SUMMER DAYS
In this far country spendthrift November used up one by one its days.
Each fiery noontide pulled the sun a little higher into the sky. His
way was set in a wide field of blue, where seldom came one timid
cloud to loiter an hour and float fearfully away. The season of the
rains drew near; but as yet was no sign of the storm wrack, which
drifts up evening by evening and drifts away--a herald of the deluge
which presently shall burst upon the land. Night, hot and passionate,
followed night, hot and passionate--each night roofed with high white
twinkling stars. The Scorpion was falling from his lofty place, and
Orion carried his sword and belt up from the horizon.
In the mornings of those long November days as the eight o'clock
whistle blew shrill from the engine house, the men of Surprise Valley
descended into the bowels of the hills, there to drive and to stope,
to put up their rises and put down their winzes, to employ hammer and
drill in the damp places and in the hot places, to push their trucks,
to set their fuses, to batter with their spluttering machines until
the day was worn out, and the five o'clock whistle called them to the
surface. A strange land theirs of gloomy tunnelled ways; a land of
shadows dancing before moving candles; a land of roofs which dipped and
soared; a land of grim, cheerless walls and floors, patched with damp,
where black holes opened out and ladders led up and ladders led down;
a land of changing colours as here and here the green copper looked
out from its hiding place. In such a country lived the men of Surprise
Valley between the two whistles of the day.
At the house of Mr. Neville, manager of Surprise, November was accepted
with small complaint. Many a dawn of day, every set of sun found Selwyn
striding like an honest man into the bush. Lean and pinched he showed
at early morning, hat tilted jauntily forward, cigarette end pushed out
below his clipped moustache, trusty gun under hooked right arm. Leaner
still he looked at evening, as he followed his long shadow across the
ground, marching towards a gully in the hills, where one might blunder
on the Lord knew what--kangaroo, wallaby, or even a python. A python,
be Gad! at one's very back door!
Each November morning Mrs. Selwyn, after privately counting off one
more day to departure, took a book to the verandah, and sat in the
cool to read a little and observe a good deal more. She was discreetly
watching for evidence of the truth of Hilton's news. It was more than
likely that he had got hold of the wrong end of the stick; still it
was worth while discovering if there was anything in the story. If
there was truth, the girl certainly had no inkling of the matter. She
looked a little tired and worried now and then; but this impossible
country would wear anyone out. It was a shame to think of her buried
here indefinitely. She must think about asking her down for the summer.
Thank goodness half the stay was over. Their rainy season began next
month, and she was going to make certain of not being cooped up here
then.
Of that household only Maud Neville found November more miserly of the
hours than October. She was living her tragedy alone.
She explored the frailties of the human spirit--found the heights it
could climb in a courageous hour, and followed it down into dark ways.
It seemed angel and devil waited on her, clanging in turn for entrance.
When she opened to the kind spirit she grew careless of her own hurts,
and only was glad that she loved a man who was in trouble and whom
she might have skill to help. When the demon came in at the door he
whispered her she was a woman who loved a man, and who had been loved
by him once upon a time. Now, with lips which had kissed her, the man
kissed the robber who had stolen him away, and held that robber in the
arms which once supported her. At such times she cried she was learning
to hate this turncoat. If presently he would come riding up to sit
beside her with long face, she would cry, "Begone to your child who
bids you click and unclick her gate."
One terrible minute spent at this time with her father, more than all
her resolutions, saved her from the melancholy which was falling upon
her, and determined her to carry abroad again an untroubled face. She
stood in the dining-room before lunch, trifling the moments away, when
the old man stamped in, hat cocked to one side, pipe in mouth, heavy
walking-stick in clutch. He was flushed from the sun and short of
breath; but he blundered to the attack.
"Hey, Maud, what's this that's running round the place? Jim Power
playing the double business with you. In a mess with that girl of
Gregory's. I may be wrong, but I reckon I know how to settle that kind
of thing. I may be wrong, huh, huh! No man plays fast and loose with a
girl of mine. I'll have the blackguard kicked off the lease next time
he----" The old man came to a standstill.
She had shown him a face grey with rage. Her words were colder than
drops of ice falling upon snow.
"How dare you come in like this, father, blustering your way into a
business where you have no concern! Jim and I can keep our house in
order, and our very best thanks to you. How dare you come in like this,
father, without apology to us?"
The old man took his pipe from his mouth the better to meet the attack.
