense of
satisfaction in this triumph over Andrew and Gus. She was ashen,
though burning with bitterness and anger against Andrew, yet coldly a-
quiver with an indefinable sense of loneliness, loss, and resentment.
Revolting to her as he was tonight, had Palmer asked her to marry him
then, she would have said 'Yes.' He, as though her mood radiated to
himself, felt the danger and was silent, even definitely drawing her
back to the door to watch the ever-increasing frenzy of these
revellers. The noise was deafening, again and again, in obedience to
their clamorous demand, old Falkenmeyer had changed tune and time,
till, beaten and exhausted, he ceased. Then Neddy Neale, dragging his
dazed partner, swished past where Palmer and Ursula stood. Gus Stein,
with Pat the Jew's daughter and Andrew with Mina, still kept the
floor, but now to the rat-tat-tat accompaniment knuckled from the
bottom of a tin dish by Dave Heely, Neale's drover mate, till, tired
out, even he ceased.

Then the dancing husband of the singer, importuned, momentarily
disengaged his partner to grab his concertina, and with this resting
on the girl's back, he kept the dancers going, till also he, though
much encouraged, wearied. Dry-throated and panting, some of the wine--
maddened performers tried to hoarsely bellow independent tunes, which
in turn yielded to impotent yells. Vainly Daddy Stein objected; but,
though Mrs. Stein came from time to time to the doorway, she was
grimly silent; nor was she knitting, Ursula noted. Never before had
she seen Mrs. Stein's hands idle.

'God, they're crazy!' muttered Palmer.

Ursula's face shrank grimly, her mouth contracted into a set line.
Palmer felt his remoteness from her, and consistently felt relieved
and angry.

'Look out for your mundooeys' yelled Ned Neale.

Ursula stepped nearer Palmer, and at that moment Andrew and Mina
violently collided with her, sending her reeling into Palmer's arms.
She fought free of his crushing clasp, pushing him from her with open
disgust for his breath and body.

'She's only throwin' 'er rubbish w'ere she throws her love' laughed
Mina, breathlessly, to Andrew, but intently watching them.

Looking at Ursula's terrible little face, Hugh Palmer thought there
was little to choose between the suppressed tempest of Ursie's now and
Mina's unsuppressed passion earlier. Andrew had disappeared, but Mina,
fanning herself, was coming towards him.

'Good-night, Mr. Palmer' Ursula said perfunctorily; but now even he
seemed to be waiting for Mina.

Sleep Ursula could not, for the noise of their maddened cries
penetrated even into her little room. She was utterly powerless, she
knew, to stop it; and from time to time she rose and restlessly looked
into the night. The hungry are supposed to sleep soundly; but it was
not so with the stupidly fasting turkeys, though now their
complainings seemed a trifle that could find no place in her mind. She
turned her ears from their metallic piping to sounds from the front of
the house. From there she heard someone come stumbling through the
back passage leading to the wine-cellar--Peter, she guessed. It took
some time for him to find what he sought; but at length she, listening
intently, heard his glug, glug. It was Peter drinking out of a bottle,
too gratified and intent to hear the swift steps that meant the coming
of Mrs. Stein. Crash came the bottle to the stone floor, followed by
the sound of Mrs. Stein in a subdued, concentrated fury, pounding
Peter and cursing, as she always did when excited, in German. Peter,
already half stupefied, was dully complaining, quite impersonal in his
resistance. Ursula heard him slide to the floor, and Mrs. Stein, when
she went, left him there. Later, when Ursula tried to reach the
heavily sighing and groaning creature, she found the door locked and
the key gone.

Gradually she, too, slept, and when she woke the spring dawn was
dewily ascending, heralded by the twittered delight of bush-birds and
the loud arrogance of the still perched roosters. A vivid sense of
past and coming trouble gripped her, blended with a far-away but
subtle feeling of familiarity. Before, somewhere and time ungraspable,
blurred and beset with bewildering details, she had lain alone in bed,
listening to gladsome bird voices, mingled with a sense of distressed
humanity. Then came the scene she had described to Boshy, but now that
stood out boldly and clearly. She could not--must not--dwell on
Boshy's tragic end, and for distraction she looked round.

In the far corner stood Mina's bed undisturbed.

'They have kept it up all night' thought Ursula. Was it late, she
wondered? While wondering, she could distinguish a confusion of angry
voices--Mrs. Stein's, Daddy's, Palmer's. Mina was noisily crying, but,
in effect, it seemed to Ursula to be as impersonal as Peter's moans.
Many times she heard Andrew's name, but not his voice, in denunciation
of some act he had done. She did not speculate as to the cause of this
disturbance. Of a sudden a thought took possession of her, that some
time to-day she would go quietly away and never see Andrew nor any of
them again. Those tiresome turkeys could now see and were eating the
food she had found for them; so, tranquillized, she noiselessly drew
down the window--blind and again slept.

Some hours later she was sitting outside under the group of willow-
trees near the well. Below her in the house paddock, Gus Stein,
rounding up the horses, was bawling for Peter to come and help him.
Looking about for the invisible Peter, Ursula saw Mr. Civil going
along a footpath back to town. Before coming to the slip-rails, she
saw him turn and also look in all directions. Instinctively she felt
that it was for her, and a trembling fear shook her; and, cowering,
she hid till this black bird of ill omen was out of sight.

Then from the house came a group to her--Mrs. Stein, Daddy, Mina,
Palmer, and Andrew. Her mouth set frozenly; this very day she meant,
with neither stinging words nor reproaches, to part for ever from
Andrew.

When Mrs. Stein stated her case, she waited as if in expectation of
speech from Ursula. All seemed to have chosen Ursula for judge, or she
arrogated that function to herself.

'He must marry her' was her verdict.

Mr. Stein, unperceived, had slipped away while his wife made her
charge against Andrew.

'Yes' agreed Mina's mother, 'thad is righd enoff, andt 'e aff marry
'er allreedy, andt wod den?'

Her English was not so good as usual, and her face was almost
flushed. She looked at Mina disapprovingly, who had raised her
drooping head to shoot a triumphant glare into Ursula's eyes, wide
with horror.

Andrew, Mina's husband! Ursula turned from her to him. The veins in
his forehead stood out stagnantly; his blood-red eyes looked
mournfully, helplessly at Ursula's, filling swiftly with maternal
solicitude. His purple lips were moving, but speechlessly, and
tremblingly his great hands went to and from his bare, pulsating
throat. Water that had been poured over his dazed head dripped from it
still.

'Andree, Andree!' screamed Ursula, rushing to him. 'What's the
matter? What have they done to you?'

Again he tried to speak, but not to her, and his hands clutched his
throat to free the speech stuck in it.

'Have a drink, Andrew' aimlessly invited Palmer.

Ursula decided in a swift look that he was little less composed than
Andrew. Her eyes, fastened questioningly upon Palmer, visibly
increased his agitation. He dropped his head and kicked at a tuft of
grass.

'You get him one!' she demanded sternly.

'Ged warder, no more wine; 'e haf dring doo much wine' commanded Mrs.
Stein.

Palmer brought out a dipper and cup, and, filling the cup, handed it
to Andrew without looking at him.

'Sit down, Andrew' said Ursula, hoping that his unsteady hand,
holding the water, would then reach his mouth.

'Now then, dring up ther warder, then shuck yerself aboud. Wod's
goin' t' be don'?' said Mrs. Stein.

'You leave him alone. What more do you want, if he has married her?'
demanded Ursula fiercely.

'When'--Andrew cleared his throat--'did I--marry her? Catch me
marrying her!' he gasped huskily.

'Misder Palmer, you widness id. Listen to 'im torg. I dell you, sir,
id wass marry 'er or de lockup andt der jail andt der 'ang-rope.'

Andrew drew the back of an invoking hand across his brow. So spurred,
he recalled a recent scene as one coming to, after falling from a
great height, might recollect the sight of those watching the tragedy.

'Were you there, Ursie? No' he decided before she spoke. 'But you
were'--indicating Palmer--'and old Civil and Gus. No, not Gus.' He
turned his head away from Mina to her mother. 'You dosed me. Talk
about the hang-rope, if I had been in my senses, before I'd marry
you'--pointing to Mina, with his head turned away--'I'd hang a week.'

Gus Stein, with face deathly, rushed to them.

'Mother! Mina! poor old Peter's dead!'

'So iz Queen Ann' said the unmoved mother. For in the light of this
living tragedy the sudden death of drunken Peter lost all importance.
Andrew, deaf and oblivious to Ursula's tender pleading, was battling
impotently with a torrent of angry declamation. Again his virile blood
seethed, purpling and distending neck and face and brow. Again his
hands fought for words to denounce this plot and plotters, till Ursula
caught them, calming him instantly.

'Ursie! Your dear little hands!'

His bloodshot eyes looked hopelessly into hers, aching yet ashine
with sympathy; then the tempestuous blood spurted from his mouth and
nose. Palmer brought out his handkerchief.

'Not yours, not yours!' Andrew shouted.



Chapter XIII



THE tilt hooding the spring-cart was insecure--even the jolt from
the down-and-up curving river bend near the house had brought it down
twice. This was the third start. Peter had been an adept with tilts,
as old Stein had said so often that morning, while he, Palmer, and
Gus, had dubiously laboured at this elusive task. But Peter would rig
no more tilts, and primitively old Stein and Gus lamented this, as
they missed his services. Mrs. Stein cut short all such comments by an
over-vehement list of his failings; and finally it was her secure
fingers that gave the requisite binding pass, and firm twitch, that
had withstood the crucial descent and ascent of the river-bank. Mrs.
Stein's well-trained fingers could work without her eyes, else, though
anxious, she would not have watched.

Mina, forced from home by her mother, was on the way to the husband,
who, after recrimination and repudiation, had secretly gone to his
Bush home. Ursula, urged by Mrs. Stein constantly, and spurred by an
indefinable impulse, had consented to go also.

'Vell, dat vas vod I call a glean sveep, Mina, Pomer, Urzie, and'--
turning to where Peter lay--'poor oldt Peter' said Peter's brother.

He waved his hat in token of Ursie's hand seen through the back of
the tilt, then followed his wife dutifully to the back of the house.
In addition to his regular duties he now had Peter's--Mrs. Stein had
Mina's. When this was discussed as a difficulty by Mina's father, 'Oh,
Lordt! Mina vork!' Mina's mother said, and actually ceased pinning
back and up her skirts to raise her brow and hands. 'Oh, Lordt!' The
repetition finished the sentence eloquently.

Mina's father, too, raised his hand, and beginning at the point
where Peter lay, he circuited to the now hidden travellers.

'Vell, anyvays, id's a clean sveep' he repeated.

Mrs. Stein now was swiftly but surely removing the egg-trays from
the incubator. In mild surprise old Stein watched her.

'Goin' ter schange 'em?'--indicating the eggs.

'Give a 'andt' was her reply, and together they pushed the incubator
into Mina's room.

'S'posin' Andrew clear oudt agen oncet more from up there, vere vill
Mina sleeb ven she come back?'

'She comes back 'eres no more' she said decisively.

'Budt s'posin' 'e clears oudt.'

'Less rubbish more room, andt Mina comes back no more' she
reiterated.

When he, fagged by his double duties, was returning that afternoon,
he saw smoke ascending from outside.

'Vot game now she play?' he asked himself, as he distinguished his
wife near one of the pig-scalding coppers. Doubt and even fear dwelt
in his eyes, travelling from her tucked-up skirts down to her bare
feet. But they rested without emotion on the bandages emphasizing her
swollen leg.

'Chrise! Peder's best 'at on yous 'eadt. You lose no dime' burst from
him.

'Vell, vill 'e anymores vant id? Gus vill nod vear id, 'e say, andt
you karnt. Vill I leave id to rodt?' She pressed it firmly on her head
for answer.

She had Mina's bed and bedding outside as a finality.

He angrily looked at her, but she was engrossed in active examination
of the mortised crevices of the bedposts. Stooping, he picked up the
two she specified for him to carry.

