THE COACH COMES TO SURPRISE
Next day Power kept his promise, and rode into Surprise as soon as he
could. He let go the horse in a yard, and tramped the stony stretch
which lies before the house. Outside the accountant's office he came
across Mr. Neville and Maud. He heard Maud's cry, "Well done, Jim," and
the old man waved a stick in the act of pouncing on a passer by. Maud
came up in great glee.
"How quick you've been. I was not expecting you till sunset."
"I've had good luck. They're a strong lot. Mick O'Neill is taking them
to the hollow. You must ride out with me to-night for a look at them."
"But I can't, Jim. And I'd love to. These wretched people come to-day.
Don't you remember? I can't leave them to father the first night."
"I forgot them. Hang it! that settles it, I suppose."
"We're on the way to meet the coach now. Come along. You have nothing
else to do, have you?"
"I'll come, of course. You ought to pull that hat down, girl. Your face
is getting burnt to bits."
"You said you liked me brown."
Old Neville was hard engaged with the passer by. The two people heard
his harangue, and saw him blowing cigar smoke in a hurry. Soon he drove
the enemy through the office door, pursuing him hard in retreat. At
once Maud went close to Power.
"Jim," she said, "I've been so nice to father all day. He is splendid
just now. As soon as you get him alone, ask him about our marriage.
He'll be reasonable this time, I know. I'll find you a chance. Why,
Jim, what's the matter to-day?"
"Matter with me?"
"Yes, you're down on your luck, aren't you?"
"You are always thinking something, Maud."
The thread of talk was broken, and they wandered into the office with
nothing to say. It was built of iron sheets, held together with wooden
beams. Frequent ledgers and other dreary volumes took their rest upon
the tables, and files of ageing papers dangled by strings along the
walls. The dust of spent willy-willys had found the upper shelves,
and many an industrious fly had left a lifetime's labour on ceiling
and woodwork. The corpulent cockroach walked here after the heat of
the day, and the spider spread his net in the loftier corners. For at
Surprise a happy line is drawn between the must-be and the need-not,
and the word "broom" is not used among the best people.
The place was full of a sickly heat, but the day was Saturday, and
King only had stayed behind. They found him writing at the lower end.
Half-way down Neville had secured his victim between a table and a
chair. The person in this unhappy case was an elderly man of a very
broken appearance. He might have been a gentleman a long time ago. His
hair was grey, but a moustache of any colour you please drooped over
his mouth. His eyes were pale blue, with a blink, and his chin grew
a day-old stubble of beard. He wore round his neck a collar of many
washings and a doubtful ironing, and a tie in a limp old age. He wore
no coat, which is the summer fashion; his trousers were of khaki stuff
and wrinkled meekly at his boots. The toes of his boots leaned up in
search of something kinder than the stones. On the little finger of
his left hand showed the signet ring of the house of Horrington, of
Such-and-such Hall, England.
Prosperity and Mr. Horrington were coldly acquainted. Horrington was an
idealist among men. Some pass their days mapping out new continents,
others knit their brows over the printing press and the steam engine.
Horrington had resolved on reading the riddle of how to build a fortune
within call of a hotel and without hard work. He had met with poor
success. He had eschewed hard work, and he had lived within reach of
a hotel; but prosperity had shrugged shoulders at him. Devotion to an
idea had lost him the affection of his cousin, Sir John; had found him
a passage to Australia; had drifted him presently from town to bush.
Unable to contend singly with ill-fortune, he had married a faded
woman, who took him and his burdens, no one knew why. Mrs. Horrington
painted a little, sang a little, worked her needle a little, played
the piano a little--and these arts she taught the daughters of those
parents who are not exacting if terms be cheap. So Horrington had kept
constant to his idea. But the lean times had brought the pair to an
alien land. For at Surprise they paint only when a new coat is due to
the poppet-legs, and only ply the needle should a wall need repair. At
Surprise the mouth-organ and the concertina soothe the ache for higher
things.
The old man came to an end of his breath.