His shaggy white eyebrows bristled. "Goodness! girl, don't lose your
head like that. I heard wrong, I reckon, in the town just now." He
put back the pipe in his mouth and gathered confidence. "Well, that's
all to be said about the matter, Maud, only a bit of news to remember
is--nobody plays the game of do-as-you-please with my daughter. I may
be wrong, huh, huh!" Then he scrambled about and went out of the room.
While the slothful lips of November counted away the days--if at that
time Maud plucked all the strings of the lyre, and sounded high melody
and awaked rough discord; if she fingered all the stops of feeling,
the man she loved made music no less wild. As hope shuttered her
lodge behind him, as despair came as neighbour to his street, he grew
careless of opinion, thoughtless of the future, and with an appetite
eager only to lap clean the dish of the present. Love was revealed as
a light, blinding him who looked there to all but its brightness. As
he stumbled towards it, calling out loud for a veil, it moved away.
All his hurry and loud cries brought him no nearer, as a man may climb
mountain upon mountain and never reach the stars.
As he grew mad, he grew wise with a cheerless wisdom. He rode to the
river; he rode away; again he rode to the river. To-night he held in
his arms the child he loved, and covered her with kisses. To-morrow
he would hold her thus again. But ever Love fled him as he came. Ever
Love turned in flight to mock him. Ever Love danced away on rosy
toes. Strange teaching this--that a man can own the House of Love,
and stamp adown the house from garret to cellar, and not on one couch
find Love awaiting him. This child would lie in his arms through long
minutes, would kiss back his kisses at his command, and press back his
embraces--and all the passion spent on her passed over her, as when
the clouds open on an autumn day, and the sun runs across the waiting
field. As he sealed her eyes with kisses, behold they were sleepy with
dreams another had laid there; as he stopped her mouth with his mouth,
the taste of another's lips sweetened her own. Who knows that if her
shallow little soul had cried to him then down the distance that his
spirit might not have found sight and seen the poor thing it pursued.
So Love might have wearied in the chase. But because this small thing
fled him, he must snatch up his torch to follow, and among the high
shadows of its leaping fire, surely one was the shadow of the thing he
hunted.
He grew a tattered hermit of the woods who said good-bye and stole back
as the night grew old to glide among the trees and watch the light fall
from her doorway. Hither and thither he passed, that he might hear her
laugh from here, that his ears might woo her voice from there, that
now her shadow might cross the window as ointment for his eyes. The
flying-foxes saw him at his watch, and high above the tree tops white
stars stared down.
The light would go out in her hut, and for a little while the ghost of
a light would peer through the pale wall of her tent. Did she pray in
those few moments as she robed herself for sleep? Was she kneeling in
that poor tent at her rough bed, vestured in white with her shining
hair fallen unlooped about her? Did her straight white narrow feet push
under the hem of her gown, with toes bent upon the surly ground? Did
she remember him in the little prayers that fluttered up to God? Did
she whisper a man loved her, who was in sore need of help? No. In her
brief life she had scarce heard the name of God. Her rich body was her
prayer.
Hush! The light behind her wall is quenched. She is folding herself
for sleep. The stars lift their thousand candles above her. The forest
shall be the posters of her bed. These great bats fluttering across
the dark shall carry her kind dreams from utmost places. Hush! Another
pilgrim comes among the waiting trees, but not to stay like him with
lean face peering among the trunks. This pilgrim steals into the open
and raises the soft doorway of that darkened chamber. See her go in
with warning finger, poppies wreathed about her hair, poppies climbing
up her staff. She has gone in, and on the drowsy lips of that young
child has placed the largest poppy of all to rub out his rough kisses
of the day.
Aye, now the child sleeps, and no longer need he creep wakeful here,
fingering the rough bark of trees, and stepping clumsy on loud twigs.
He can take himself home, and from his own tumbled bed shout loud on
timid Sleep to remember him.
Sweet child who lies secure there, where now is your little soul
fleeing? What ripe field does it find for its walks? What wide-armed
trees hold out their shade to meet it? What flowers lift up their
perfumed cups to spy who passes? What painted birds cast out their
crystal notes from bush and briar to hail it? What purple hills pile up
behind to hide the shabby land where by day it is compelled to dwell?
Sweet child, in pity tell this tattered watchman that he may lace
winged sandals to his feet, and in a brighter country sweep forward in
the flight.