THE MEETING BY THE RIVER
Power dismounted. He was full of tiny pains and the cold was beginning
to eat into his bones. Neville had pulled up the buggy near at hand.
The old man was plastered with mud to his shaggy eyebrows.
"Hey, Power!" he shouted out. "What's become of the gel?"
"We were too late."
"Goodness, that's a nuisance! Get out, Maud, gel. I want to get down."
The two people got down from the buggy. "Now that's annoyin'," went
on the old man, feeling under the seat for his stick. "Nearly killed
ourselves getting here, too. I may be wrong, but I reckon the horses
won't be much good for a day or two, huh, huh! Here's what I was after.
It's looking a bit more settled over there now. The rain may be gone
for a while."
Scandalous arrived across the mud.
"Hold this horse," Power said. He delivered it and walked forward to
meet Neville. They had not met for many days and saluted each other
abruptly.
"The gel's drowned after all, then, Power?"
"Yes."
"You would have thought a gel like her would find sense to look after
herself. No sign of her anywhere about?" The old man cast glances up
and down the bank.
"We'll search lower down to-morrow."
"Yes, I reckon that's all there is to do. It's not much use hanging
round here gettin' cold. The river came down pretty quick and pretty
big. Gracious! What's up with King! Goodness, he's badly hit!"
The old man trotted away after King.
Maud stood beside the buggy. She was looking at the river. Power found
himself watching her. She was wet through and blown about by the wind;
but her gaze was steady as it followed the rush of the current. Of
those who had hurried here in panic, she only was serene; yet the
schoolmaster had set her the severest tasks. It must be she was the
aptest pupil. Power tried to follow her thoughts. She was finding a
symbol in the river. It had rushed down with a great cry upon this
quiet place, snatching away the old landmarks. Its fury would wear out
presently, and over the wrecked country a kindly growth of green would
make its way. That was what she saw.
Power fell into reflection. Two months ago he had found Gregory
sleeping a drunken sleep on the road, had taken pity on him and had
led him home. In the doorway of a shabby tent beside the river he had
seen Molly for the first time. Two months had gone by since then, and
for sixty days he had lived life more acutely than he had believed
possible. He would not wish to live life so keenly again. He seemed
to have travelled in every country. He seemed to have lived in every
climate. He seemed to have climbed every height and to have gone down
into every dark way. All books had been opened that he might look
inside. All strings of experience had been plucked that he might listen
to new notes.
These two months were at an end, and there seemed no more countries
to visit, no more climates to test, no more heights to climb, no
more depths to descend. The books were being shut. The strings of
experience were growing mute. Instead of turning his ears to siren
voices, he listened again to the speech of everyday. In place of fields
of asphodel, he trod again the highway. It was time to see where he
stood--to add up gains and subtract losses.
Strange that the metal must pass through the fire before the artificer
will receive it. Strange that a man must experience sorrow before
wisdom will shape him to its ends. Yet such burnings need not be
considered punishment, such sorrow need not be counted degradation.
He had served his apprenticeship to love and now might call himself
craftsman. He knew where to chisel with his tools--not in the poor
material of the human body, but in the enduring fabric of the spirit.
He had learned this craft, and the fee of apprenticeship had been that
he had put aside unrecognised the finest material that would come under
his hand.
He came out of his reverie and found Maud watching him. He went towards
her through the pools of water.
. . . . . .
My tale is told. While nine months have been wearing out, I have come
back, night by night, to this tent, a scribe who would beguile the
hour with the telling of a story. The tale is told to the last word.
Put down the pen; run in the horses and saddle up. It is time to seek
new places. The railway line creeps across the plain to Surprise; and
growth and change will fall upon the camp to devour it. Take down the
tent, fill up the tucker-bags and load the pack-horse. It is time to be
gone.
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_November, 1917._
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