"Sir," Mr. Horrington began with a certain dignity. "You will own I
have heard you with patience."
"Eh?" the old man grunted.
"And I repeat I have every right to complain on finding myself put on a
beggarly allowance of water at a moment's notice."
"We may be doing a perish before the rains come."
"Why, Good Lord! sir, what's a kerosene tin of water to a family? My
wife is not a strong woman, and like all women in poor health, she's
ready to blame others for her shortcomings. She has it at the back of
her mind that I make a difficulty carrying the water; though, Good
Lord! I've scraped my shins often enough on the tins. When I turned
up with a single bucket this morning, and the goat had to go short,
she put the blame at once on me. She wouldn't listen until she saw for
herself the tanks were locked. Then home she went to throw herself on
the bed. 'Never enough wood chopped to light a fire, now no water to
wash with, not a soul to speak to, never anything to look at'--that's
what I listened to until I left the place."
"Where did ye go to?"
"I had an appointment."
"Near the hotel, I reckon."
"Your joke, sir, could be in better taste. I had business with one of
the shift bosses."
"At the hotel?"
"We did happen to meet at the hotel."
"He, he!"
"Because I have been unfortunate, sir, I think there is no need for
rudeness. In a politer country, where I have ridden my twice or three
times weekly to my cousin's hounds, I----"
The old man broke up the audience with a flourish of his stick.
King left his work when Maud and Power arrived. "Oh, Jim, I've
just remembered." Maud called out. "Mr. King was down at the river
yesterday, and saw the pretty girl. You know whom I mean? Mr. King
hasn't been the same since. None of his balances came right this
morning. He said she was the loveliest thing he had ever seen. Didn't
you, Mr. King?"
"I expect so."
"Jim, you must see her, just to tell me it's true what they say. Would
you think her the loveliest thing in the world?"
"I don't know."
"Don't look so glum over it. Will you go and see her?"
"I have seen her."
"You? When?"
"On the way home when I left you last time."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"I didn't think of it."
"You stupid! And what was she like?"
"Like? Oh, she was very pretty."
"Is that all you can say? Tell me about her. What was she doing?"
"Doing? I don't know what she was doing. She had a lantern in her hand."
"You want shaking, Jim! Mr. King told me much more. Didn't you look at
her? Mr. King said a hundred shadows were at hide-and-seek in her hair,
and when he came to talk about her eyes, he sat down--the words in his
mouth stopped his tongue moving."
"Perhaps that is why Power says nothing now," King said.
"I hope not," Maud cried quickly. And she fell to teasing. "No, poor
old Jim was thinking of his bullocks when he saw her."
"What should I have thought about, the cattle or Moll Gregory?"
"Neither. You should have been thinking of me. I see you know her name."
"Yes, I've learned that."
King shut up the ledger with a bang. "That's enough for Saturday.
What's next? A smoke, a drink or the coach? I vote a drink."
"I vote the coach," Maud cried.
"Here's a cigarette," said Power. "You must find it hot here of an
afternoon."
"I do. The sun gets round on to the wall, and I feel as charitable as a
woman with an empty woodbox."
"You ought to give up this uncomfortable bachelor life, Mr. King," said
Maud. "You ought to go down South and marry some nice girl."
"Alas! my purse is not as full as once it was. A fool and his money are
soon parted, they say. I should have to marry a girl with money, and a
girl and her money are equally soon married--by someone else."
Neville came up behind. "How ye do chatter, Maud. We'd better get along
to that coach. Who's coming? King, ye had better come along." He jerked
his head over his shoulder. "Hey, Horrington, ye can tell your wife
she can have what water she wants and I'll be by to see you carry it."
Marching four abreast, they passed out of the office.
Surprise is not a beautiful place. The hills holding it are the
greenest in that country, and lean up and down in gentle curves. But
the bottom of the basin has grown shabby with much use. Patches of
sand cover it, in company with clumps of spinifex put out of repair by
disillusioned goats. The tents and humpies of the camp rise up on this
in seedy and unordered rank, and low-born fowls doze at the doorways.