'Nise mother you are, I mus' say' he fired at her.

'Andt you 'ave a nise dotter, I mus' say' she retorted.

'Mine. Chrise! Ain't she yous dotter, doo?'

'No'--shortly. Then challengingly: 'Am I der man cat? Vos I ever got
aboud?'--most excellently she mewed.

'Vell, 'oo vas? Nod me' he defended.

'Yous sister.'

'Ach, Brenda!' he breathed in relief.

'Yes, an' ven she leafe I dake down 'er pedt; andt id, too, vass
crawlin'.' Her English suffered when she was angry.

From the crevices of the last post she withdrew a chocolate speck,
squirming on the point of a long pin.

'This von vos nod borned into der vorld yesterday. Bud if Mina vos
'ere she say so. Egscuses, egscuses--alvays dat. Ach! she go to 'ell
bud she comes 'ere no more.'

As they jolted along, in the creaking old cart, Ursie daily watched
Mina for signs of uneasiness. If Mina felt any misgivings she betrayed
none on the journey. With her head on a bag of seasoning herbs, given
by Daddy Stein, she slept the best part of the day, waking refreshed
and hungry when the cart stopped for their midday or evening meals.

Ursula either walked or sat well forward, trying to escape from the
nauseating smell of the herbs. Dizzy with an effort to distract her
thoughts, she would try to search for Boshy's landmarks, so often
described. Besides, she too had travelled along them, though, to her,
ages ago. Boshy had told her that he had wandered off the track last
time. At dark he had camped, taking for his pillow a little rise that
he thought was a deserted antheap; next morning he discovered it was a
grave. Maybe that little mound was it--or that beyond, for there were
many. Rarely they sighted some isolated boundary rider's hut, and
early one morning they passed 'Gi' Away Nothin' 'All.' Palmer pointed
it out. Twice they had struck a wine shanty, but it was not the
shearing season, consequently neither had its staple commodity--a
circumstance, in the first instance, unimportant to Palmer, who then,
with characteristic generosity, produced his well-supplied barrel. But
though equally importuned, he had none to spare for the last.

What would Mina do if Andrew would not have her? had troubled Daddy
Stein, who had secretly discussed it with Ursula; for Andrew had sworn
that he would never live with Mina. Night and day now it haunted
Ursula, yet there lay his wife, seemingly unthinking of the
alternative, and certainly unafraid and unconcerned--'And' thought the
overwrought girl, 'she is puffing breaths of the aggressive seasoning
in my face.'

'Stop; let me get down and walk.'

Then she would walk for hours, and though she had often to do so,
Palmer would uncomplainingly draw rein, and slacken the horses' speed
to her pace. Generally such halts would waken Mina, who welcomed them
only if they meant meal-time, waiting to alight till Palmer had
prepared the fire, and Ursula spread the food. Mina had ears and
smiles for his jokes, and understanding for many an innuendo mystic to
Ursula. That Ursula should dislike the smell of the seasoning herbs in
the cart, or the pungent pennyroyal at intervals surrounding them,
amused her. Surreptitiously she inserted a sprig of it into Ursula's
pint of steaming tea. Its violent result convulsed her with merriment.

'Still, as mother 'ud say, "Sick after supper saves no meat," ' she
laughed, though her merriment instantly vanished when concerned Palmer
forced Ursula to swallow some brandy.

'We'll sight the homestead to-morrow, Ursula' one day he encouraged,
for her worn, white face touched him.

With that day her heart shrank, and instinctively she turned to look
at Mina, but Mina was outwardly unconcerned.

'Pine Point.' He indicated a sweeping curve of giant primeval pines,
the extreme point of which had screened a semicircle of river-split
plain. The cart stopped, and Ursula, overborne by a strong but
trembling impulse, steadied herself by the tilt, and stood up on the
shaft. Immediately, under the glare of actuality, the mist of her
ever-recurring subconsciousness dissolved. Every detail that met her
eyes was familiar, and always had been, dreaming or waking; of a
truth, she might have told Boshy that she remembered. There was the
old hut: the door faced the river, but she could plainly see the gap
in the broken roof. This side of the river, though dwarfed by
distance, still mouldering, were the myalls, scantier maybe, but
there. Beneath them she knew what, though none now laboured as in her
memory. On the other side, outlined by the sentinel pines, was the
home of her childhood; beside it the paddocks. From them she turned to
where the well and troughs used to be. The sheep were all round both,
and she could see the wim ascending and descending--worked by whom?

Breathlessly she sat down, and yoked by mutual agitation she turned
to Palmer. A purple hue had overspread his face, and the guilty
grimness about his mouth quietened her different emotion. He made no
reply to Mina, who, to manifest her careless freedom, talked louder
and smiled continuously, but with her mouth only, Ursula noted.

As they neared the well Ursula saw the wim cease; so did Palmer, and
again his face changed, but he continued to drive till they crossed
the river. Without a word he handed the reins to Mina, then slid down
and disappeared under the river-bank.

Instantly Mina ceased to smile.

'Has he gone to tell Andrew?' asked Ursula.

"Ow do I know where 'e's gone to?' she said, lashing the horses. But
Ursula, though she watched for his appearance at the well, noticed
that Mina's eyes went the other way.

Involuntarily Ursula looked for the myall logs; both, unchanged, were
there. Tumbledown Jimmy was dead, she knew, for Boshy had told her how
the blacks had buried him alive.

In front of the house the horses stopped, but both women kept their
seats, their eyes fixed on the closed door, as though waiting for it
to open to welcome them.

'Jhust you git down and open the door' said Mina, assuming authority
to cover the trepidation that her 'jhust' betrayed.

Ursula struggled down, and Mina followed; then both stood aimlessly
before the front-door.

'Open it! Open it!' Mina's hands worked in harmony with her command.
Both women tried, but neither could open it.

Overborne by a sense of familiarity, Ursula went round to the back-
door, slipped her hand through the opening showing, and slid back the
bolt.

'What will we do with the horses?' before entering she asked.

Mina nodded towards the river.

"E'll see to them w'en 'e comes. Quick! let's get in; 'e's comin'.'

Hastily they both entered.

Near the top of the back-door was an almost unused, rusty bolt, which
Mina forced across. Ursula saw her spring high to reach it, and heard
its harsh creak, then stood with her back against the table, despoiled
of its original top, long ago, by Boshy. Her hands grasped the one
replacing it. Mina sat on the sofa on the other side.

The noise of galloping hoofs: the scrunch of a hasty foot sliding
from the stirrup along the sand: then an authoritative rap and shake
at the front-door. A sense of her deceit struck and sickened Ursula,
as she saw a hand thrust through the back-door, as hers had been. It
was bolted above; he did not know, but she did, yet she was powerless
to speak and say so. Above the emotional din in her ears she could
hear someone demanding the door to be opened. Intently she watched how
the outside force widened a crack from the bottom, till, with a
splintering crash, it burst open.

Through a mist, caused apparently to her, by her own breath, she saw
Andrew--saw him look at her, and realized that the horror and agony on
his face was caused by her gasping breath. She saw him tower, then
shrink, yet she could not spare him. It was fate that he should
suffer, and, great God, pity him! for how he must be suffering, and
again he might burst a bloodvessel. She groaned and her hands went out
to him, then dropped; he was Mina's husband.

Oh, that terrible smell of blood! Yet she must stir it, or it would
be ruined. Virtuously her hand went out, circling in a vain endeavour
to keep away Mina's husband.



Chapter XIV



FOR Ursula's sake, there was no word spoken by Andrew of the home--
coming of Mina, who gave no grateful sign. With Andrew in sight, she
made pretence of performing some household duty, ceasing with it half
through when he disappeared.

Queeby was dead, and Nungi had taken for wife a young gin, but his
merciless marital reign died with Queeby. So it was all tasks heavy
and unpleasant were left to Ursula, for Gin Woona closely copied Mina
in eye services, the difference being Woona's were practised for Mina,
as Mina's were for Andrew.

Andrew now slept in Boshy's old workshop, Mina in the bedroom, and
Ursula on the sofa in the front room.

Palmer at rare intervals called, carefully stating that his business
was with Andrew, and going to him wherever he was to be found.

The long days were empty of all but household work; still here, as
ever, Ursula was spellbound with a compelling sense of waiting, Andrew
and she scarcely spoke. If he by chance saw her carrying or lifting a
heavy burden, he was swift to relieve her; but it was an unusual
happening, for Mina did one thing thoroughly, and that was watch.
Helpful action from her always signified to Ursula that Andrew was in
sight.

The whole thing must end, the girl said to herself every day, and she
must get away. When and how, though, always belonged to to-morrow.

'It's in my blood. What has come to me? Why have I changed? What am I
doing here? Why is it always to-morrow?' she moaned. Then her mouth
drew into a thin line. 'I will make it to-day' she decided; 'I must
tell him.'

But it was night before he came home, so again she shrank from what
she knew would be a shock to him. She would wait for a time when he
would not look so tragically weary. Then, when she had gone to meet
him with this to say, the divining wild fear in his eyes had silenced
her. Mina, as ever, watching, only saw her pass him without speech,
and go swiftly towards the river.

Still, Ursula's inner consciousness comforted her that the time was
only deferred. Then, consoled and sustained by such human complexity,
she decided to immediately act; and, looking across the sheep-yards,
she saw Andrew coming; it was an unusual hour, but he wanted a
branding-iron. She went to meet him, and when he stopped she saw the
old look of fear dart into his eyes, but she was resolved nothing must
prevent her.

'Andrew--I--'

'I know, Ursula. Wait till I come back. It will be better--things, I
mean. I'm going to Queensland in a day or two; the station there is my
own. You must have money, plenty of money, then you can go where you
like. Go to London, Ursie, and write your book' he said, smiling
grimly.

She was silent, for she knew when he had spoken that she really had
never meant to go.

Together they turned to the house. Mina was standing by the table;
she had a hood on, and had pulled it well over her eyes, but Ursula
saw how wicked her mouth was.

'Andrew is going to Queensland, Mina.'

'You, too?' asked Mina viciously.

It was midnight before he went to his room that night. Then Ursula
wondered, did he sleep? she did not. As he, dry-mouthed, tried to eat
breakfast next morning, she saw how a few hours had changed him.

All day he, with Nungi and his black boy, were busy with the sheep;
then night again found him, till the small hours, busy in his bedroom
and office.

'Why do you work so hard lately?' Ursula had ceased to call him by
any name.

He looked at her with the old boyish light of their free days.

'Putting my house in order' he quoted.

'Will you be long away?' burned on her tremulous lips. Certainly she
might ask this, and explain that she did not wish to remain here; but
as she thought it she felt that any tangible desire was dead.

A 'hand' from Cameron Cameron's was coming to manage the place, in
pleased confidence Mina told her; Nungi and his gin were to remain as
they were. Rain had replenished the river, so that the wim and the
well rested; food in abundance was everywhere, encroaching even on the
trodden track to the river and the sand patch before the house. It was
well with beast and bird, and the musical callings of both were good
to hear. Management under such conditions would be easy. Mina said
Palmer would find it so.

'Palmer! Is he coming?' asked Ursula.

'Part of this place belongs to him as well as to Andrew' was Mina's
evasive retort.

'Boshy used to say it was mine' rose to Ursula's lips. She restrained
herself from taunting, not even saying:

'In Queensland Eulari is Andrew's own.'

Mina, over-eager to trip her, waited, but she was silent.

All that day Ursula took refuge from herself in ceaseless work. In
the dusk she saw the black boy yard some horses, then overhaul the
pack--saddles--so to-morrow would be the day.

She knew to a moment when Mina's sleep began, and waited always for
the sign, then she felt free to think; and this night it seemed to
Ursula that Mina, too, must be wakeful. Andrew did not make even a
pretence of going to bed, for late though it might be before Mina
slept, even then he had not gone to his room. Leisurely the long hours
ticked into nothingness, yet there was no sound from him. Would he go
in the night, as he did before from Stein's, without a word? Ursula's
heart quickened agonizingly, though she lay still, tingling with the
thought. Suddenly, an uncontrollable impulse mastered her; she rose
and, shrouded with the counterpane, passed barefooted, without sound,
into the night.

