DELIVERANCE.
They camped that night on a clear little flat, close by the river,
and again Kitty found a 'possum for them to eat.
"If it hadn't been for you, Kitty, I believe we should have died of
hunger long ago," said Smith. "You're a darling."
"Ain't she just," cried the Baker proudly. "Kitty, my girl, when we
gets into a town, and you 'as your 'air trimmed, and gets a good
dress on you, you'll be the belle of the ball, that's what you'll be."
And he explained to her in simpler language that she was very
good-looking, which was indeed true, for her figure was magnificent
and her walk perfect. If her feet and hands were rather big, that
was nothing to the Baker, and her carriage would prevent any male
critic from being severe on minor details.
"But I'm sorry for Kitty when she gets among the so-called civilized
lot," said Smith. "They will be for tearing her in pieces."
"I'll tell them she carries poison in 'er finger nails," said the
Baker, "and you see they'll be civil. Besides, we'll be rich, old
son, and if Kitty's rollin' in gold, she can wear skins and eat
lizards if she likes."
And Kitty, who was beginning to get curious about the women of her
lover's tribe, inquired about their manners and customs. The Baker
got so entangled that Smith fairly screamed.
"'Old your row," said the Baker, "and you an old bushman, too. You'd
bring black-fellows from ten mile, you would."
"That's true," said Smith; "I forgot."
But, then, to hear the Baker distinguishing in terms of the East End
between a lady and one who was not a lady, was too exquisitely
ridiculous, especially when his pupil in the difficult art of social
estimation was one to whom every term he used was blank mystery.
For, roughly speaking, Baker's definition of a lady amounted to
asserting that a woman who could go out on Sunday in a pony-cart was
one. And if she or her husband kept a public-house, was no doubt of
her status. Smith refrained from upsetting any of the Baker's
statements, but the notion of Kitty in Whitechapel, was not to be
endured.
"You won't take Kitty to London, will you?" he asked.
"Of course," said the Baker. "D'ye think I'm ashamed of 'er? She'll
bang the 'ole crowd."
"But she won't be happy, Baker," said Smith. "If you want to do her
a good turn, you'll buy a big cattle station when we land the rhino."
"Do you think so?" asked the Baker.
"I'm sure of it."
"It's not a bad notion," said the Baker. "And I'll 'ave a real swell
governess from H'england to teach 'er the tricks. And are you goin'
'ome, Smith?"
Smith nodded.
"I'm not going to do any more mining, old man. I'll float a company,
or get a syndicate together, to come out at once, and take up the
mine. And, Baker, you keep your mouth shut. If we come across any
one, pitch them the beastliest yarns about the country. And don't
let Kitty give us away."
"I see," said the Baker. And they turned in for the night.
They walked next day along the river bank without much difficulty,
for the country was fairly free of scrub. They camped at noon, and
made a dinner of smoke. For Kitty could not find them anything but a
few grubs, which they were not yet hungry enough to eat. They were
hungry enough, however, to lose some of their spirits. It was all
very well to talk about London, as if they were out of their
troubles, but were they out? They did not know in the least where
they were. They might yet be a thousand miles from the mouth of the
river, they might be eaten by black-fellows any day, and if they were
in no immediate danger of thirst, yet hunger fairly walked with them
cheek by jowl. No, the end was yet unknown.
But as Smith lay on his back a little apart from the others, it
seemed to him once or twice that he heard a curious noise in the far
distance. It was so faint that he could not be sure, and he did not
draw the Baker's attention to it. Sufficient for the day was the
hunger and trouble of it.
Still, he did hear something at intervals, and it made him uneasy.
Was it like the cry of some distant and strange bird, or what was it
like? It might be some black-fellow's call. He got uneasy, and,
rising, walked to the river's bank, passing the Baker and Kitty, who
were both asleep in the shade of some ti-tree scrub, which came out
on their flat.