In the middle of the congregation stands one building somewhat more
gracious. A glittering roof protects it, and there is paint upon the
walls. Above the doorway runs the legend--Surprise Valley Hotel.
On Saturday afternoon they keep holiday at Surprise. It is then the
butcher kills for the second time in the week, and Mrs. Bloxham, Mrs.
Johnson and Mrs. Niven meet at his lean-to for Sunday's dinner and a
half-hour gossip. They find talk until the coach arrives. About the
same time, Bloxham, Johnson and Niven put an eye to their premises,
pulling together a hole in the wall here, a slit in the roof there.
They, in due course, turn steps to the hotel for the coming of the
coach. At four o'clock, about that place, you find all the best people
of Surprise.
The party from the office took the direction of the hotel. Old Neville
with a great play of his stick held the lead. He kept the talk his way.
Said he: "I can't make out what this fellow is coming for. Bringing his
wife, too. She'd as well been left behind. He wrote something about
coming for a holiday, being in poor health or something. It beats me
what he thinks to find here. He'll be leavin' by the first coach, I
reckon. I shan't mind. I've too much on hand to be trotting round with
beef tea. Maud will have to see to them."
"Selwyn is the name, isn't it?" Power said.
The old man nodded his head. "Huh, huh! There was an assayer of that
name here once three or four year back. There was no houses then;
didn't scarce run a tent, and he and me and a couple of other fellows
was camped where the stable is. He had some damned silver thing
something like a flute, and one night a feller out of pity asked him to
play it. It was the horriblest row ever you heard. The chap that asked
him made some excuse and went so far away he nearly got bushed. He went
on playing till near midnight, I reckon. When we were all asleep the
damned row woke us up again. I sits up and lets fly in a great rage:
'For God's sake, man,' I said, 'a fair thing is a fair thing. We've
listened to you half the damned night already. D'ye think,' says I--and
then I see all of a sudden it was the dingoes howling. He, he! Huh,
huh, huh!"
"Father, you put a bit to that story every time."
"And it's not everyone knows how to do that, my girl."
"Hullo, here's a new place," Power said. "You've grown it since last
week."
"Smith, the schoolmaster," answered the old man with a jerk of the
head. "He's doing his week here. I mean to catch him home if I can. I'm
the man for a gentleman that lets his horse into my feed-room."
"Let him alone, father. He is hunted enough without you. You must have
seen him, Jim. He's the man that looks as though something is just
about to happen. He's married to a book and never gets past the first
chapter. We ought to be sorry for him. He's meant for a town. I don't
know what brought him here. Let's be romantic. Perhaps he loved some
girl and lost her."
"In that case," King said, "I'll keep my sympathy. There are enough
mourners for the man who has loved some woman and lost her. My heart
goes out to the man who has loved some woman and can't lose her."
"Huh, huh!" cried the old man from the lead. "Ye needn't pity him,
Maud. He has some woman to follow him round."
They had come to a couple of tents standing solitary. Neville rattled
in the doorway of the first with his stick. "Hey, there, who's home?"
The tent door was open for the world to look inside. At a table,
consisting of a large board placed on a couple of travelling bags, Mr.
Smith sat writing. An armful of books was at his elbow, and a litter
of papers had tumbled round his heels. He was a man of fair complexion,
going early bald on top. He sighed with great melancholy when the knock
came, and put a hand to his forehead. On top of this he conjured up a
mechanical smile and rose to his feet.
"You, Mr. Neville? Turned hot, hasn't it? Can I do anything?"
"I suppose ye know your horse had its head into my chaff half the
morning? The last ton ran me up eighteen shilling a bag."
Mr. Smith shut his eyes. "I've driven it over the other way twice this
afternoon," he said. "I sat down five minutes ago."
"I'm talking of the morning."
"I was at school then."
"That don't put my chaff in the bag."