The moon had almost sunk to a level with the stockyard, where her
eyes turned. Standing near the old myall logs, she saw Andrew. He was
bareheaded, but otherwise ready for his journey. He stood motionless,
though he had seen and known her first, but from his eyes came beams
of light as though to guide and draw her to him.

At the head of his shadow she stopped, her eyes fixed on his, and
blazing as though fed by the same flame. All about her fell the
dazzling moonlight, greedily enveloping her lest his shade, stretching
towards her, should dull its gleaming power on her face, throat, and
bare feet. Her hands were outstretched to him, his to her, yet both
were motionless, for about them was a stillness, stagnant and
omnipotent as death--and it was Death's moment, thought, and desired
the girl--when suddenly, from a far point in the river, with the
solemnity and clarity of Gabriel's trumpet, came that Bush-call, which
few, even of its chosen, are privileged or fated to hear. In a span of
sound it floated high over them, mournfully dying as it sank towards
the lagoon, miles away in the scrub.

Both had followed the sound with their eyes, but the light had died
in Ursula's when they again sought Andrew's, and his shadow had
conquered the moonlight. She raised her fallen hand in voiceless
farewell, and in the same way his went out to her.

Did Mina know Andrew was gone? Though he had not come to breakfast,
she had not remarked, and a new sensation kept Ursula from speaking
his name. Guiltily, from time to time, she took swift inquiring looks
at Mina, who was dressed more carefully, and had fresh plaited her
hair. Many times she went to the front, and, shading her eyes, took a
steady survey of the working centres on the plain beyond.

'Set for three' she said to Ursula, who had prepared the dinner-table
for Mina and herself.

The girl trembled violently. She must tell her Andrew was gone.

'Andrew' she forced from her dry lips--'Andrew--'

'Palmer' snapped Mina; "ow sly you are, w'en you know Andrew's gone.
Didn't you see 'im off.'

But though they waited till long past the usual hour, Palmer did not
come, and as night did not bring him, Mina went down to Nungi's hut
for news. Palmer had camped for the night at One Tree Hut, the half-
caste told Mina.

'W'y?' she angrily demanded.

Nungi, hungry and weary, had come to a fireless and supperless hut,
and, after firemaking, was busy preparing supper for himself and
Woona--she sitting calmly watching him.

'W'y didn't he come home?' re-asked Mina.

Nungi was too hungrily cross to be respectful.

'Oh, missus, arst me somethin' easy. Palmer's all right; 'e's got
plenty tucker an' blankets, an' Dildoo ter wait on 'im, so 'e won't
catch cole, nur go 'ungry t' sleep. I wish ter Gord I stayed there
meself stead ov comin' 'ere.' Going on his knees, alternately with
mouth and hat he fanned the smouldering fire into a blaze. 'If I never
come 'ome she'd never make no fire' he complained, indicating the
unmoved Woona. Weariness had made him reckless, but he hastily and
pacifically added: 'An' then you'd go 'ungry t' bed, yer see, an' feel
orl over alike t'morrer, wouldn't yer, Woona?'

But she, tyrannical in her youth, only glared at him.

'She ain't strong, an' don't eat much' was his loud excuse to Mina,
unamiably watching both, and disappointed at Nungi's giving in.

'Isn't she? Tur! she's strong as a horse, an' 'as 'ad her tea up at
the house long ago' enlightened Mina, as she went out.

When a few paces outside, she paused to listen to the virulent abuse
of the now tongueloosened Woona. There was only the distinction of sex
between the well-qualified nouns that Woona impartially divided
between Mina and Nungi. Nor had he any defence for himself nor for his
mistress.

When Mina went in again, Woona was still squatted among the ashes;
she was silent as Mina entered, but her black eyes rolled defiantly
and her lower lip fell snarlingly.

'You low, black brute!' stormed Mina; 'I 'eard all you said. Nungi,
get your whip and thrash 'er. Go on--go on this minute.'

Nungi moved back from his wrathful mistress towards Woona.

'She's got no dam sense' he cried, in excuse of his gin; 'dunno wot
she's torkin' about--no more savvey 'en a suckin' dove. Queeby--'

Mina picked up a stool.

'Then I'll teach the black cow'--raising it threateningly.

'Come, now, none er that, missus' almost coaxed Nungi, getting out of
line of the missile's target--Woona. 'You--'

Mina faced him.

'You take it, then!'--hurling it at him.

He ducked dexterously, and the stool crashed to its own detriment
against the wall.

Unnoticed, Woona had seized a stick from the fire-place; she took
deliberate aim, and sent it straight at Mina, striking her with
staggering force across the face. In distressed horror Nungi's eyes
rolled from one woman to the other. Expecting an attack Woona had
another stick in readiness. She was muttering in her native tongue,
and her whole attitude was a defiant challenge to Mina, now intently
regarding her.

'Better go 'ome, missus' Nungi broke the pause to advise.

Mina, breathing heavily, passed her hand before her eyes to brush
away the stars floating before them. Woona gave her weapon a defensive
flourish.

'Go 'ome, missus, or she'll 'it yur again. I can't stop 'er' pleaded
Nungi--'no good ov me tryin'; on'y get it meself.'

'Shut up, you!' said Mina. 'Tell me the truth, Woona, an' I won't
touch you.'

'Huh!' sneered unafraid Woona, till Mina suggested--

'Woona, 'oo told yer t' 'it me? Was it Ursula?'

'Tole meself' replied Woona promptly.

Nungi had made a personal disclaimer as soon as he grasped the nature
of the question.

'No one tole 'er, missus; she done it 'erself. She's got no more
sense--'

'Shut up!' again commanded Mina. 'Now, look 'ere, Woona; if you'll
tell me true 'oo tole yer to 'it me, I'll give yer something. Upon me
soul an' body, I will!'

'Tell'er yu'll gi' 'er a bottle ov rum, missus' insinuated Nungi
interestedly.

Woona's mind had worked only in self-defence, and instinctively
feeling there was no more need she lowered her improvised waddy, and
looked at Nungi in a way that made Nungi uneasy though he was
guiltless.

'Missis, if you was t' cut 'ome like blazes, and clap a bit er raw
meat on your eyes, they woulden' go black nur bungy. That's wot I do
w'en she 'its me.'

'Will they go black?' Mina asked in alarm.

'Black as 'ell' was his emphatic confirmation.

On the door-threshold Mina turned, and her eyes fastened on Woona in
concentrated malignity.

'I'll pay you out, me black strumpit, if I got t' wait a year. See if
I don't.'

There was a light from Andrew's room, and she went hastily but
quietly to the side furthest from the door and peeped in. Hugh Palmer
was rolling blankets and pillow into a swag. She waited, watching till
he had finished, and came out carrying it. Then she, standing in the
shadow, asked, 'What er you doin'?'

He almost dropped the swag in his surprise, and for a few seconds
stood disconcertedly silent.

'It's better for me to camp over there'--jerking his head towards the
plain across the river.

She, too, was silent, but only for a moment. Then she threw out her
short, thick arms impatiently.

'Well, I didn't know you was such a cur.'

'Think what you like' and he reshouldered his swag.

Without any attempt to alter her opinion, he would have passed on to
his horse fastened to a tree in the scrub, but she followed him
determinedly.

Worn out, Ursula had gone to bed, and of the early night, beyond that
Mina had gone to the hut, she knew nothing, waking only by Mina coming
to the room. Had she been crying? Ursula wondered, as she watched her
bathing her eyes; and was it for Andrew?

'Mina, what's the matter?' she called sympathetically.

'I fell over a log' replied Mina, in a voice free from tears.

'Did Mr. Palmer come home, Mina?'

'I dunno' she answered.

'Yer see, miss' said Nungi to Ursula next day, as they met on the
river track, 'if ther missus 'ad cut 'ome at oncet and clapped on a
bit ov raw meat over 'er eyes, none of yous 'ud 'av knowed she was
'it. But no, she mus' go meeorkin' roun' wi' Boss Palmer till all
hours. That's the worst of Woona, she alwers goes fur a poor b--'s
eyes. But, Lord, she's got no more sense 'en a fool! Now, Queeby--'

He looked at the girl, ashen and trembling before him.

'Miss, don't you be a cocktail. One thing, 'ooever she tackles, Woona
'd never tetch you' he reassured.

But, leaving her bucket of water, Ursula sped home.

'Mina!' she almost shrieked, 'Mina, where are you?'

Mina had hastily hidden in the chimney recess outside--from what
danger she was not sure--and there Ursula, almost beside herself,
found her with her back to the wall, and instinctively on the defence
with hands and feet.

'Don't come a-nigh me, Ursie! If you're bit, there's no cure for
snake--bite!'

'I will--I will!' stormed Ursula. 'I will never leave you out of my
sight, day and night. You are Andrew's wife, Mina; remember, Mina,
you're Andrew's wife!'

This was the beginning of an espionage by Ursula that bespoke the
mettle of martyrdom.

'You are Andrew's wife, Mina' was her only explanation to Mina's
stinging taunts.

Then Palmer added his veiled suggestions regarding Ursula's born
capacity in filling the rôle of private detective, and afterwards Mina
continually addressed her as 'detecter.' 'Lookin' for me, detecter?'
or "Ere I am, detecter.'

"Oo are you doin' yer dirty work for?' she asked one day. 'One thing,
you'll never ketch me!'

Ursula looked into the green eyes with their baleful gleam, and a
sense of sickening horror almost overcame her.

'Faint, do; but I wouldn't if I was you, 'cause ther's no one 'ere t'
pick you up' provoked Mina.

'I'll leave here the first chance I get' Ursula vowed solemnly.

It was a sudden resolution, but it ripened; and though Mina received
it with indifference, not so Palmer, who instantly ceased tormenting.

Meeting her one day as she came from the river, he noted the change
from girlhood to womanhood.

'The bush is ageing you' he said.

'The bush?' she asked.

He flinched.

'Have you begun your book yet, Ursula?'

'How could I here?'

'By God! no one ever had a finer chance. Two women and one man, with
the Bush for a background!' He laughed mirthlessly. 'Ah, you'll have
to marry first, Ursula' and he sighed. 'O Lord! if I had met you ten
years earlier, and I were ten years younger and you ten years older,
things would have been different.'

'Not so far as I'm concerned' she answered proudly, passing him.

'Wouldn't they? I've ten times Andrew's personality' he sent after
her, watching with a grim satisfaction how his shaft quickened her
pace.

She had written to Cameron Cameron, telling only of her wish to
return to town; but Andrew's marriage had alienated his father, and
the weeks dragged on--no reply came. Occasionally a dealer's cart
would penetrate to their remoteness, and once, soon after they had
first come, a dealer had brought his wife. If such occurred again, she
would go back with them; and for this she waited.

In the long, empty days and lonely nights she struggled against her
nature, and in the end conquered herself. It was a mental feat that
kept all introspection and retrospection, if not at bay, quiescent. A
quiet sadness settled on her; she scarcely spoke unless in guidance to
Woona, who now was more obedient and, in a stumbling way, more
thoughtful of Ursula.

She was sitting one afternoon outside on the myall log, and inside
Mina slept, so all was peaceful. Ursula's relaxed eyes were on the
wide plain, on which the domed sky rested securely, and in an
assertive flash the great sweeping circle recalled Ashton's circus.
Her heart bounded.

'Good God! what a life here!' she groaned, and covered her eyes.

Unrestrained mentally she faced the reality--instead of world-wide
fame--'Mina's keeper' 'detecter' visualizing the attitude of intense
hatred of the sometimes thwarted and baffled Mina.

Intolerable! Oh God! she must not think, and, rising, she fixed her
eyes and mind again on the plain.

