In happier circumstances the rabbiter's camp would have had less charm
for Moya. Its strings of rabbit-skins would have offended two senses,
and she would have objected openly to its nondescript dogs. The tent
among the trees would never have struck Moya as a covetable asylum,
while the rabbiter himself, on his haunches over the fire, could not
have failed to impress her as a horrid old man and nothing else. He was
certainly very ragged, and dirty, and hot; and he never said "sir," or
"miss," or "glad to see you." Yet he could cook a chop to the fraction
of a turn; and Moya could eat it off his own tin platter, and drink tea
by the pint out of a battered pannikin, with no milk in it, but more
brown sugar than enough. The tea, indeed, she went so far as to commend
in perfectly sincere superlatives.
"Oh, the tea's not so dusty," said the rabbiter grimly; "it didn't ought
to be at the price you charge for it in your store, mister! But the tea
don't matter so much; it's the water's the thing; and what's the matter
with the water in these here tanks, that you should go shifting all your
sheep, Mr. Rigden?"
This was obviously Rigden's business, and Moya, pricking an involuntary
ear, thought that he might have said so in as many words. But Rigden
knew his type, and precisely when and in what measure to ignore its
good-humoured effrontery.
"It's the sort of thing to do in time, or not at all," said he. "You
catch me wait till my sheep begin to bog!"
"Bog!" cried the rabbiter. "Who said they were beginning to bog? I tell
you there's tons of good water in this here tank; you come and look!"
And he made as if to lead the way to the long yellow lip of excavation
that showed through the clump. But Rigden shook his head and smiled,
under two scrutinies; and this time he did not say that he knew his own
business best; but his manner betrayed no annoyance.
Moya, however, contrived to obtain a glimpse of the water as they rode
away. It looked cool and plentiful in the slanting sunlight--a rippling
parallelogram flecked with gold. There was very little mud about the
margin.
"So it is quite an event, this mustering?"
The question had been carefully considered over a mile or so of
lengthening shadows, with the cool hand of evening on their brows
already. It was intended to lead up to another question, which, however,
Rigden's reply was so fortunate as to defer.
"Oh, it's nothing to some of our other functions," said he.
And Moya experienced such a twinge of jealousy that she was compelled to
ask what those functions were; otherwise she would never know.
"First and foremost there's the shearing; if this interests you, I
wonder what you'll think of that?" speculated Rigden, exactly as though
they had no quarrel. "It's the thing to see," he continued, with
deliberate enthusiasm: "it means mustering the whole run, that does, and
travelling mob after mob to the shed; and then the drafting; that's
another thing for you to see, though it's nothing to the scene in the
shed. But it's no good telling you about that till you've seen the shed
itself. We shore thirty-eight thousand last year. I was over the board
myself. Two dozen shearers and a round dozen rouseabouts----"
"I'm afraid it's Greek to me," interrupted Moya dryly; but she wished it
was not.
"--and no swearing allowed in the shed; half-a-crown fine each time;
that very old ruffian who gave us tea just now said it was a _lapsus
lingua_ when I fined _him_! You never know what they've been, not even
the roughest of them. But to come back to the shed: no smoking except at
given times when they all knock off for quarter-of-an-hour, and the
cook's boy comes down the board with pannikins of tea and shearers'
buns. Oh, they take good care of themselves, these chaps, I can tell
you; give their cook half-a-crown a week per head, and see he earns it.
Then there's a couple of wool-pressers, a wool-sorter from Geelong, Ives
branding the bales, Spicer seeing the drays loaded and keeping general
tally, and the boss of the shed with his eye on everything and
everybody. Oh, yes, a great sight for you--your first shearing!"
Moya shook her head without speaking, but Rigden was silenced at last.
He had rattled on and on with the hope of reawakening her enthusiasm
first, then her sympathy, then--but no! He could not keep it up unaided;
he must have some encouragement, and she gave him none. He relapsed into
silence, but presently proposed a canter. And this brought Moya to her
point at last.
"Cantering won't help us," she cried; "do let's be frank! It's partly my
fault for beating about the bush; it set you off talking against time,
and you know it. But we aren't anywhere near the station yet, and
there's one thing you _are_ going to tell me before we get there. Why
did you move those sheep?"
Rigden was taken aback.
"You heard me tell that rabbiter," he replied at length.
"But not the truth," said Moya bluntly. "You know you don't usually
have these musters at a moment's notice; you know there was no
occasion for one to-day. Do let us have the truth in this one
instance--that--that I may think a little better of you, Pelham!"
It was the first time that she had called him by any name since the very
beginning of their quarrel. And her voice had softened. And for one
instant her hand stretched across and lay upon his arm.
"Very well!" he said brusquely. "It was to cover up some tracks."
"Thank you," said Moya; and her tone surprised him, it was so free from
irony, so earnest, so convincing in its simple sincerity.
"Why do you thank me?" he asked suspiciously.
"I like to be trusted," she said. "And I like to be told the truth."
"If only you would trust me!" he cried from his heart. "From the first I
have told you all I could, and only asked you to believe that I was
acting for the best in all the rest. That I can say: according to my
lights I am still acting for the best. I may have done wrong legally,
but morally I have not. I have simply sheltered and shielded a fellow
creature who has already suffered out of all proportion to his fault;
but I admit that I have done the thing thoroughly. Yes, I'll be frank
with you there. I gave him a start last night on my own horse, as indeed
you know. I laid a false scent first; then I arranged this muster simply
and solely to destroy the real scent. I don't know that it was
necessary; but I do know that neither the police nor anybody else will
ever get on his tracks in Big Bushy; there has been too much stock over
the same ground since."
