She rode slowly down the steep siding from the main road to a track in
the bed of the Long Gully, the old grey horse picking his way zig-zag
fashion. She was about seventeen, slight in figure, and had a pretty
freckled face with a pathetically drooping mouth, and big sad brown
eyes. She wore a faded print dress, with an old black riding skirt drawn
over it, and her head was hidden in one of those ugly, old-fashioned
white hoods, which, seen from the rear, always suggest an old woman.
She carried several parcels of groceries strapped to the front of the
dilapidated side-saddle.
The track skirted a chain of rocky waterholes at the foot of the gully,
and the girl glanced nervously at these ghastly, evil-looking pools as
she passed them by. The sun had set, as far as Long Gully was concerned.
The old horse carefully followed a rough bridle track, which ran up the
gully now on one side of the watercourse and now on the other; the gully
grew deeper and darker, and its sullen, scrub-covered sides rose more
steeply as he progressed.
The girl glanced round frequently, as though afraid of someone following
her. Once she drew rein, and listened to some bush sound. “Kangaroos,”
she murmured; it was only kangaroos. She crossed a dimmed little
clearing where a farm had been, and entered a thick scrub of box and
stringy-bark saplings. Suddenly with a heavy thud, thud, an “old man”
kangaroo leapt the path in front, startling the girl fearfully, and went
up the siding towards the peak.
“Oh, my God!” she gasped, with her hand on her heart.
She was very nervous this evening; her heart was hurt now, and she held
her hand close to it, while tears started from her eyes and glistened in
the light of the moon, which was rising over the gap ahead.
“Oh, if I could only go away from the bush!” she moaned.
The old horse plodded on, and now and then shook his head--sadly, it
seemed--as if he knew her troubles and was sorry.
She passed another clearing, and presently came to a small homestead in
a stringy-bark hollow below a great gap in the ridges--“Deadman's
Gap”. The place was called “Deadman's Hollow”, and looked like it.
The “house”--a low, two-roomed affair, with skillions--was built of
half-round slabs and stringy-bark, and was nearly all roof; the bark,
being darkened from recent rain, gave it a drearier appearance than
usual.
A big, coarse-looking youth of about twenty was nailing a green kangaroo
skin to the slabs; he was out of temper because he had bruised his
thumb. The girl unstrapped the parcels and carried them in; as she
passed her brother, she said:
“Take the saddle off for me, will you, Jack?”
“Oh, carnt yer take it off yerself?” he snarled; “carnt yer see I'm
busy?”
She took off the saddle and bridle, and carried them into a shed, where
she hung them on a beam. The patient old hack shook himself with an
energy that seemed ill-advised, considering his age and condition, and
went off towards the “dam”.
An old woman sat in the main room beside a fireplace which took up
almost the entire end of the house. A plank-table, supported on stakes
driven into the ground, stood in the middle of the room, and two slab
benches were fixtures on each side. The floor was clay. All was clean
and poverty-stricken; all that could be whitewashed was white, and
everything that could be washed was scrubbed. The slab shelves were
covered with clean newspapers, on which bright tins, and pannikins, and
fragments of crockery were set to the greatest advantage. The walls,
however, were disfigured by Christmas supplements of illustrated
journals.
The girl came in and sat down wearily on a stool opposite to the old
woman.
“Are you any better, mother?” she asked.
“Very little, Mary, very little. Have you seen your father?”
“No.”
“I wonder where he is?”
“You might wonder. What's the use of worrying about it, mother?”
“I suppose he's drinking again.”
“Most likely. Worrying yourself to death won't help it!”
The old woman sat and moaned about her troubles, as old women do. She
had plenty to moan about.
“I wonder where your brother Tom is? We haven't heard from him for a
year now. He must be in trouble again; something tells me he must be in
trouble again.”
Mary swung her hood off into her lap.
“Why do you worry about it, mother? What's the use?”
“I only wish I knew. I only wish I knew!”
“What good would that do? You know Tom went droving with Fred Dunn, and
Fred will look after him; and, besides, Tom's older now and got more
sense.”
“Oh, you don't care--you don't care! You don't feel it, but I'm his
mother, and----”
“Oh, for God's sake, don't start that again, mother; it hurts me more
than you think. I'm his sister; I've suffered enough, God knows! Don't
make matters worse than they are!”
“Here comes father!” shouted one of the children outside, “'n' he's
bringing home a steer.”
The old woman sat still, and clasped her hands nervously. Mary tried to
look cheerful, and moved the saucepan on the fire. A big, dark-bearded
man, mounted on a small horse, was seen in the twilight driving a steer
towards the cow-yard. A boy ran to let down the slip-rails.
Presently Mary and her mother heard the clatter of rails let down and
put up again, and a minute later a heavy step like the tread of a horse
was heard outside. The selector lumbered in, threw his hat in a
corner, and sat down by the table. His wife rose and bustled round with
simulated cheerfulness. Presently Mary hazarded--
“Where have you been, father?”
“Somewheers.”
There was a wretched silence, lasting until the old woman took courage
to say timidly:
“So you've brought a steer, Wylie?”
“Yes!” he snapped; the tone seemed defiant.
The old woman's hands trembled, so that she dropped a cup. Mary turned a
shade paler.
“Here, git me some tea. Git me some TEA!” shouted Mr. Wylie. “I ain't
agoin' to sit here all night!”
His wife made what haste her nervousness would allow, and they soon sat
down to tea. Jack, the eldest son, was sulky, and his father muttered
something about knocking the sulks out of him with an axe.
“What's annoyed you, Jack?” asked his mother, humbly.
He scowled and made no answer.
The younger children--three boys and a girl--began quarrelling as soon
as they sat down. Wylie yelled at them now and then, and grumbled at the
cooking, and at his wife for not being able to keep the children quiet.
It was: “Marther! you didn't put no sugar in my tea.” “Mother, Jimmy's
got my place; make him move.” “Mawther! do speak to this Fred.” “Oh!
father, this big brute of a Harry's kickin' me!” And so on.