Pyramids of clouds now fringed its edge, and the centre had hazed
into a sandy mist. From the further side, quicksilver lakes of sheep
formed into momentary circles that split into streams, then, dividing,
trickled into single file and made for the river. There was a brooding
stillness and sadness indefinitely suggestive of town Sabbath; for the
bark of the dogs, anxious to pilot the unwilling flock to the wim
instead of the river, was spent in the distance. From habit the sheep
would head for the river, but, though it was early spring, the winter
had been droughty, and the river was only a string of dangerous water-
holes. The dogs, as ever, conquered, and the sheep, against their
will, were driven to the troughs round the wim.

After the governed mob had passed, Ursula thought she could hear a
faint call, and the crows, keener and quicker than she, were already
circling in a preparatory swoop. They guided her to the dried saggs at
the river's edge, where she found a lamb newly dropped, and deserted,
maybe willy-nilly, by the ewe.

As she, with the ungainly creature in her arms, was making for home,
Nungi on horseback overtook her. He had strapped before him a sheep
for killing, which hung in an unresisting, listless bow across the
saddle--limp, it seemed to Ursula, with the fore-knowledge of its
doom. Her arms tightened on the lamb she was carrying, such would not
be its fate, she determined.

"Ell ov a trouble t' poddy, miss, them lambs, but Queeby used t'
poddy any Gord's quantity' remarked Nungi.

Ursula watched his eyes glazing reminiscently.

'Lord! Queeby used t' poddy ez many ez fifty or sixty every lambin'.'

'What did she do with them?'

'Oh, ther boss 'e'd buy 'em, an' I used t' snavel ther rino. S'elp me
Bob, I've been for a fortnight at a stretch at Tambo on the spree, an'
dam well never see daylight the 'ole time!'

Again his eyes became regretfully reminiscent.

'No chance ov them times now. Ketch Woona poddy one lamb--not even
get up orf ov 'er unkers! I got t' dam well light the fire and poddy
'er meself, an' not so much ez thenk yer for it. She gimme a bit ov er
spree? No dam fear ov Woona--But, Lord! I can't expect 'er t' knock
'erself about, for she's got no more sense un a lamb 'erself.'

'Think she'll show me how to poddy this one?'

'Like rain' was Nungi's confirmation. 'She'll do any morsel thing for
you, miss--clean gone on you; like Queeby there, ain't she?'

Nearer the house Palmer joined her.

'What? Have you found your treasure-trove, Ursula?' he asked
banteringly, but looking with envious interest at the instinctive
maternity of her sheltering arms.

Then, as she scornfully moved onward, he, to delay her, asked:

'Did you know old Civil half guessed where Boshy's money was
planted?'

She said 'No.'

'Do you know, Ursula?' he asked earnestly.

'You know I don't' she answered curtly, and moved on, anxious to find
her lamb.

There is no animal more devoid of affection than a sheep. Ursula was
quick to see this, but the very helplessness of this small creature,
and its dependence on her for its life, begot her tenderness. Besides,
she welcomed anything that gave interest to her empty days. Gradually
they were becoming more so, for now Mina seemed to sleep all day, and
Palmer left at dawn after a breakfast prepared and laid overnight,
also eaten alone, and it was often dark when he returned. Even then,
apparently, office work claimed his attention directly after his meal.

Both wine and spirits had been among the waggon-load of supplies that
had been sent for the coming shearing. The wine was placed in a loft
over the carefully locked storeroom, Mina keeping the keys. Several
times Palmer had asked for them lately, and once to Ursula's surprise
Mina had refused to give them. Uneasily Ursula watched both, then a
sudden intuition explained Mina's frequent visits to the storeroom and
her long sleeps, followed by her uncritical apathy when awake.

'Give them to him, Mina. Take them, Mr. Palmer' besought Ursula
frantically.

He was gravely silent, but Mina laughed.

"Im'--pointing to Palmer--"im mindin' the keys!--pot callin' the pan
black' said Mina.

That night Ursula's violently beating heart unaccountably woke her.
Had Mina called? She rushed to Mina's bedroom door, but it had a
barrier. She called 'Mina!' and while she waited she heard the hide-
hung window shutter strike the outside wall noisily and flap to. A
footstep on the sand outside gave a dulled slide: her pet lamb bleated
in sudden agony: and someone lurched against the wall, then went
hastily into Palmer's room. Ursula forced back the barring stool, and
entered Mina's room, which was reeking with spirits. Mina, though not
snoring, was apparently sound asleep.

'Mina!' she called, shaking her roughly.

Again the lamb bleated.

Ursula thrust her head through the window. Beneath it, with its back
close to the wall, and its feet stretched out stiffly, lay the lamb.
Hastily she bent and lifted it, but the crushed creature instantly
died in her arms. Carrying it into the front-room, she laid it in the
fire-place, and without her usual careful thought for the sleeper, she
washed the lamb's blood from her hands, then, dressing herself, lay on
her bed awaiting daylight.

At dawn she began to collect and pack her possessions, and Woona, as
usual, came and lighted the kitchen fire. When the breakfast hour was
past, and none appeared, Ursula venturing inside for an explanation,
found Mina's bedroom door again closed. Ursula wondered how, for she
had left it open, and all therein ever since had been silent.

Later, Nungi, wild-eyed and strangely excited, came ostensibly for
the day's orders. Then Ursula found that Palmer also had kept his
room, and Nungi intimated that, though he had tried, he could not
waken him. With cabalistic signs Woona accused Nungi of having done
something wrong, and, with the same silent subtlety, Nungi intimated
that this unspoken charge should be laid against Palmer instead of
him.

'Wot's t' be done, miss, 'bout them yeos an' lambs in ther draftin'-
yard?' he asked Ursula, with a show of anxiety to be at his duty.

'Better ask Mr. Palmer' she advised.

"E's asleep, miss; I tell yer I been tryin' t' wake 'im till I'm
wore out. 'E's regler blin', an' deaf, an' dumb. Wish I 'ad a drop ov
ther same pizen for these damn cramps' he added, rubbing his stomach
and bending double in a feigned distress, that his expectant eyes and
watering mouth contradicted.

Ursula knocked at Mina's door, then turned the handle: to her
surprise it was again secured, and equally so was the window. So also
she found Palmer's, but Nungi, deceived as to her intentions and
because of his personal interest, invited her to look through the
cracks as he had done. Across the bed, partly dressed, lay Palmer, and
one of his stockinged feet hanging out of the bed was blood-
spattered--the position of both bespeaking his drunken stupefaction.

'Busted yer poor little lamb wi' 'is big foot' said Nungi. Then he
earnestly assured her that the black bottle on the table was empty,
and Woona resentfully drew her attention to a hollow reed that Nungi
was standing on in an endeavour to hide it. It was long enough to
reach the bottle inside, and cunningly bent to enter its neck.

Tamely Nungi picked it up and broke it, volubly reaffirming that
there was not a drop in the bottle, nor had there been 'fust thing
ters mornin'; an' spit me death, miss, if I 'ad a toothful' he said to
Ursula.

'Nungi, you must go down for Mr. Cameron.'

'Not on Shanks's pony' he said sullenly.

'Ride what you like, but you must go.'

Woona added her command, and, thwarted, he went sullenly to "unt up
a norse.'

When Woona, hours after, returned to their hut, he was there.

'Nungi knows better, w'erever 'e learnt it, not t' go down alonger
Camerons. Christ! let 'im'--jerking his head towards Palmer--'ketch me
at it, an' I'd think a tree fall on me. Nungi's got ernuff sense t'
come in out o' ther rain long afore a t'underbolt 'its 'im.'

Woona took him literally.

'No rain' she said.

'Be Gord, no!' he agreed, 'an' no signs ov any. An' I'll see Palmer,
ther boosy b--furdermore, afore I water all them yeos an' lambs
meself. Plenty t' do in 'ere, ain't there, Woona?' he remarked to
conciliate her. 'No good ov you, and me bustin' ourselves. Yer git
none ther more thanks in ther long run.'

He hid all that day, but late in the afternoon of the next day, when
Ursula was returning from burying her lamb, she surprised Nungi lying
under a shelving bank. He rose up, suggesting by his simulated air of
stiffness that he had accomplished a long riding journey. Boss
Cameron, he told her, was out when he got there, so he had left
Ursula's letter for him. 'An' as no one there ask't me ther way to me
mouth, I turns roun' an' come straight back.' Then hastily to
discourage her searching gaze he added, 'Dam shame about yer poor
liddle lamb, Miss.'

'Nungi, did you disturb old Baldy and my father's graves?' she asked
accusingly.

'Spit me death, miss, if I tetch em. W'y, 'Oly Ghos" he truthfully
said, 'I wouldn' go 'ithin cooey of em for all you'd gi'e me. Me rouse
up ther debbil-debbil' and looking at his fear-charged eyes, she knew
he spoke the truth.

She had gone that morning to unyard the ewes and lambs, and coming
back had paid her good-bye visit to the little enclosure, and found
that the graves had been opened by careless hands that had left
convincing proof.

Inside the mouldering skeleton of the old hut she found several
broken pickle-bottles. Their tops sealed by sheep basil, preserved
with a tan of pitch had been broken hastily, and lying among them were
many scraps of age-discoloured paper with Boshy's characteristically
rude writing and figures. She had no time for thought, and had only
hastily gathered them together and hidden them.

Ursula knew that Palmer had been astir at dawn, but not to attend to
his usual duties, for she pityingly had freed the thirsty, uncared for
sheep; many of these were now bogged in the various water-holes along
the river.

As Ursula entered Mina was sitting on the table drumming on it with a
vibrant knife-handle.

'Been for a constitootion, Urse?' she remarked defiantly.

It was all so hopeless that Ursula was silent, and she passed into
the kitchen, where Woona, in sullen obedience to Mina's command, was
resentfully busy, frying slices of salt beef in a pan of water.

'She wants me t' go 'untin' fer boggabri down on ther billabongs' she
complained to Ursula. Then, as her complaint met with no response,
remarked, 'Been buryin' yer liddle lamb?'

Ursula nodded.

'Teddy, ther mail-boy, went by jus' now, 'e say wot 'e bin gibbit
letter b'longin' you, to Boss Palmer.'

'Where is he?' asked Ursula excitedly.

'Boss Palmer's gone down alonga river.'

Ursula rushed out, and though she searched up and down the river he
was not there; but later she saw him yard a horse, then come in to
await supper. Ursula deferred her question and kept her eyes from his
face, but she was conscious that intentionally his manner, assumed or
otherwise, reeked with reckless defiance, even to a complete disregard
of the watchful Mina. As he sat at the head of the table,
instinctively Ursula's eyes rested on his trembling hands, till a
sudden discovery that the edges of two shirts were showing at his
wrists, sent her eyes with swift inquiry to his. The effect was an
influence that shattered his self-control. He replaced his cup with a
noisy clatter. 'What are you staring at? Do I owe you anything?' he
asked, his face purpling in his futile attempt to meet her eyes
fearlessly, and before she could reply he scrunched his chair back
against the wall and went out.

Gratification at his hostility kept Mina gloatingly voiceless, but
her sodden eyes gleamed at Ursula exultingly, and unaffected by
Palmer's practically untouched plate, she went on with her meal,
swallowing huge mouthfuls with noisy relish. Almost as harshly Ursula
freed herself from her chair, and went out by the same door, meaning
to ask him had there been a letter for her. It was useless to knock,
his room-door was wide open and his horse was gone from the yard.

Mina had followed her, so almost together they went round to the
front; this commanded a view of the roadway, along which hastily rode
Palmer. Down the river-bank he disappeared for some time; when he
reappeared on the other side he was leading a pack-horse.

A lower lip of blood-hued haze lay along the horizon, and from the
sun sinking in it a flaming tongue protruded across the plain, till it
caught man and horse, in a fine effect, as he drew rein and looked
back at the house. Seeing both women he turned his horse to face them,
and standing in his stirrups took off his hat, flourishing it in a
sweeping circle that included both. With elaborate precision he
singled out Ursula, and sending her a shower of kisses, he gave a
farewell flourish and galloped onward.