Maud came to the front. "That's enough, father. I hope the horse had a
good dinner. It does the Company good to give away a little chaff. How
is the book getting on?"
Mr. Smith shook his head. "According to the time-table the third
chapter would have been finished this week, but everything is turning
out against it. I am afraid this life isn't conducive to study, and my
unfortunate poverty precludes me from obtaining the necessary reference
books. Directly I sit down, there's the dog to put out, or the cat to
put in, and, honestly, as my name is Pericles Smith----"
"Perry!" a woman's voice called from somewhere, "there's a wretched
goat at the flour."
"Instantly, darling." Mr. Smith closed his eyes. "I live in the hope of
getting an hour to myself one day; but for ten years----"
"Perry, there's another goat joining it."
"At once, dear. I suppose I shall write the words 'Chapter Four' some
day, but----"
"Well, I'm not going to stay here while you chatter any longer,"
interrupted the old man, moving off, "and you, Smith, you look after
that horse of yours or ye'll find yourself reading a pretty long bill."
They came away with Smith still in the doorway.
"I wish he wouldn't make me laugh. I am so sorry for him," said Maud.
King made answer. "It's not the best of lives this, packing up for
somewhere at the end of every week, knowing the sun will be at the back
of your neck all day, and a dozen wild children wait at the journey-end
for the ABC to be knocked into their heads. I am content to stay plain
John King."
"A man can say he has put a good day's work behind him," Power said,
"and that's as well. It helps to pull his thoughts straight at night."
"Jim, you are taking life so heavily to-day. I had to cheer up Mr. King
this morning because he looked too long at the pretty girl. Now you
have caught the blues somewhere."
The butcher's shop stands on this side of the hotel, and on Tuesday
and Saturday the butcher stands behind his block, and chops your fate
up with the meat. Mrs. Niven, Mrs. Boulder and Mrs. Bullock grow very
humble when they go a-shopping. It is "Mr. Simpson, and how's the heat
been using yer, and is there any chance of a bit o' the silverside this
time?" And "Mr. Simpson, and I suppose the flies is worrying yer a
treat, and I take it it's my turn for the undercut." And Simpson, with
a to-do of knife and steel makes answer. "Now, I'm givin' wot there
is, and I'm not givin' nothing else, and if yer aren't satisfied, yer
can go elsewhere. I reckon the next butcher isn't farther than Mount
Milton, and I reckon Mount Milton isn't more than seventy mile."
"Aw, you are gettin' at us, Mr. Simpson," comes the timid chorus.
The bakery stands between the butcher's and the hotel, presenting
itself to the world as a building of wood and bagging of a very
cutthroat appearance. Mr. Regan, baker, being a man of parts, turns a
pleasant sovereign or two in the little "Crown and Anchor" saloon at
the back. A couple of nights a week the policeman looks in to run the
bank for an hour or so. It's "Now don't stand feeling yer corns there
as though yer ole woman was watching. Choose yer crown, and pick yer
anchor. The dice aren't loaded more than my old grandad's gun was, and
I never see him try to blow to bits anything stronger than his nose.
Come on, gents, every throw a crown, and every chuck an anchor. An'
don't forget time's flying, as the monkey said when he 'eaved the clock
through the winder."
They took their stand under the hotel verandah. In twos and threes
Surprise strolled to the meeting ground. Neville waved his stick
a dozen times and grunted a how-de-do and shouted. Mr. Horrington
appeared presently, and later disappeared; and others of note swelled
the congregation. In a doorway loitered Barcoo Bill, as graceful a hand
at duffing a horse as you might find this side of the border. Into
stout argument had fallen one-eyed Sal, who, armed with a crowbar, and
fortified with a bottle of Dewar's best, had once upon a time defeated
the only policeman in a single round go-as-you-please affair. In a
patch of shade kicked his heels Iron-jawed Dick, who, for the price
of a drink, had lifted in his teeth a table laid for dinner. Other
people--tall and short, lean and stout--took their stand up and down
the way, and kept ever the tail of an eye on the horizon. Dusty curs
mooched about, and sat down suddenly to beat their stomachs with a
back leg. At half the posts were hitched high-rumped horses with rusty
saddles a-top of them.