He lay down where he could get a view of the stream, and hearing
nothing, began dreaming about England, and the troubles that had sent
him to the devil. He had been very weak. He wondered if any woman
was worth it all? He decided that the Carrie of his dreams was worth
it, and fell asleep.
He woke half an hour later with a strange sound yet ringing in his
ears, and as he awoke, he looked across the river, and saw a party of
black-fellows running as if for their lives. They were not coming
their way, and in any case, the river was between them, so he lay
still and watched. As the aboriginals ran, and disappeared in the
thicker bush, he heard a peculiar and strange throbbing.
What could it be? He turned to call the Baker, but as he turned his
head, there was a tremendous whistling scream, which echoed through
the bush, and woke the others for him. They came running.
"What is it?" said the Baker, as Kitty clung to him.
And Smith tried to speak, but could not. He pointed down the river,
A steamer was coming round the point! This was then their
deliverance, and the very seal upon his luck.
"What is it?" cried Kitty. "Can you kill it, Baker?"
But he took her in his arms, and hugged her till she cried out.
"It's all right, Kitty," he said; "it's only a white man's fire
canoe. Don't be scared."
And pulling out his revolver, he fired it into the air, dancing like
a mad-man.
In twenty minutes, Smith, the Baker, and Mrs. Mandeville were on an
exploration steamer which had come from King's Sound, and had tried
their river.
They were received as if they had risen from the dead, for an account
of their probable loss had been published in all the colonial papers.
Smith found he knew the engineer, and in five minutes they were
seated in the stuffy little cabin drinking bottled beer. Kitty, who
was the admiration of the whole crew, refused it in terror. But she
was glad to eat what they gave her.
"Where did you pick her up?" asked the captain.
"It's a long story," said Smith, and he gave them a rough outline of
their adventures.
"And no other luck?" he asked.
"No," said Smith, "and there's no need to go any further. It's not
navigable for more than thirty miles now."
He told them the story of the river sink.
Then the gentleman who was the scientific head of the small party,
tried to interrogate Kitty. She shook her head, and referred him to
the Baker, who spun him a yarn that got into print, and was
universally and most rightfully disbelieved. For the Baker
considered that the real yarn was Smith's, and that Smith's
injunction to keep the gold dark was a sort of general order to
mislead every one in every possible way.
The expedition returned to the Sound in about a fortnight, and Smith
raised enough money to take them south, and to carry him to England
on his errand of finance. But before he went he saw Kitty dressed in
the garments usually affected by the women of the tribe to which her
husband belonged. For the Baker considered it his duty to marry her,
and he did so, in spite of Kitty's violent remonstrances.
The ceremony, which was witnessed by a larger crowd than had ever
gathered together on a similar occasion in the whole history of
Western Australia, affected her nerves worse than the desert of pits,
and to this day she cannot understand why it was necessary, or what
good it did her or those who saw it. Among the crowd were Tom the
water-carrier and Hicks.
It is possible that Smith's, or rather Archibald Gore's, wife may
have explained the meaning of the ceremony to her. For, two months
after Smith left for England, the Baker received a cable from him:
"Syndicate formed; am coming out with wife. Sailing to-day."
"Smith's coming out, Kitty," said the Baker, when he received it.
"I'm glad," cried Kitty.
"He's got a wife, too," said the Baker. "I suppose it's bound to
'appen to a man if 'e only lives long enough."
"Yes," said Kitty; "and will she like me?"
The Baker looked at her indignantly.
"If she don't, she ought to come through what we went through, old
girl. And 'ave you alongside to show 'er what's what."
For the Baker was firmly convinced that Mrs. Mandeville, in spite of
some eccentricities, was absolutely the best woman in the world. And
what she did not know about civilisation was compensated for by what
she knew of the bush. When he got that governess out, he had great
hopes of his wife's taking a prominent position in society.
THE END.
_Printed by Cowan & Co., Limited, Perth._