Ursula heard a dry click catch Mina in the throat. Ursula's eyes were
now on her. Dismay had conquered her caution; she stood in utter
abandonment, with both hands raised to shield her eyes from the sun.

Ursula, leaning against the wall, pressed down her bursting heart.
Into her eyes came the look of one who, spellbound, stands beneath a
falling mountain. Her dilating pupils perfectly reflected the pregnant
woman, still standing in the same attitude, watching the rapidly
disappearing horseman.



Chapter XV



IN a night stormy but only with wind and dust, about a month after
Palmer's departure, Ursula went for Woona. All gins are skilled
midwives, and under her auspices the child was born. It was weirdly
shrivelled and small, as the child of a big womb usually is. With
Woona's aid Ursula had washed and dressed it in the clothes that had
done service for all Mrs. Stein's family--her sole wedding endowment
to her daughter.

If the helplessness of the motherless lamb had appealed to Ursula
what was the lamb compared to this tiny creature, by reason of its
humanity, more helpless? When Ursula handled this atom, its shrivelled
hands, as if for protection, would clutch and hold her with a grim
tenacity peculiar to infancy. But of infants and their ways what
should Ursula know, though she speedily interpreted every movement of
this one? Kissing the tendril fingers--at first because Mina, its
mother, did not--but later with a rapture begot by its breath on her
breast. The beat of its wee heart held against her own, sent her
intense maternity surging like the spring sap in a young tree. Mina's
keen eyes were watchful as ever, and instinctively Ursula strenuously
endeavoured to disguise her love, finding that it endangered the
infant. When she woke in the night thinking of it she smiled. 'If only
it were mine!' she longed, then turned her face in hiding to the wall.

Now it was sick, Mina said, and in swift alarm Ursula bent over it as
it slept, her ear to its mouth. She turned her face the other way, for
the sinister look on Mina's, watching her, broke her concentration.
She laid a testing finger in the little one's palm, and though it
slept, as ever its hand closed round it. It was safer for both, she
knew, that Mina could not see her face. Shaking a negative head, she
said it was not sick; but, unconvinced, Mina moved away, and that
night for the first time demanded the care of it.

Then it seemed to Ursula that only her body slept, for the slightest
sound or movement from the woman and child in the next room woke and
drew her in. Then Mina began closing the door between them, so Ursula
redoubled her vigilance. What was that to-night? She sat up instantly,
and a sound of smothered fluttering sent her in swift alarm to the
door. It was barred, and the inside was in darkness. 'Mina, Mina!' she
screamed, beating against it, 'let me in, let me in!' In the waiting
moment she heard the muffled fluttering increase. She rushed out,
calling piercingly, 'Woona, Woona!' and round to the bedroom window,
and with the strength of two wrenched the shutter from its hide
hinges; then, bounding through, stripped the bedclothes covering the
face of the mother and child. Mina's arm was resting heavily across
the little one's mouth when Ursula freed it. It was gasping feebly,
and as she raised it she heard its breathless struggle and felt its
stiffened body and clenched hands.

'What's the matter?' asked Mina, though also panting breathlessly,
making a pretence of being rudely awakened.

Without replying, Ursula, holding the child, lighted Mina's lamp. A
strange fear silenced Ursula, for she knew intuitively did she but
license the speech scorching and shaking her, this would license
action in the unnatural, desperate woman watching her with those
terrible, inhuman eyes. Even now uncontrollably her powerful, hairy
arms and hands were twitching murderously.

'Wot are yer doin' in 'ere?' she challenged.

'In your sleep, Mina, you nearly smothered the baby.'

Watching her as one watches a springing snake, Ursula, with the
child, backed into the next room, and took up a position where she
could see but not be seen. So screened, she saw Mina's hand steal out
and her fingers suddenly snuff out the lamp wick, after the manner of
old Daddy Stein. The lightened creak of Mina's bed was further
warning, and Ursula's hold on the child tightened, as she noiselessly
made for the door; but even from there came the outside sound of bare
feet, then a whisper:

'Missy, missy!'

It was Woona's voice. Thankfully Ursula let her in.

'Baby very sick, Woona' she said loudly, shivering with relief.
'Light the lamp, and make big fella fire out there' pointing to the
kitchen. 'We'll bogey [bath] it.'

When by the lamplight Woona saw the pallid terror of Ursula's face,
alarmed, she asked:

'On'y that fella baby, you bin bogey Missy?'

'Only baby, Woona.'

'Mine think it you sick, too' said Woona.

Together they went into the kitchen, and from inside it Ursula made
a silent sign for Woona to listen. Mina, though equally cautious, was
again betrayed by the lightened spring of the creaking bed. Since she
was astir, better and safer for them to be where they could watch.

'Bring the water inside, Woona' said Ursula, and with it they went
back.

Now the bedroom door was closed, but Woona sent a suspicious survey
into all likely and unlikely corners of this room; then, radiating her
relief, went briskly on with her work.

Gradually the little one's breathing had become more regular.
Ursula, swift to know, felt its strained body relax in composure. God
was good! but never for a moment, day or night, would she leave it out
of her arms or sight. Now, while she bathed it, Woona held low the
lamp, so that its full light fell on the infant's face. Suddenly
Woona, with a native word, held it even lower, pointing excitedly to
bruises on the swollen nose, and from them to the discoloured finger-
prints on one cheek. Again she spoke excitedly, and again in her own
tongue; then raising her head, she faced her hut, and sent a cooee
that echoed and re-echoed. Instantly the bedroom door opened and Mina
entered. She was whiter than Ursula, who, snatching up the infant,
stood at bay facing her. Even in her agitation the flattened space
between Mina's brows struck Ursula more vividly than the green
malignity of her venomous eyes.

'Shut up, you black dingo!' she hissed at Woona, though her eyes
were fastened on Ursula. 'Wot are you doin' to it?'

Without replying, but watching her, Ursula rolled a blanket round
the child. Woona was about to cooee again, when her keen ears heard
the coming of Nungi. Instead she called to him that the front door
where he was knocking was unbarred.

'Is it?' sneered Mina. But the back one was, and Nungi, swifter than
she, had entered.

Woona gave him a warm welcome, then in native language told him
something that sent his eyes uneasily rolling from the infant's face
to Mina's right hand, clenched in impotent frenzy, then to her
distorted face.

'Christ, missis! you do look snake-'eaded. Git yer neck stretched
playin' that game' pointing to the child's face, he said, friendly
advice in his tones; and as Mina only panted breathlessly, he took her
speechlessness as a tribute to his advice. Turning from her to Ursula,
he touched the little one's discoloured cheek. 'Dam shime t' 'urt ther
poor little b--, jus' as it was jus' beginnin' to know yer, too,
missy.'

'Hush, Nungi! the baby's sleeping; she's better now. It was an
accident. Go back to bed, Mina' said Ursula.

'Give it to me.'

Mina extended her arms authoritatively. Ursula, raising her head,
looked unflinchingly into Mina's shifty eyes.

'It was an accident' she meaningly repeated and emphasized. 'Sit
down, Woona and Nungi, and you go back to bed, Mina.'

Mina went into the bedroom, and closed the door. For hours the three
sat round the fire, each in a position to watch the bedroom door; for
each knew that, although Mina had closed it, she only did so as a
shield for her scrutiny, unequally distressful, but as barren for her
as for them. When the receiving creak of her bed, and soon after her
reassuring snores, told them it was over, at a sign from Ursula, Woona
noiselessly rebuilt the fire; then shortly after her head fell
affectionately on Nungi's shoulder, and she, too, slept. His head
gradually took a reposeful lean-to against the wall, then Ursula was
the only watcher. Occasionally a convulsive sob would shake the little
one, but the arms it already knew would tighten round it. Its groping,
fearing fingers met Ursula's; its face nestled in her neck; so soothed
and comforted, it would quiveringly sigh its reassurance and content.
And every sigh that quivered to Ursula's bending ear, every breath
breathed on her bared breast, quickened and nourished this resolve--to
shield and shelter it with her life.

At dawn she aroused Woona and Nungi to duty, for before and since
the birth of the child she had tried to look after everything outside
and in. Palmer had been gone nearly two months, and though she had
time and again written to Cameron, none had replaced him. By Nungi,
Palmer had sent her father's will, and a note saying where she would
find some money hidden. Andrew, he said, was coming soon. Tremblingly
she wondered when, and went to reread Palmer's letter, but though she
had hidden it with her father's unread will, both were gone.

She followed Woona into the kitchen, where already beneath the ashes
smouldered a pile of glowing coals, that was soon, under Woona's
skill, a roaring fire. Before it Ursula held the child, while Woona
heated some milk; but the little one's lips were so rigidly compressed
that Ursula could scarcely coax the spoon between them, and then she
saw despairingly that it could not swallow. Motioning Woona to watch
for Mina's coming, she went to the back of the kitchen, to think out
some plan to protect this child. She would go to Mina, and ask her to
renounce it to her; with it she would go away, and none need ever know
that it was not hers. When Andrew should return,--though her face
flamed at the thought, she did not flinch--when Andrew should return,
Mina could tell him the child was hers (Ursula's); and this very day
she would start for Camerons. So resolved, she went to seek and tell
Mina, and guided by Woona, she went to a familiar crack.

A pair of freckled, scaly hands, groping along the beams of the
bedroom, utterly unnerved her, and for a moment fear paralyzed her,
then she crept closer. She saw those long fingers, that Boshy loathed,
feel gropingly for something. Ah! what was it, that they had found? As
though she, too, was not sure, Mina brushed the dust from it, and
examined further by look and smell. It was what she sought; for,
satisfied, she placed it in her bosom and went on dressing.

Woona had silently and swiftly backed away; and her ebon face,
Ursula saw, had changed into leaden flabbiness with some horrible
fear. There is no colour line in love, and though a-quiver with
ungovernable fright, for Ursula's sake black Woona went graphically
through the final death contortions of the poisoned mangy pup. Then
with the speed of a wild animal, she made for the scrub, where Nungi
was supposed to be scrub--cutting for the starving sheep; and, despite
her burden, Ursula, equally terrified, instantly followed. But, though
she turned the child's face across her shoulder, she found that the
wind as she ran, caught the little one's breath, and she felt it
strain and stiffen. Stopping for a moment, and screened by a tree, she
looked back at the house. At that moment she saw Mina mount the
butcher's block, with intent to locate the fugitives; then came a
lusty cooee from Woona to Nungi, which, Mina hearing, instantly acted
upon. To add to Ursula's terror, she saw that this breathing respite
had not tranquillized the child, yet she dared not stand still, with
its unnatural mother on her track. Again Woona cooeed resoundingly,
and this time another look showed Mina running from the house towards
the sound. Bending low, Ursula went swiftly as she dared to where Mina
might pass wide of her; then, again hidden, she waited in breathless
anxiety, that was increased to distracting horror when she saw the sun
blaze and reflect on and about the axe's head that Mina had snatched
from the wood heap. Suppressing a horrified shriek, Ursula sped away
from her, back to the house; past this she fled across the river;
passing her father's grave, she ran along the track to Pine Point.
Looking back once, she thought that she was safe, for Mina was not to
be seen; encouraged, onwards she ran to the myalls near, and stopped
to examine the child, now struggling more strenuously, though only at
intervals. It was ill, surely; yet what could she do to save it--she
flying with it from that terrible woman? O God! there Mina was; she
had only been hidden by the river-bank. Where were Woona and Nungi?
She must get to them.