The walk in the sun had left King a good deal the worse for wear. He
pulled forth a handkerchief and pushed it about his face. "If," said
he, making an end, "things are ordered properly in the world to come,
we shall have a special heaven to ourselves. There the sun will totter
through the sky in a mild old age, the rivers will run water, the goats
will come home to be milked, and the woodbox will never empty. And
an angel will wait at the gates holding out a flypaper in place of a
flaming sword."
"Hey?" cried the old man in a sudden excitement. He was beating his
stick at the distance.
. . . . . . .
The five goose-rumped horses, in a lather of sweat, and chastened with
a great following of flies and dust clouds, had lumbered the coach to
the top of the last rise, and the first tents of Surprise, and the
poppet heads of the mine were marching into view, as Mrs. Selwyn stated
for the third time on the journey that she did not know whether she
was on her crown or her toes. From the box seat, Joe Gantley, mailman,
steered his team with bored fingers, jerking his head to the right
now and then to clear his throat, and spitting the flies from his lips
on occasion in an every-day sort of way. Selwyn and Mrs. Selwyn were
packed beside him, where the sun leaned down, the dust climbed up, and
there was perpetual prospect of heaving flanks and clicking hoofs.
Mrs. Selwyn had come to the struggle in a dust coat and a veil of many
folds; and in face of a hundred difficulties that massive woman had
lost no jot of dignity, remaining to the end a most inspiring spectacle.
Selwyn had made the best of a bad place at the end of the row. By a
judicious play of elbow and hip he had widened his share of matters,
and now could lean a little easier and find a bit of support for the
hollow of his back. He had grown shabby from the funnel of dust rising
from the top of the wheel, but he was not a man to be put about by
small matters, as he was always very ready to let you know.
Hilton Selwyn, a director of the Surprise Copper Mining Company, and
gentleman of no other special business, was at this time between fifty
and fifty-five, but lean and active in spite of middle age. Cleancut
in feature, upright in carriage, he suggested the military man, and
his youthful step would have passed him as any age. It was only on
discovery of the thinned grey hair and close-clipped tobacco-stained
moustache that one understood half a century had gone over his head.
Half a century had gone over his head and health had become
treacherous. He could crawl through a swamp at dawn on the chance of
an odd teal, and come home to a thumping breakfast; but two minutes
weeding in the garden brought on sciatica. Similarly he could stand
all day in a drizzle of rain persuading a trout to rise, and more than
one biting July breakfast-time had found him half naked worming a way
across the lawn of his country place to a flock of pigeon feeding in
the timber; but indoors his only seat was right over the fire, where he
took the warmth from everybody--as Mrs. Selwyn was often good enough to
tell him.
It was to get himself into better fettle that he sought the present
change of scene. He woke up one evening of last winter from his
after-dinner sleep in the best arm-chair. The waking up was a delicate
matter. He gave two long drawn-out yawns. He shot a fist into the air
and stretched slowly, rolled himself into a sitting position, blinked
once or twice, screwed up his face as though he had a bad taste in the
mouth, caught hold of the mantelpiece and pulled himself on to his
legs. He rocked about a little, screwed up his face again, and at last
quite woke up. His hair was like a storm at sea, his tie was crooked,
his dress clothes were creased.
In the manner of a man announcing news of deep interest he spoke:
"I feel a little better now. I think I deserve a cigarette." He felt
in his pockets for his cigarette case. He looked on the floor, in the
fender, and under the cushions of the arm-chair. "Dear me! Where's my
cigarette case?"
"You don't think I have it, do you?" Mrs. Selwyn asked coldly. She had
been playing hostess to a couple of friends while the host slept.
"I don't know where it is; it's not here, anyhow." A terrific frown
came over his face. "This accursed habit of tidying is making the house
impossible to live in. One puts a thing down, and the next minute some
interfering meddler picks it up and hides it, and then forgets where
they put it. Curse everybody!"