There was a grim sort of triumph in his tone, which Moya came near to
sharing in her heart. She felt that she could and would share it, if
only he would tell her all.
"Why keep him in Big Bushy?" she quietly inquired.
"Keep him there?" reiterated Rigden. "Who's doing so, Moya?"
"I don't know; but he was there this morning."
"This morning?"
"Yes, in the hut. I saw him."
"You saw him in the hut? The fool!" cried Rigden. "So he let you see
him! Did you speak to him?"
"No, thank you," said Moya, with unaffected disgust. "I was riding up to
see whether there was any water at the hut. I turned my horse straight
round, and did without."
"And didn't Ives see him?"
"No, he was with the sheep; when I joined him and said I could see no
tank, which was perfectly true, he wanted to go back for the water
himself."
She stopped abruptly.
"Well?"
"I wouldn't let him," said Moya. "That's all."
She rode on without glancing on either hand. Dusk had fallen; there were
no more shadows. The sun had set behind them; but Moya still felt the
glow she could not see; and it was in like manner that she was aware
also of Rigden's long gaze.
"The second time," he said softly at last.
"The second time what?"
This tone was sharp.
"That you've come to my rescue, Moya."
"That I've descended to your level, you mean!"
He caught her rein angrily.
"You've no right to say that without knowing!"
"Whose fault is it that I don't know?"
He loosed her rein and caught her hand instead, and held it against all
resistance. Yet Moya did not resist. He hurt her, and she welcomed the
pain.
"Moya, I would tell you this moment if I thought it would be for your
good and mine. It wouldn't--so why should I? It is something that you
would never, never forgive!"
"You mean the secret of the man's hold upon you?"
"Yes," he said, after a pause.
"You are wrong," said Moya, quickly. "It shows how little you know me! I
could forgive anything--anything--that is past and over. Anything but
your refusal to trust me ... when as you say yourself ... I have twice
over...."
She was shaking in her saddle, in a fit of suppressed sobbing the more
violent for its very silence. In the deep gloaming it might have been an
ague that had seized her; but some tears fell upon his hand holding
hers; and next moment that arm was round her waist. Luckily the horses
were tired out. And so for a little her head lay on his shoulder as
though there were no space between, the while he whispered in her ear
with all the eloquence he possessed, and all the passion she desired.
In this she must trust him, else indeed let her never trust him with her
life! But she would--she would? Surely one secret withheld was not to
part them for all time! And she loved the place after all, he could see
that she loved it, nor did she deny it when he paused; she would love
the life, he saw that too, and again there was no denial. They had been
so happy yesterday! They could be so happy all their lives! But for that
it was not necessary that they should tell each other everything. It was
not as if he was going to question her right to have and to keep secrets
of her own. She was welcome to as many as ever she liked. He happened
to know, for example (as a matter of fact, it was notorious), that he
was not the first man whom she had fancied she cared about. But did he
ask questions about the others? Well, then, she should remember that in
his favour. And yet--and yet--she had stood nobly by him in spite of all
her feelings! And yes, she had earned the right to know more--to know
all--when he remembered that he was risking his liberty and her
happiness, and that she had countenanced the risk in her own despite!
Ah, if only he were sure of her and her forgiveness; if only he were
sure!
"You talk as though you had committed some crime yourself," said Moya;
"well, I don't care if you have, so long as you tell me all about it.
There is nothing I wouldn't forgive--nothing upon earth--except such
secrets from the girl you profess to love."
She had got rid of his arm some time before this, but their hands were
still joined in the deepening twilight, until at this he dropped hers
suddenly.
"Profess!" he echoed. "Profess, do I? You know better than that, at all
events! Upon my soul I've a good mind to tell you after that, and chance
the consequences!"
His anger charmed her, as the anger of the right man should charm the
right woman. And this time it was she who sought his hand.
"Then tell me now," she whispered. "And you shall see how you have
misjudged me."
It was hard on Moya that he was not listening, for she had used no such
tone towards him these four-and-twenty hours. And listening he was, but
to another sound which reached her also in the pause. It was the thud
and jingle of approaching horsemen. Another minute and the white
trappings of the mounted police showed through the dusk.
"That you, Mr. Rigden?" said a queer voice for the sergeant. "Can you
give us a word, please?"
Rigden had but time to glance at Moya.
"I'll ride on slowly," she said at once; and she rode on the better
part of a mile, leaving the way entirely to her good bush steed. At last
there was quite a thunder of overtaking hoofs, and Rigden reined up
beside her, with the sergeant not far behind. Moya looked round, and the
sergeant was without his men, at tactful range.
"Do they guess anything?" whispered Moya.
"Not they!"
"Sure the others haven't gone on to scour Big Bushy?"
"No, only to cross it on their way back. They've given it up, Moya! The
sergeant's just coming back for dinner."
His tone had been more triumphant before his triumph was certain, but
Moya did not notice this.
"I'm so glad," she whispered, half mischievously, and caught his hand
under cloud of early night.
"Are you?" said Rigden, wistfully. "Then I suppose you'll say you're
glad about something else. You won't be when the time comes! But now
it's all over you shall have your way, Moya; come for a stroll after
dinner, and I'll tell you--every--single--thing!"
X