With a mind to try and double back so as to find them, when she
reached Pine Point, she entered that part of the trackless scrub.
Stumbling through the thick undergrowth with her precious burden, she
pushed onward. Fearful of her pursuer, she dared not stop even to look
at the ailing one, or to listen, knowing she had only her start
against this murderous woman, with twice her strength, unburdened, and
with that deadly weapon. Once, when the undergrowth gripped her, she
drew breath and looked at the now twitching child. At the moment an
internal spasm stiffened it, though no moan came from its cruelly
indrawn lips. She raised her face, but heaven was hidden by the
interlocking trees; so she bent her head to listen, but there seemed
no following sound. Maybe Mina had passed while she had waited, still,
what would she do with this stricken child? Dread drove her back,
while she thought, but not far, for paroxysm after paroxysm, each
swifter and more violent, seemed to wrestle for the soul that the
locked lips of this wee one refused to surrender. Fearless now of her
enemy, Ursula sank for the moment, intent only on saving the child.
With her own dried tongue, she bent to moisten into relaxation its
indrawn blue lips, and breathing on the clenched, congested hands,
tried as unavailingly to lessen their terrible tension. Fiercer and
fiercer grew the unequal fight, till gradually Ursula saw that all
effort failed to still or soothe one quiver. Then the mighty King of
Terrors wrestled but with one. Where had she read that only the old
die easily? Her lamb had; but this lamb--Ah! now it was over: though
its lips were still closed and its hands clenched, it was still. She
laid it along her cradling body, then she, too, was motionless and as
emotionless as their surroundings, for not a leaf stirred: sun-sleep
was upon the scrub. So she had held Boshy, only then her back rested
against the wall, now against a tree. She was thankful for one thing--
there was no blood, for of all the nauseating things on earth, none
were so appalling as blood to her. Mina had come when Boshy died; if
only she would come now! Where was she? Rising, she called, 'Mina,
Mina!' Then, without waiting for a reply, with the child in her arms,
she went on; but not for long, for even in this dense scrub the heat
of the sun penetrated scorchingly, and surely her burden had grown
heavier. She was only partially dressed--that was well--but, without
looking, she covered the little one's head and discoloured face with
her skirt. Strange that she did not want to kiss it. She would bury it
beside her father, she decided, not out here. The lamb she had laid at
his feet, but this dear thing in her arms--she quivered chokingly,
then conquering her emotion, she looked at the dead child. It might
even yet recover if only she could reach Woona, and they together get
hot water.

This purpose possessing her, hopefully she pushed onward swiftly,
fighting the dense tangle of undergrowth which caught her at every
step. Had she passed through it in her first flight? she now wondered.
Oh, how could she know, with so little to guide her? For, looking
back, the vines and leaves, as if to baffle her, had closed over even
her last steps. One blessing, the sun here was less powerful, for the
branches locked and entwined overhead, as did the brush of
undergrowth.

She let fall her skirt, that was sheltering the head of the child.
How calm and collected she was, fearing nothing now, free even from
her haunting terror of snakes--those silent, creeping horrors! Yet how
she had dreaded them up to this time! And now, looking at the child,
she feared not Mina--no, not even Mina. Still, it was better not to
think of her, but try to get out of this scrub; but when and how?

Perhaps if she laid the little one down for a few moments, and
climbed (Andrew had taught her) to the top of one of these trees, she
might be able to see her way out to the plain. She hesitated, then she
carefully laid the baby down, first making sure that no creeping,
venomous foe was near; and selecting one tree, she began its ascent,
her eyes fixed on the child. Supposing Mina crouched hiding, waiting
to snatch it?

Recklessly she jumped down, and, with a mingled cry of love and fear,
caught up the child and again stumbled along. With an effort at
composure, she tried to delude herself by the thought that the beloved
little one might not be dead--it was very strong. But once she knew
definitely it was, she would bury it somewhere--not here--then find
Mina and kill her! Yes, if the child was dead she would kill Mina;
that was just. Even the Bible said, 'Blood for blood.' Shudderingly
she thought she could smell blood. Now for the present she must banish
such thoughts, for the one great thing to do was to get back again.

Stopping, she tried to get the bearings. If only she knew what way
she had come! But she could not decide. However, she must be wrong, or
by this she would see the plain. She turned another way, and by
degrees many others, determinedly keeping at bay the distracting
consciousness that she was bushed.

About noon, exhausted and painfully thirsty, after long scrutiny, she
decided the baby must be dead. For a long time she sat, and through
her dry mouth tried to breathe into its nostrils; nothing could pass
through its locked lips, nor could the tip of her little finger worm
its way into the sealed palms. Perhaps it would be as well to bury it
for a time only, till she found Woona or Nungi; but where? Laying it
down tenderly, she groped beneath the matted vines, but felt only hot
shifting sand. Beside a large pine-tree was a bare, loose heap;
carrying the body to this spot, she laboriously scraped a hole long
and deep enough. Then again, with it across her knees, and for a
longer time, she went through all methods of reanimation known to or
invented by her. It was dead, so she laid it in its cot of sand, with
its pain-distorted face to the hidden skies; then slowly began
covering it, feet upwards. Tearing a strip from her skirt, she
shrouded its face, and, looking away, blindly pushed over it the sand;
still without looking, she turned and walked back a few paces, but
marked the spot, so that she would know where to guide someone. She
tore up vines and broke twigs, and covered it lightly, then rested
awhile, stretching her stiffened arms. How weary she was, and how
thirsty! But now, without her burden, she would get on quicker and get
back--she must before dark. Making landmarks to guide her return,
slowly she went on--not far--only a few paces, for, oh God! how could
she leave it alone? Sobbing tearlessly, she rushed back, disinterred
the child, then with it for hours distressfully stumbled onward.

Australian daylight dies with short shrift, and in this mighty scrub
the pall of darkness fell with startling abruptness. She knew it would
be madness to seek home, so, selecting a sparse spot, she shrouded the
dead and laid it beside her. She sat with her aching back resting
against a tree, realizing that were it light, and she for sure on the
right track, her weary limbs could have gone no further. If dew fell--
and it might in this clearing--it would moisten her dry tongue and
mouth, and in this prayer her tongue clicked, dry and sore, against
her swollen palate. This still night was not chilly, and, even if it
were, could not matter to the dead child, yet she covered it with her
skirt. She was not hungry, though she had eaten nothing all day; but
she was very, very thirsty and weary. Still, dew might fall. And now,
till dawn, she must rest--to sleep would be best, but she knew she
could not sleep. The little body, so still and quiet, was growing
cold. So her aunt and Boshy had been; she also must be, for she was
shivering. Well, better cold than heat for thirst, and in the dawn she
would again go in search of home. Could she leave this little one,
carefully hidden?--looking at the shrouded form. But need she think of
that till the morning? Yet better to think of anything or anyone, if
it held in check her thirsty misery. Mentally she selected many
intimate past incidents, resolutely discarding the obtrusive present.
Long ago, when she was little, she had strayed too far and got lost
till nearly dark, but then she had called and called Andree, and he
had found her and carried her home.

Andrew--for a long time in that past she forgot the present, till the
bitter reality recalled her with a shock the more cruel from being
suspended. Not again would she dwell on him; instead, on her cruel
thirst--oh, when would the dew fall? But just this she might debate,
since she was on the forbidden subject--should she, if Andrew were to
come now, claim this dead child as her own--hers and Palmer's? for
that was what such avowal meant. No, she decided; there was now no
need. Would she rather have the child dead than face Andrew with it as
her own? The tender clasp of its fingers round hers; its breath upon
her as it lay the night before in her arms, and with infant instinct
groped for her breast--no, no, no! The child--the child, even with
dishonour!

Taking it in her arms, she held its stiffening body to her sore
heart, till a trembling agony seized her. Then, as she placed it again
beside her, she determined not to touch, nor even think of, it till
the morrow. How long would the dawn be in coming? Yet if she rose to
walk about to still her mind, she must uncover the child. She tried
vainly, by various devices, to divert her thoughts; then, drawing off
her skirt, swathed the body, walking afterwards round and round it,
with her dry mouth upturned for the desired dew. How slow it was in
falling! Perhaps those tree-tops, almost shutting out the sky, caught
and kept it. For a moment the desire to climb to their tops and rob
them possessed her; but there was the child--some stalking wild beast
might seize or molest it. She must not.

Oh, but was ever night so long? Though lately there had been many
that had tried her sorely, yet the night when that dear dead thing had
come, and she, for a time alone and uninstructed, had been forced to
minister to its unnatural mother, even that night had not seemed so
long; and others since had been spent in anxious vigil. Ah! but all
circumstances had been different, and the child had been nestling and
warm, and she herself neither shivering nor thirsty. Still, she must
keep a firm grip on herself and conquer all emotion, for her task on
the long-deferred morrow would be neither easy, nor, because of her
dead burden, light. She would again rest and try to calmly consider
some guiding feature, passed in her flight, that in retracing she
might recognise, and so be guided; but all that she could visualize
was the path to the crossing over the river--it and the track to Pine
Point. Still, now that her fear was gone and she reasonable, outlets
to any of these might be possible in the daylight, but with it the
first thing she would seek would be water.

When would dawn come? This awful stillness was stifling her. Oh for
any sound that would break it! Even that solemn night-call that none
but Andrew and she could interpret, would she welcome. Why were birds
and beasts so voiceless? Surely here must be their haunts and lairs.
Yet she, in walking round, was careful, mindful to move softly, lest
she set even the leaves whispering, which was worse, for such might be
a signal to shoals of stealthy foes covertly watching her. Should she
for distraction go through her child-life? Immediately Ashton's circus
sprang from the past, mocking the present intolerably. It served her
need, for it took time to conquer her disquiet.

Day dawn was as stealthily swift as its death. When the boom of a
brooding emu heralded it, Ursula went on her knees in voiceless
prayer; then, burdened by the stiffened, cold child, went towards the
sound. Her rustling approach betrayed her to the watching male bird.
With a sonorous warning to his hatching mate, he fled, and later
Ursula saw the sitting bird rise suddenly from her nest and run
swiftly, though not to join her cowardly mate, but at a discreet
distance to watch, even as Miriam, thought Ursula. She found in the
nest thirteen eggs, warm to her cold hand. She would take one: it
might moisten her parched mouth and so ease her burning throat; but a
small one would do. Replacing the egg she held, she selected the
smallest, yet it was smoother and more delicately tinted than the
others; it might one day be a beautiful bird, and faithful like its
prospective mother--she would not take that one. From so many, one
could make little difference, and thirteen was an unlucky number. Her
thirst and the terrible task before her surely justified her--yet she
hesitated. The hen bird still watched, and bravely had ventured to
come nearer its nest. Ursula would take an egg right away before she
broke it, and perhaps the emu might not miss it. Selecting one, she
moved away. What a contrast, the deadly cold of the child to the blood
warmth of the egg! she believed it was making her feel sick and faint.
Ah! and the robbed bird was standing disconsolately over, not on, its
nest. Thank God! it was not too late. Hurrying back, and calling her
intention encouragingly to the again fleeing bird, she restored the
egg.

The sun-bleached bones of some animal were the next objects that she
saw. Ah! why had it wandered from its fellows, and how had it
perished? she wondered. Thirst, she decided.

And, merciful God! how dreadfully dry her own mouth and throat were!
What would she do if she did not soon find water, or what would become
of her? She took a critical survey of her surroundings. A cobweb,
nightspun, hung in an insidious circle from branch to branch, facing
her. Early as it was, its first victim struggled in its gummy meshes.
Fascinated, she stood shaken ungovernably by its horrible
suggestiveness, while above and about her the trees shivered
meaningly. Yes, here in the Bush, Nature was frankly brutal, and meant
her to know that she, too, was trapped hopelessly, as the poor fly. In
her haste to free it, one of its wings broke off. This recalled that
Sunday afternoon, long ago, when she had wantonly crippled the hornet
and flies. How could she upbraid Nature? Sorrowing acutely for her
earlier sin, she moved onward, till the necessity for some plan for
her movements stopped her. Across her tangled track a tree, uprooted,
as though top-heavy, rested slantwise against its fellows. Carrying
the child, she crawled along it, aided by the branches and vines,
hoping from its highest point to see the plain. She could not, for
there was a slight rise, and trees higher shut out all but the sky.
Nor was there any dew nor moisture even on their tenderest tips.
Still, from this height she might take her bearings from the sky, for
the brighter glow would mean the east--their house on the plain's edge
faced that way. But how distractedly her head buzzed in the effort to
determine its locality. Perhaps this dizzy height was making her
giddy. She descended to think better below. But even here, visualizing
as strenuously as she could, and after a long struggle, no way seemed
certain, for as she invoked tracks from her hot head, the tragical
incidents of her flight dispelled them.