Mrs. Selwyn grew very stiff. "Is this language meant for me? I shall
not submit another moment to it. I am very pleased your cigarette case
is lost. I hope it has gone for good. You are a perfect plague with
your things. It is very good of anyone to touch them at all. In future
they can lie where they drop as far as I am concerned."
"I hope everyone else will be equally kind. There may be a chance of
finding things then. Life's not worth living as it is, with a troop of
women following one about picking up every little thing one puts down
and then losing it."
Selwyn shouted at the top of his voice. "Jane!" The parlourmaid came
in. His smile was charming. "I've lost my cigarettes, Jane. They are
nowhere to be found."
"The case is on the mantelpiece, sir, in the library, where you left it
this afternoon."
"Ah!" Selwyn saved an awkward situation by finding a pipe and cleaning
it. Mrs. Selwyn watched him keenly. He cried out suddenly.
"You women amuse me. You live in an agony of unrest in case a bit of
ash gets on a chair or rug, and shorten your lives with the excitement
of finding a fishing-bag with a few fish in it on a drawing-room sofa
instead of in the kitchen. There never was a woman yet with a true
idea of comfort. Hullo! chocolates here. They don't look bad at all."
He proved his words by diving into the box and bringing out a handful,
which he munched with obvious satisfaction.
"I believe in a man liking sweets. It shows he doesn't drink." He
munched on a moment or two. Then he smiled with the charm that deceived
guests into believing him a solicitous host. "Now who is going to play
or sing? I am sure none of you are entertaining Harry as I should have
done had health allowed. By the way though, I did hear some music. I
think I must have been asleep. It was that sherry we had at dinner.
It's a fatal thing to wet one's whistle with. A glass or two of sherry
followed by the genial blaze of a good fire on the pit of the stomach,
and the case is hopeless. I expect these chocolates will play up with
my hollow tooth. It's a sad thing to arrive at my time of life and
begin to feel oneself giving way everywhere. I can't get about as I
used to. A hard day's shooting knocks me up." He shook his head in
deeply sympathetic manner.
"Haven't you done enough talking about yourself?"
"I'm talking because I'm the only one here with any ideas of
conversation. You are all sitting like a crowd at a wake before the
whisky is passed round."
"You give everybody a racking headache."
"I'm very sorry. I don't know why, but there it is, I never get
headaches."
"Nothing would ever kill you."
"You needn't be so annoyed about it. As a matter of fact I've not been
at all well these last few months; only, unlike other people, I make no
fuss about it. I've a thundering good mind to see a doctor to-morrow. I
jolly well will."
Great matters followed on that little upset. The rocky state of his
health came as a thunderbolt to Selwyn. His medical man said an entire
change of scene and climate was absolutely needful. What better place
than Surprise where every worry could be put behind? With a fishing-rod
and a gun-case in the baggage a man should be good for a six-month's
stay. Mrs. Selwyn began with a stout refusal. She knew as well as she
was alive the affair would end disastrously. She had a presentiment
some calamity was waiting. She could foresee with her capable brain how
unfitted Hilton was for the whole business. Her heart was in her mouth
at the mere thought of the journey. And look at the expense. "Think
of my purse!" she cried. "Think of my pocket!" Finally she fell into
agreement, so as to be at hand to say "I told you so."
Thus it came about that a fiery November afternoon found the
Selwyns covering the last mile of the journey. The back of the
coach was a-choke with wares. The mail bags shared the bottom with
the Selwyn luggage, and a round dozen of other parcels held the
hopes of as many women at Surprise. Mrs. Niven, Mrs. Bloxham, Mrs.
Anybody-else-you-please, lured by a catalogue, had summoned them in a
halting hand weeks before, and had spent spare time counting up the
days to their coming. On top of this bundle of wares, in no ways a bed
of their choosing, were chained Selwyn's proved bodyguard, the sharers
of his board, almost the sharers of his bed. They were a mangy pointer
of great age, and a terrier with a punishing jaw. The pointer had
fallen into a miserable doze; but the terrier yet nursed hope of sudden
calamity, and kept a quarrelsome eye at half-cock.
