It was the last day of the threshing—shortly after New Year—at Rocky
Rises. The green boughs, which had been lashed to the veranda-posts on
Christmas Eve, had withered and been used for firewood. The travelling
steamer had gone with its gang of men, and the family sat down to tea,
the men tired with hard work and heat, and with prickly heat and
irritating wheaten chaff and dust under their clothes—and with smut
(for the crop had been a smutty one) “up their brains” as Uncle Abel
said—the women worn out with cooking for a big gang of shearers.
Good-humoured Aunt Emma—who was Uncle Abel’s niece—recovered first, and
started the conversation. There were one or two neighbours’ wives who
bad lent crockery and had come over to help with the cooking in their
turns. Jim Carey’s name came up incidentally, but was quickly dropped,
for ill reports of Jim had come home. Then Aunt Emma mentioned Harry
Dale, and glanced meaningly at Mary, whose face flamed as she bent over
her plate.
“Never mind, Mary,” said Aunt Emma, “it’s nothing to be ashamed of. We
were all girls once. There’s many a girl would jump at Harry.”
“Who says I’m ashamed?” said Mary, straightening up indignantly.
“Don’t tease her, Emma,” said Mrs Carey, mildly.
“I’ll tell yer what,” said young Tom Carey, frankly, “Mary got a letter
from him to-day. I seen her reading it behind the house.”
Mary’s face flamed again and went down over her plate.
“Mary,” said her mother, with sudden interest, “did Harry say anything
of Jim?”
“No, mother,” said Mary. “And that’s why I didn’t tell you about the
letter.”
There was a pause. Then Tommy said, with that delightful tact which
usually characterizes young Tommies:
“Well, Mary needn’t be so cocky about Harry Dale, anyhow. I seen him
New Year’s Eve when we had the dance. I seen him after the dance
liftin’ Bertha Buckolt onter her horse in the dark—as if she couldn’t
get on herself—she’s big enough. I seen him lift her on, an’ he took
her right up an’ lifted her right inter the saddle, ’stead of holdin’
his hand for her to tread on like that new-chum jackaroo we had. An’,
what’s more, I seen him hug her an’ give her a kiss before he lifted
her on. He told her he was as good as her brother.”
“What did he mean by that, Tommy?” asked Mrs Porter, to break an
awkward pause.
“How’m I ter know what he means?” said Tommy, politely.
“And, Tommy, I seen Harry Dale give young Tommy Carey a lick with a
strap the day before New Year’s Eve for throwing his sister’s cat into
the dam,” said Aunt Emma, coming to poor Mary’s rescue. “Never mind,
Mary, my dear, he said goodbye to you last.”
“No, _he didn’t_!” roared Uncle Abel.
They were used to Uncle Abel’s sudden bellowing, but it startled them
this time.
“Why, Uncle Abel,” cried both Aunt Emma and Mrs Carey, “whatever do you
mean?”
“What I means is that I ain’t a-goin’ to have the feelin’s of a niece
of mine trifled with. What I means is that I seen Harry Dale with
Bertha Buckolt on New Year’s night after he left here. That’s what I
means—”
“Don’t speak so loud, Abel, we’re not deaf,” interrupted Carey, as Mary
started up white-faced. “What do you want to always shout for?”
“I speak loud because I want people to hear me!” roared Uncle Abel,
turning on him.
“Go on, Uncle Abel,” said Mary, “tell me what you mean.”
“I mean,” said Uncle Abel, lowering his voice a little, “that I seen
Harry Dale and Bertha Buckolt at Buckolts’ Gate that night—I seen it
all—”
“At _Buckolts_’ Gate!” cried Mary.
“_Yes_! at Buckolts’ Gate! Ain’t I speakin’ loud enough?”
“And where were you?”
“Never mind wheers I was. I was comin’ home along the ridges, and I
seen them. I seen them say good-bye; I seen them hug an’ kiss—”
“Uncle Abel!” exclaimed Aunt Emma.
“It’s no use Uncle Abelin’ me. What I sez I sez. I ain’t a-goin’ to
have a niece of mine bungfoodled—”
“Uncle Abel,” cried Mary, staring at him wild-eyed, “do be careful what
you say. You must have made a mistake. Are you sure it was Bertha and
Harry?”
“Am I sure my head’s on me neck?” roared Uncle Abel. “Would I see ’em
if I didn’t see ’em? I tell you—”
“Now wait a moment, Uncle Abel,” interrupted Mary, with dangerous
calmness. “Listen to me. Harry Dale and I are engaged to be married,
and—”
“Have you got the writings!” shouted Uncle Abel.