Then, abruptly as the dark and light changes came the heat. The sun,
though hidden, sent piercing tongue-shafts, till even the tough
trailing vegetation drooped, showing the hot sand beneath. The blood
seethed scorchingly in the girl's veins; hot wave-wings quivered
before her strained eyes, and buzzed about her ears and temples. The
child alone was unaffected, as she stumbled wearily along, penalized
by its dead, cold, unresponsive weight, she knew that, and was
definitely thankful. Were it alive, it too must suffer, and was ever
agony greater than this? Surely her head would burst. Was it
swollen?--feeling it. Not much, thank God! she decided, but she must
rest and again try to think of a way to water--then out to the plain.

Now, those emus--why had she left them? for they must be within a
reasonable distance of water. Besides, if all else failed, and this
awful torturing thirst continued, she would be forced to take one egg;
but could she find the way back to the nest? it was just before she
reached this rise. She would try, and vaguely she wandered about, but
not for long--mind and body began to claim and force rest. Would she
try to find the emu's eggs first? No, go on; try to get out to the
plain. But was not that the cobweb which she had wrecked? Had she
without knowing turned back, or was it another web? Calmly, and again
undismayed, the spider was industriously respinning in repair. It was
the same. Yet she thought that she had gone forward; she must mind,
for never had she been good at locality. Jim used to say that she
would get lost in the house paddock.

Jim, Fanny, her aunt, Mr. Civil--and mentally twist and turn as she
would, yes, Andrew--there they all were: but because of her strenuous
repression, Andrew was multiplied. Quirr, quirr! her hot head buzzed,
and her dry mouth opened chokingly, and she called him till she was
dumb, till she could neither hear nor see. Yet above all a sense of
her own lawlessness was uppermost. Oh, God! how hopeless and
bewildering everything was! From then every moment seemed to weaken
her, and add to the weight she bore in her stiff arms; and her
thirst--her thirst! No way seemed clear, nor which way to turn. But if
she began to think of herself she would not keep calm. Now she seemed
to be ascending, and uphill was ever weary work; rest a little she
must.

Was it late in the day? she wondered. She hoped, then feared it was;
another night spent like the last, would, she knew, unhinge her
mentally. No; such thoughts were foolish and distressing. Just now she
had exaggerated the distance she had walked, till the spider and web
had convinced her, and it was so with the time. It could not be late,
though it was burning hot, and a long, long time since she had even
tasted water; and she--Oh, mercy! mercy! where could she, would she
find water! Where? Where? What was the use of groping in the sand at
her feet for water; she had put down the dead baby, and had been
talking to herself. That was a bad sign. Was she going mad? No, it was
her head--her hot head--was that swelling, and buzzing from weariness,
weakness, and thirst. When before had she laid down the child?--she
could not remember so doing, but now it rested her. In future when she
rested she would lay it down beside her. But supposing she forgot it--
her head was not always quite clear. Oh!--snatching it up and
stumbling along--she would not, could not, should not. She knew this
last fear was a fancy, and she closed her eyes to shut it out. But now
of a surety there was blood. Oh, thank God! no--only a streak of
sunset. But this red flash had sent such a droughty blast into her
open mouth. Oh! she must go on--go on and find water. She would turn
this way: it was less entangling. But after a few wearying minutes she
began to think it worse, still she stumbled on, for at least she was
going in a fresh direction.

But was that not again the same spider and web? Of a certainty, yes.

Should she kill this magnetic spider, and so end its baleful
influence? Incentively the trees hissed 'Yes, yes.' Motioning for them
to be silent, she steadily watched the insidious spinner, now as if
divining her purpose, merely an indrawn inert black speck but acutely
watching her. Its attitude instantly recalled that long-past Sunday.
What right had she to expect mercy, and she still with the same cruel
instincts? Turning away, she went onward, mindful only that she did
not again go near the spider.

What sound was that?

'Andrew!' burst impulsively from her. She listened, but there was no
reply. Yes, yes; she distinctly heard a voice say 'Israelites.' Then
her heart gave a suffocating bound, for, God have mercy, she had
mistaken her own voice, as aloud she had been praying that she might
be God-guided out of this wilderness, as were the Israelites. The
shock nerved her, and she ran aimlessly till she fell, and for a time
lay, but making a barrier of her arms, that the child should not be
crushed.

Somewhat strengthened, she rose and moved on, but without a plan. If
only Andrew--But determinedly she beat back that predominant wish, for
it was worse than her insistent thirst--worse, for it was wickeder. To
get away from it she walked again, anywhere, anywhere.

Now, perhaps, she would get out again to the plain. Was there any
sign of it yet? She could see if there was, for her head was clearer.
Now, too, she had made good progress, and the dreaded spider trap was
behind her. That was well. Thankfully she moved on. Oh the cruelty of
it! She was back--there it was! there it was! Sobbing, she sank down
to hide it from her despairing eyes. Was she losing her senses
completely? Was it not her fancy? Let her try to think calmly and
clearly as a test. This dead child that she carried, and whose face
she had not seen for hours; yes, that was right. The baby was Mina's,
and Mina--wait a moment--was Andrew's wife. But no--she would not
think of that. Oh, God forgive her! not Andrew. Yes, she was perfectly
sane, but till she got out of this she had better not think of anyone.
No, for her head was again bursting. How like the sound of that hornet
beating against the skylight! No; the sound of the emu it was, only
hers was a double beat that sprang from both temples and increased her
tiredness and unendurable thirst. Oh for just one small mouthful! Now
if she had a cupful, first she would drink a little, then wet her
temples. What a waste of time to sit there thinking of these things!
Was it late? She closed her eyes to rest them, that they should when
open the better determine if there was a change, but a scorching red
flame flared through her closed lids, and, screaming, she rose, and,
without the child, ran stumblingly. Coward, coward, that she was--she
went back to it, and waited till her heart stilled. Ah! now, indeed,
she was becoming disorganized, for certainly for hours--indeed, all
day--she had been wandering about, without a plan.

At length, repassing the empty grave that she had hollowed for her
chilly burden, the cobweb, the leaning tree, and other objects,
convinced her that she was walking in a circle. She might as well sit
still. It was getting late, but, thank God! cooler, but if night were
coming a fire would be better than the thick darkness and awful quiet
of the one past. Yet no, not a fire: it would only increase her
thirst. Besides, if she dozed, it might creep up and set her alight.
Again she ran, till barred by fatigue. Was ever agony so great as this
thirst? Why, even Christ on the cross could not endure thirst and
loneliness, though He suffered all other agonies uncomplainingly. But
when He said, 'I thirst, I thirst' a sponge dipped in vinegar was held
to His lips. Vividly the scene stood out. Why did she hold up her
lips? Who was there to wet hers? One thing was certain, if instead of
going on she stood there thinking about herself, she would perish--die
of thirst. Die! that was the word; she had kept it at bay before, but
now it was useless to try, dangerous also, for fear of death must spur
her on. But she went a few paces only; then again saw the leaning
tree.

What a most peculiar thing that was, the leaning tree which earlier
she had passed--oh, surely long ago--days and weeks ago; and why did
she pass it? Why? she wondered, and her enfeebled mind rested in this
futile query. Oh--screaming--she knew why. She was lost in the Bush,
and, as long ago, she called, 'Andree, Andree!' Now, now, she was
growing like a child. A child! Worse, for when a child she had
conquered herself, and had governed her desire to scream after that
Sunday, standing out even now as a force that shaped her destiny. She
thought coherently about it for a few minutes. Would she now like to
be Henry McGrath, dead, drowned; no thirst, no pain--no Andree? No,
no; thank God! no: she was alive, and but for her aching head and
burning thirst--Oh, why did she think of that?--she walked rapidly.
The sand here was surely deeper and hotter. Yes, for some storm long
past, alas! had felled almost a pathway in this wilderness, and there
were blazed trees bordering it. Who had barked them? And why? Where
would it lead? she wondered. It seemed like a track, and she went
along it hopefully till a new danger threatened--a snake, coiled
reposefully; she was very close before she saw it, for its colour
scheme was a tribute to its environment. Noiselessly it raised its
head, and steadily its green eyes watched this invader, and when
convinced that she was a menace, a forked tongue protruded from its
head, swinging to and fro pendulously. Keeping her eyes upon it,
fearfully she backed away for some distance, and as it did not pursue,
she turned and ran a few paces. But was she between it and its nest?
If so, it would catch her, no matter how swiftly she ran. Besides, she
must go back and do battle with it. One thing, she had not screamed
and had felt little fear; that was well, to conquer the emotion of
fear. Now she would go back and fight it, for never could she feel
safe with such a fatal foe at large. She went back, or she thought so,
but there was no snake. She was too late. All her life she had done
this thing to everyone--to herself--even to Andrew. Surely there could
be no harm in thinking of him when it was in self-condemnation. How
long had he been away? Could she remember? Thirteen months exactly,
and this dead child was a month old. The fright had done her good, and
now, while her head was clear, she must make her way out. While she
was counting, let her reckon how long it was since she last drank? Oh,
it was such a ridiculously long time that she laughed. That was best,
to laugh! She would do that whenever she thought of it--laugh; but the
Bible, the bitter, mirthless Bible, said tears were better than
laughter. She could not cry, even though this little one she loved lay
dead in her arms.

She walked backwards and forwards, as though to soothe her lifeless
burden, till, tripped by the vines, she fell. She lay still, till
suddenly she recalled the snake. Stifling a scream, she rose and
rushed along heedlessly till exhausted. 'Mercy! mercy! Water! water!'
she called, then waited, but there was neither.

Now, again, she would make her greatest effort to be calm, and think
and plan. What she wanted to find was--[visualizing giddily]. Where
was the dead plain split by the empty river? Ah! all the plain was
trackless now, lying dead, with its many sun-sucked open lips, dry as
her own, turned to the relentless sky. Yet she had seen on it the
green grass, undulating like a sea. How clear her mind was--the sea!
looking steadily before her. Oh, oh! for her heart-beats nearly
smothered her. Nonsense! she could not see the sea nor plain, and,
beside, the sea was salt and the plain bare. No movement now on it but
balls of roley-poley, hurled along by dusty whirlwinds. Even the noisy
galahs that nested in the trees along the river--bank were gone. But--
trembling violently--not the snakes. Often, how often, she had crept
out in the night, and, quivering with the brooding silence, looked
across the great stretch of land, and from it turned to the sleeping
house. And that night of nights when he left--ah! that was her shame
and this her just punishment! She struck her dry mouth, hungry even
now, and sobbed fiercely.

Thank God! if she had wept then, it had been when the lights were
out. God! was that a snake! No; only a trailing coil of sarsaparilla,
but very snake-like. And why should she torture herself? Those
lustrous things (regarding them earnestly) were glittering leaves and
not rain-drops. There was no water, nor snakes, only vines; but there
was no need to stand still tempting them. She ran till her nervously
throbbing heart nearly suffocated her. Now! Now! She was becoming
disorganized; running made her open her mouth--her hot mouth, dry as
the plains. And the weight of this dead baby, but--she ground her
teeth and clenched her hands--she would carry it to the end. No
fancies now; she remembered everything. She was lost, or Bushed--no,
had just missed her way, and would find it by-and-by. There were no
snakes but that one back there, which, looking back, she did not fear.
First, she must find water, even before the plain or river. Still,
even that had water-holes--filthy, evil-smelling, and studded with
dead sheep--yet the water, the green, slimy water-holes, swam before
her temptingly. Resolutely she closed her eyes. It was only burning
sand, not water; nevertheless, her hands met it. She steadied herself
by a sapling. She was not mad, only light-headed, and unable to think
safely. The glare this way was dazzling her. She faced another way and
laid the child down, then with her uncertain hands she pressed hot
circlets round her hotter head. She believed it was swelling, and very
soon it would burst. Now, where was the plain? To the east, where the
sun rose. Well, there was the sun; but though it was past noon, she
did not remember, and, taking up her burden, she went westward.