With a crack of the whip, a spurt from the goose-rumped horses, and a
stir among the waiting congregation, the coach rolled to a standstill
before Surprise Valley Hotel. Such was the manner of the Selywn coming.
. . . . . . .
That evening it wanted half-an-hour to the rise of the moon when Power
left Neville's verandah for his horse and the journey home. The lights
were going out over all the camp. Maud followed at his side for a
good-bye. The old man fussed after them as far as the back door.
"Don't chatter too long, gel. I won't be left with them people, d'ye
hear? I may be wrong, but I think it won't take me time to be sick o'
the pair of them. I may be wrong, huh, huh! Goodness! Look at the lid
off the dustbin again. That woman don't do a thing she's told. Look at
it! Some people breeds flies for a fancy. Hope ye have a good trip,
Power. See you again in a week."
The hill begins at the very backdoor of the house, and lifts a wide
breast of broken red rock into the cooler spaces. There are many seats
about the top, and all breezes go that way. The poet, the refugee and
the sighing swain thither may turn steps to find easement of their
state. But few visit the hilltop, for the poet has no place on the
books of the Surprise Mining Company, and the refugee need not take
such a lengthy journey, while love ever keeps its hiding-places ready
at hand.
The old man turned into the house, and Maud Neville put her hands on
Power's shoulders. "A few minutes don't matter, Jim. This is our first
time to-day. We'll go up the hill a moment."
They went up there, and sat down upon the warm, red rock. The camp
was a few points of light in the dark; but many white stars filled
the sky in old places--the Cross to the South, the Belt to the North,
the Scorpion where you must crane the neck to find it. In such a dark
lovers must sit closely if they would not be lost.
"Jim, to-day has been a failure, hasn't it?"
"I didn't mean it to be."
"You have had the blues all day, and those wretched people came before
I could cure you."
"I shall be back in a week, Maud."
"I had worked father so hard, and all for nothing. I know it was not
your fault. There wasn't one chance."
"I'll have a pipe now we have sat down."
"See the stars marching into their old places. What a lot they see. Do
you think they look right into us?"
"Let us hope not."
"Do you love me, Jim?"
"Must I say it again?"
"As much as you say you do?"
"I forget how much I said."
"Because sometimes ... well ... sometimes."
"What happens sometimes?"
"Ah, Jim, is there always to be a 'sometimes?' Why do I have always the
little stab at my heart? Is the whisperer true who says I do most of
the loving?"
She heard no answer.
"Sometimes I am afraid of what waits for us. And always I love you
very, very much. No, no, I am not afraid. I am now the wise woman.
Along the road my heart has come I have found the thorny places, but I
am learning to tread them with a shrug of pain and to march on where
the way opens out. There are aloes in the sweet cake of love; but let
us eat, for the spices will forget the aloes. The cook cooks well, but
he has not all the ingredients to his hand, and they go hungry who
demand only the stars for food." Her arms found his shoulders. Her
kisses found his lips.
"What an eloquent little tongue you have, girl! How can I find the
words to answer you?"
"Don't talk a minute." But she herself spoke again in a little while.
"Time goes by."
"It does."
"Two years ago we were strangers. We got along without each other. How
funny that! What did you find in me to want me? Jim, aren't you ever
going to answer to-night?"
There was no answer.
"Friend Jim, do cheer up."
"I'm cheered up. Things are wrong to-day. I don't know why. These
things happen sometimes. My fault, no doubt. The bush is a good enough
place, girl, but it doesn't do to start thinking there."
He put silence to flight by getting to his feet. "I must stand watch by
midnight. A week will bring me back again. We'll say good night here.
Good night."
"Good night, Jim. Seven days are flying towards me on damaged wings."
"Good night again, girl. Let your blessings follow me while I am away."