“The what?” said Mary.
“The writings.”
“No, of course not.”
“Then that’s where you are,” said Uncle Abel, triumphantly. “If you had
the writings you could sue him for breach of contract.”
Uncle Abel, who couldn’t read, had no faith whatever in verbal
agreements (he wouldn’t sign one, he said), all others he referred to
as “writings.”
“Now, listen to me, Uncle Abel,” said Mary, trembling now. “Are you
sure you saw Harry Dale and Bertha Buckolt at Buckolts’ Gate after he
left here that night?”
“Yes. An’ what’s more, I seen young Tommy there ridin’ on his pony
along by the Spur a little while after, an’ he muster seen them too, if
he’s got a tongue.”
Mary turned quickly to her brother.
“Well, all I can say,” said Tommy, quietened now, “is that I seen _her_
at Buckolts’ Gate that night. I was comin’ home from Two-Mile Flat, and
I met Jim with his packhorse about a mile the other side of Buckolts’,
and while we was talkin’ Harry Dale caught up, so I jist said ‘So-long’
an’ left ’em. And when I got to Buckolt’s Gate I seen Bertha Buckolt.
She was standin’ under a tree, and she looked as if she was cryin’.”
But Mary got her bonnet and started out.
“Where are you going to, Mary?” asked her mother, starting up
nervously.
“I’m going across to Buckolts’ to find out the truth,” said Mary, and
she went out.
“Better let her go, Lizzie,” said Aunt Emma, detaining her sister.
“You’ve done it now, Uncle Abel.”
“Well, why didn’t she get the writings?” retorted Uncle Abel.
Half-way to Buckolts’ Mary met Bertha Buckolt herself, coming over to
the selection for the first time since the night of the party. Bertha
started forward to kiss Mary, but stopped short as Mary stood
stock-still and faced her, with her hands behind her back.
“Why! whatever is the matter, Mary?” exclaimed Bertha.
“You know very well, Bertha.”
“Why! Whatever do you mean? What have I done?”
“What haven’t you done? You’ve—you’ve broken my heart.”
“Good gracious me! Whatever are you talking about? Tell me what it is,
Mary?”
“You met him at your gate that night?”
“I know I did.”
“Oh, Bertha! How could you be so mean and deceitful?”
“Mean and deceitful! What do you mean by that? Whatever are you talking
about? I suppose I’ve got as good a right to meet him as anyone else.”
“No, you haven’t,” retorted Mary, “you’re only stringing him on. You
only did it to spite me. You helped him to deceive me. You ought to be
ashamed to look me in the face.”
“Good gracious! Whatever are you talking about? Ain’t I good enough for
him! I ought to be, God knows! I suppose he can marry who he likes, and
if I’m poor fool enough to love him and marry him, what then? Mary, you
ought to be the last to speak—speak to—to me like that.”
“Yes. He can marry all, the girls in the country for all I care. I
never want to see either him or you any more. You’re a cruel,
deceitful, brazen-faced hussy, and he’s a heartless, deceiving
blackguard.”
“Mary! I believe you’re mad,” said Bertha, firmly. “How dare you speak
to me like that! And as for him being a blackguard. Why, you ought to
be the last in the world to say such a thing; you ought to be the last
to say a word against him. Why, I don’t believe you ever cared a rap
for him in spite of all your pretence. He could go to the devil for all
you cared.”
“That’s enough, Bertha Buckolt!” cried Mary. “_You_—you! Why, you’re a
barefaced girl, that’s what you are! I don’t want to see your brazen
face again.” With that she turned and stumbled blindly in the direction
of home.
“Send back my cape,” cried Bertha as she too turned away.
Mary walked wildly home and fled to her room and locked the door.
Bertha did likewise.
Mary let Aunt Emma in after a while, ceased sobbing and allowed herself
to be comforted a little. Next morning she was out milking at the usual
time, but there were dark hollows under her eyes, and her little face
was white and set. After breakfast she rolled the cape up very tight in
a brown-paper parcel, addressed it severely to
MISS BERTHA BUCKOLT,
Eurunderee Creek,
and sent it home by one of the school-children. She wrote to Harry Dale
and told him that she knew all about it (not stating what), but she
forgave him and hoped he’d be happy. She never wanted to see his face
again, and enclosed his portrait.
Harry, who was as true and straight as a bushman could be, puzzled it
out and decided that some one of his old love affairs must have come to
Mary’s ears, and wrote demanding an explanation.
She never answered that letter.