Again, and by degrees oftener, she fought and conquered her
frenzies, She was not on fire, but her skirt nearly caught that
blazing streak along that creeper. A little while back and she would
have thought it a snake on fire. Was it? was it? She gathered her
skirt tightly round her. No use that, for there was another burning
snake and yet another. Breathlessly she flung her skirt off, and,
demoralized by the blood-red, she stripped off, all but one, to swathe
and uphold the child.

She stood and looked in terror at those coiling creepers; after all,
they might be sleeping snakes. One thing, snakes were supposed to be
deaf; giddily and laboriously she tried to step free and not disturb
them. What if her noisy boots should wake them! She drew them off. Ah!
that was wise, for they had not moved nor wakened; but the burning
heat of that blistering sand on her feet--oh, she must get back to
water! She shrieked, and a wild disorder mastered her. She ran,
calling, 'Water! water!' Then for a merciful interval all faculties
became suspended, and she fell and lay with her head on the child.

Had she found water? Surely something cool--feeling the cold body--
then groping beyond, she hoped that when she touched the water it
would not seethe and boil. She crept forward--yes, she must crawl
along the plank carefully, and not rush into it and get bogged, like
those eyeless sheep.

Oh, those awful crows. The crows! They were there, and had been for
some time, circling round her. She shut her eyes, and threw out her
burdened arms, beating back those black brutes. Getting up, she ran
till she fell; then, lying face downwards, with one arm and hand she
held the baby's closed eyes protectingly to her bosom, with the other
hand preserving her own precious eyes.

Water, water, everywhere water, and not a mouthful to drink, because
she dare not open her eyes, so near were those crows' cawing hoarsely,
'I'll 'ave 'er eyes out! I'll 'ave 'er eyes out!' She would creep with
her eyes so close to the ground, so close that they--Ah! again the
snake, its head and tongue hidden, but betrayed by flaming flashes of
crimson along its sinewy length. Down with the dead baby, till her
burning hands uprooted and tore it apart; then--regarding her victim--
there was no blood either. Of course not: snakes were bloodless. How
strong she was to be able to tear it to pieces, and she gloated for a
while, and alone went onward; but remembering the child, she went
back, guided to it by her fibre victim. She strangled many tough-
throated enemies afterwards, but her greatest she could not banish--
the crows; yet even they, though circling and cawing insistently,
were, because of her increasing weakness, sometimes ignored.

Oh, if only it would rain and fall into her parched, upraised mouth!
God of heaven!--no, God of earth!--send rain, and let it fall on her
hot head and thirsty mouth. She waited expectantly, but only the 'I'll
'ave 'er eyes out!' of the crows answered her. Ah!--bitterly--when
would God hear or answer her? When had He ever? To Him she would pray
no more. What was that up there descending from that tree? (watching a
gohanna). The devil? Yes, surely. She could not pray to him, but might
tell him of her fearful need. She began, but at the sound of her voice
the reptile deftly reversed his head and tail, and crawled nigher
heaven. She waited till he had stopped, and, with his head turned over
his shoulder, looked down on her. Now, if he would listen, she would
confess, since now she did not love Andrew. No, all that was past. Ah,
how foolish she was! What did sin matter to the devil, for, as though
in disbelief and derision, his scaly majesty had thrust out his tongue
at her, and climbed higher.

His unbelief and thrust-out tongue gave tone to her savagery. No
matter how high he climbed, she would make him hear.

But it was only for 'Water, water, water!' that she called, till her
dry throat throttled her words, and she fell, and so lay in giddy
stupefaction, then suddenly became possessed of a peculiar knowledge.

Ah! now she was in hell, and could see the flames of hell shooting
round her. However, she felt she must put them out; but throughout her
rain of dust and brambles, she shouted defiance at the devil, again
watching her, till speech died and she again fell, and lay so long
that the crows ceased cawing, but circled lower.

Then instantly and marvellously the burning sand changed to water.
Water, water! She had been calling and praying for water, and she in a
bath--not cold, certainly, but water. Gloating silently, she laved
handfuls of hot sand over her, her mind alternating sanely and
insanely. Not so much, or she would drown--no, smother. Now, now, what
about that dead creature? Where was it? Into this bath with it. Where
was it?--feeling about. Then she again forgot it. Ah! this was
tasteless, unsatisfying water, and blinded her aching eyes without
cooling her hot mouth; still, she must drink it. No, she must struggle
up--staggering to her feet--for she would neither like to drown nor
smother.

Oh, the horrible droughty dust! the wretched sheep must be rushing
the water.

'Back! back! you thirsty, eyeless brutes, raising such stifling
clouds of dust. Back! back! or by the Lord I will grab one of you by
the throat and--and--' No! no! never; she would not drink blood. Poor
frightened wretches! Come on! come on! she must make way for them, but
she must make haste and get away. What was she groping for? What had
she lost? Ah! the child--the dead child. God be praised! there it was,
and unhurt by the crows, perched quite close to it. She had baffled
them, but she could not go far while the earth rocked so, nor could
she see. Great God! what was wrong with her eyes?--feeling them. Had
the crows--'Haw, haw!' they cawed mockingly, as they ascended, but
only a few feet. No, only the dust from those sheep had filled her
eyes and her mouth. Dry! dry! wiping it out--drier and hotter than the
brick oven where long ago she had hidden from God, and now God was
hiding from her. Huskily and hoarsely she called Him, then waited,
watching the sky. But there was neither sign nor sound till the crows
cawed, 'Cor-pus Chris-ti! Cor-pus Chris-ti!' 'Body of Christ!' she
invoked. Yes, there, on that tree, begotten of what Bush--mother, hung
the crucified Christ--eyeless, with a tangle of wild hair and beard,
His white arms extended crosswise, and His bare body glistening
bloodlessly, save for the red blood that had trickled and clotted from
His wounded side.*

[* 'Christ on the Cross' is frequently to be found on trees in the
Australian Bush--a tangle of shredded bark for hair and beard
surrounding an eyeless face. The white-armed boughs stretch cross-like,
and even the wounded side is represented by the crimson
congealed gum.]

She laid the child between them and knelt: appeal in her upraised
hands: in the strained eyes sympathetic, reverent awe; but her
droughty mouth was dumb. As from emotion, the drooping spearheads of
the sentinel leaves quivered, she also, but Christ kept silent and
still; she lowered her eyes. Along His glittering bare skin a bulldog
ant crawled intently toward the speared side. Her heart bounded
indignantly. How dare it? With trembling tenderness for Him, she drew
it off. It stung her--no matter; but had it stung Christ? And she laid
her burnt swollen lips where its hold had been on Him, then again
raised her eyes to His. But He could not see with those sightless
eyes. Ah! the awful crows! They were there, hovering over her head,
had not lost sight of her since she fell first. Ever and ever should
she stay by Him and keep them off. And the flies! Oh, horrible!
horrible!--watching intently those eyeless sockets. Had she, like poor
Mary, come too late? Hastily she broke off a bough to beat back those
buzzing horrors.

In the greatness of her work she forgot her droughty pain. Always and
always she would stay beside Him. None should touch Him. No soldier
dare again thrust a spear in His side. Stay--His side! What flowed?
Blood--and--water--flowed--water! Her mouth gaped. Blood--and--water!
Water! Violently her heart beat; stealthily she took a step nearer the
wounded side, mouthing something. Back a step, then again forward.
Maddeningly fierce was the struggle. No, no, dear Christ; fear not,
for she would not drink His precious blood. Sobbing, she fell at His
feet. She was thirsty, dear Christ--how thirsty!--and tears were salt,
feeling her dry eyelids, and involuntarily placing her fingers on her
tongue. How swollen it was--more swollen and painful than her stung
hand! Ah! that bond between them; and she rejoiced that she had dared
that for Him: now forgiveness. Never such a face as hers, imploringly
upturned to Him.

From above His head a strip of bark descended--a sword. Submissively
she bowed her guilty head, but it fell clear. Still she waited, her
lips voicelessly twitching. How merciful He was! and mercy ever begot
her penitence. But--but though He knew her need, He moved no hand to
hold a sponge, dipped even in vinegar, to her burnt lips. Ah! how
could she forget? He also thirsted for water. 'I thirst'; and they
gave Him a sponge dipped in vinegar, but He could not drink that. Dear
crucified Saviour! she would bring water. But first, where was the
sponge (groping for it), because how else could she carry it? And if
her own lips were only cooler, she would find water quicker.
Fumblingly she groped and groped, till the burning blood gushed from
her nose and mouth; then, mercifully, her tired senses swooned, and
she fell with her head resting on the tree.

Her mind was clearer when she recovered, but she woke to the same
holy purpose. In this tender Shepherd's care she would leave this
lifeless lamb till she found water; then in her palms, hollowing them,
she would carry it to Him.

Exalted with this divine mission, she went downhill, her soothed
senses unnaturally acute, keenest of all sight. The blazed trees,
along the track instinctively selected, held no meaning for her. No
thought now for whether she were going right. Swiftly down Mount
Calvary Hill slope she went; nor had she wonder when, in the hollow
beneath, she saw the lagoon. Only she turned round to cry to Him that
she had found it, and would return speedily. Stay, let her first be
sure, lest she deceive Him, for what could be worse than her past
fancies? No, this was no fancy. Water, water, water! Knee-deep she
went into it, clutching it greedily, then clenching her hands
determinedly, for her swollen tongue kept apart her teeth. Not one
drop would she drink till He first drank, then bade her! Down, down
dropped her burning head and desiring, droughty mouth to it, yet
resolutely she fought. Out went her hollowed palms--full, nay, they
were overflowing; then, surely, she might stoop and drink the drips.
Oh, shame on her--she that would cheat Christ! Listen--yes, He was
calling her name!

'My Christ, I come--I come!' she called back.

No heed how to find Him, and speedily as her palms, cradling the
precious water, permitted, she went on. Oh, sad that she dared not
run, but she--

Why had those crows so suddenly uprisen? What prey had they found to
mutilate here? What great swollen creature was that lying there,
blocking her way? Was it one of the Marys? No; none of the Marys had
red hair. See, here on the ground lay a tuft of it, and the woman's
clenched hands were full of it. She was fearful, but she must go
closer. She looked intently at the distorted face. The eyes were
gone--but the familiar pointed teeth were showing in the widely gaping
mouth.

For a second she resolutely battled to beat back her sense of
recognition; then she wrestled with her sense of duty. This water she
had so carefully carried was for the thirsty, waiting Christ, not for
this woman, her enemy, whom she had hated. How cruelly bitter was this
battle!--bitter from uncertainty. 'For inasmuch as you did it unto the
least of these--'

'Mina--poor Mina!' who had not been guided to the water as had she.
Pityingly, into that open mouth trickled every drop she held.

Alas! even now she had not done right. She had only wasted the
water, for Mina was dead, and the deceived Christ was again calling
her name.

Who were these carrying the dead child coming from Him towards her?
Two soldiers? No; one was a centurion. She thought the tall one was
like--like--Why, even the soldier, the dark one, with the dead child,
was like, so like--But if the women of Jerusalem were dark, so must
the men be. But this other, bearded, was fair and merely burnt with
the sun. Surely he was only--No! no! she--she closed her eyes.

Oh, of all the bitter cruelties that her fancy had played on her,
surely this was the cruellest! But she would not be deceived; they
were merely the soldiers come for the body of this woman. She must not
betray Mina, or they would cast her dead body to the dogs, like
Jezebel's.

'Soldier'--speaking to the dark man, then slowly turning to the
other--'and centurion, I will come to Christ next. This poor woman--
this'--watching intently the tears raining from the centurion's eyes--
'I--I'--moving back from his outstretched arms--'I--'

'Ursie!'

A great sob broke from her; then--

'Andree!--'



THE END

This site is full of FREE ebooks - Project Gutenberg Australia