THE BAR OF DESTINY
The atmosphere was heavy with smoke and liquor odours. Behind the
glass-filled counter stood the smiling, amiable barmaid, a shapely
woman with auburn hair, powdered cheeks and liquid brown eyes. Rees
made his way to the left side of the bar, where there was more room,
ordered his drink, then took it to a small table by the window and sat
down. The coarse voices of the men, the vulgar thick laughter, the
smoke from bad cigars and foul pipes, filled him with instant loathing.
So this was what he had come to--sunk to now! He was in the gutter
again. His face grew paler; his lips set harder. Then he looked round
the room once more. The rough crowd about him were miners and men from
the township; some had a fair amount of education and some had none.
But they all seemed to meet on an equal footing there; some strange
bond had drawn them to a common level. They gathered round the littered
besplashed counter, elbowing, pushing, joking, laughing, hiccoughing.
As Justin watched them his mind went back to scenes he had witnessed
in the long past in London at railway stations, whence trains went to
the worst slums of the East End. There had been jostling crowds round
the ticket office, sordid, untidy, battling poverty-stricken masses of
humanity, with sallow faces, fiery eyes, loud harsh voices, insolent
ways--with a look of brutal determination to get tickets and board
the trains rushing towards the destination: that abyss of squalor,
foulness, iniquity, gloom, despair; that whirlpool of anguish, hatred,
pollution; that blemish on civilisation and humaneness--the East End of
London, as it was in the “’nineties.”
Justin thought of these scenes now as he watched the men crowding at
the bar. It seemed to him as if they, too, were thronging some great
station, and with the same look of brutal determination as the East
Enders demanded tickets to some repellent horrible destination, which
the smiling barmaid dealt out in her pleasing, bantering way.
Suddenly his attention was drawn to a young Irishman, who was
evidently the centre of interest in the room just then. He was a big,
fine-looking fellow, with pale blue eyes, now looking foolish and
expressionless through over-indulgence in the insidious liquid filling
his glass.
“I am going to see the Premier,” his ridiculously high-pitched voice
was saying, “and I’ll give him my vote at the General Election if he
will put me on the Bench and make me a Justice of the Peace--not many
Irishmen on the Bench--time they put on a few more--he shall have my
vote at the General Election if he will make me a----”
“Pity your mother didn’t make anything better of you, sonny,”
interrupted a loud voice from the thronged counter.
The Irishman smiled vacuously. “My mother said to make me a priest.
But I--think--she--would--rest--in--her--grave, if her son was made a
Justice of the Peace in the little island of Tasmania.”
“You a priest!” roared the others. “Guess you haven’t any propensities
that way, me boy! What about celibacy--that suit you--eh?”
The silly smile lingered on the flushed young face. “Gosh no!--no
celibacy for me! Give me a girl every time--a pretty girl too,” and he
glanced meaningly at the gorgeously dressed barmaid.
But she was not looking at him. Her attention was occupied just then
with the handsome stranger in the riding suit sitting apart, frowning
over his untasted glass. What was he doing in this room? She was
certain he was out of his element.
“Let them make _me_ a Justice of the Peace,” and the young Irishman
threw out his chest, put his thumbs in his waistcoat and blinked round
on his noisy listeners.
“Get out with you! Who is going to make you Justice of the Peace?
Reckon you know more about breaking it!” hiccoughed a burly-looking
miner.
“I’ll tell the Premier he shall have my vote at the Election if he puts
me on the Bench----” reiterated the monotonous high-pitched voice.
The barmaid saw a look of utter loathing and contempt pass over the
stranger’s lean set face. Then as if he made some terrible resolution,
he lifted the glass to his lips and dashed the contents down his
throat. The expression of disgust gradually disappeared and a burning
look came into his large grey eyes. He rose, went over to the counter
quickly and asked for his glass to be refilled. She attended to his
demands. This time he did not return to the small table, but drank at
the counter like the others. His manner changed. He no longer regarded
the rough crowd with disdain; all at once they seemed to amuse him and
he even smiled at the absurd voice of the young engineer as he babbled--
“Great thing to be on the Bench--you just wait till I get there--great
honour that.”
The others roared afresh. Rees glanced up at the barmaid and asked for
another whisky. All his aloofness had vanished and there was an eager
friendliness in his eyes as they met hers.
She glanced at him archly, but behind the archness which had become
second nature to her by this time was something else, something which
held pathos, sadness, almost entreaty as she said: “If you have any
more you will want to be made a Justice of the Peace too.”
“Would you like to be made a Justice of the Peace?” asked the foolish
high voice, as the youth turned to Rees.
“What about making a priest of you, boss?” suggested a man with fierce
black whiskers and closely set bleary eyes.
The others laughed boisterously. “Make a priest of him--oh golly, he
isn’t the bloke for ce-li-ba-cy either!”
“Like a kiss or two and a pair of arms round your neck--don’t blame
you--a man is not a man if he can’t take his glass and a kiss!”
But Rees did not hear the gibes; he was absorbed in the barmaid, who
was constantly filling his glass; and somehow, to his benumbed and
muddled brain, it seemed as if it were Iris standing there before him,
pouring the amber fluid a little reluctantly into his tumbler.
When he had drained it he made a lurch forward towards the woman
leaning slightly over the counter, and looking into her eyes he
suddenly began to sing--
“Drink to me only with thine eyes!”
There was instant silence. All laughter, the shuffle of feet, the
clink of glasses, the thick talk, ceased--even the young Irishman
forgot his ambition for the moment--as they all listened spellbound to
the marvellous voice ringing out its exquisite tones into the heavy
atmosphere. It was just a little louder than usual, a little thicker,
but it still held its wonderful melting sweetness. When he had finished
there was a tense pause; it seemed as if the music had subdued the
sordidness, the coarseness pervading the room. But only for a few
seconds, then the absurd voice rang out--
“I’ll give him my vote at the General Election if he----”
“Shut up, you blooming young idiot!” a voice shouted to the engineer,
then, turning to Rees, the man said, “Sing us another song, boss?”
The driver had been looking at the barmaid all the time he was singing
and his handsome grey eyes had regarded her with a tenderness which
made her breathe unevenly and fast. “Sing again,” she urged, with a
touch of earnestness.
Rees felt certain now that it was Iris pleading with him. Why shouldn’t
he sing to her? They loved each other, and, after all, other things did
not matter. Yes, he would sing to her the song from the cave--the song
which had made her quiver in his arms. But before he commenced he asked
for more whisky. The woman behind the counter shook her head a little
sadly. “Men who sing like you should not drink,” she said, but she
refilled his glass all the same.
He drank hastily, then began--
“I’ll sing thee songs of Araby.”
His tones were a little husky now, but they were still touchingly
beautiful. He had forgotten the men and the place he was in; he was
only there with Iris, alone with the woman he loved, and when he sang
the words--
“And all my soul shall strive to wake
Sweet wonder in thine eyes,”
he suddenly laid his hand on the firm plump arm of the barmaid and
looked longingly and deep into her brown eyes.
She caught her breath and lifted her face nearer to his, and, as she
did so, all at once he bent over and kissed her after the last note of
the song.
Uproarious laughter pulsated through the room. The spell the music had
cast over the rough listeners was immediately broken.
“By gad! He won’t do for a priest!” cried a miner, and hiccoughed
painfully. “That kind of life’s no good to him!”
During the song two men had made their way to the hotel, and, hearing
the remarkable voice, stopped outside the bar and looked in through the
open door.
“Good Heavens, what a voice! Whoever is he, do you know?” the
bank-manager asked, turning to his companion.
“No, I haven’t the faintest idea,” replied his friend, a solicitor from
the township.
The older man looked hard at Rees for a few seconds, then recognition
dawned in his eyes.
“Great Scott! that is Miss Smith’s driver down at the caves; what in
the name of fortune is he doing here? Always thought him a decent
chap--but what a voice! Look, he has just kissed the barmaid, and he is
as drunk as that young Irish fool.”
“If he’ll make me a Justice of the----” droned on the high-pitched
voice.
The tall bank-manager strode through the crowded room to the counter
where Rees was standing and his eyes shot cold fire at the barmaid as
he thundered: “Don’t give that man another drop; can’t you see he has
had far too much already? Is he staying here?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What is the number of his room?” he demanded.
“Number eighthen, sir.”
Saying a few words to Rees and laying a firm hand on his shoulder the
manager led him quietly out of the room.
The high-pitched voice of the engineer floated up to them as they
ascended the stairs: “I think my mother would rest in her grave if
they make her son----”
“Good God!” murmured the bank-manager as he steadied the driver’s
swaying footsteps along the upper corridor. “Why doesn’t the law close
these hellish saloons and save our men from this revolting degradation?”
Downstairs in the middle of the room stood the young Irishman, drinking
and hiccoughing between the words, “I--think--my--mother--would--rest--
in--her--grave----”