It was Christmas Day at Rocky Rises. The plum puddings had been made,
as usual, weeks beforehand, and hung in rags to the tie-beams and taken
down and boiled again. Poultry had been killed and plucked and cooked,
and all the toil had been gone through, and every preparation made for
a red-hot dinner on a blazing hot day—and for no other reason than that
our great-grandmothers used to do it in a cold climate at
Christmas-times that came in mid-winter. Merry men hadn’t gone forth to
the wood to gather in the mistletoe (if they ever did in England, in
the olden days, instead of sending shivering, wretched vassals in rags
to do it); but Uncle Abel had gone gloomily up the ridge on Christmas
Eve, with an axe on his shoulder (and Tommy unwillingly in tow,
scowling and making faces behind his back), and had cut young pines and
dragged them home and lashed them firmly to the veranda-posts, which
was the custom out there.
There was little goodwill or peace between the three or four farms
round Rocky Rises that Christmas Day, and Uncle Abel had been the cause
of most of the ill-feeling, though they didn’t know, and he was least
aware of it of any.
It all came about in this way.
Shortly after last New Year Ryan’s bull had broken loose and gone
astray for two days and nights, breaking into neighbours’ paddocks and
filling himself with hay and damaging other bulls, and making love by
night and hiding in the scrub all day. On the second night he broke
through and jumped over Reid’s fences, and destroyed about an acre of
grape-vines and adulterated Reid’s stock, besides interfering with
certain heifers which were not of a marriageable age. There was a L5
penalty on a stray bull. Reid impounded the bull and claimed heavy
damages. Ryan, a small selector of little account, was always pulling
some neighbour to court when he wasn’t being “pulled” himself, so he
went to court over this case.
Now, it appears that the bull, on his holiday, had spent a part of the
first night in Carey’s lower paddock, and Uncle Abel (who was out
mooching about the bush at all hours, “havin’ a look at some timber” or
some “indercations” [of gold], or on some mysterious business or fad,
the mystery of which was of his own making)—Uncle Abel saw the bull in
the paddock at daylight and turned it out the sliprails, and talked
about it afterwards, referring to the sliprails as “Buckolts’ Gate,” of
course, and spoke mysteriously of the case, and put on an appearance of
great importance, and allowed people to get an idea that he knew a lot
if he only liked to speak; and finally he got himself “brought up” as a
witness for Ryan.
He had a lot of beer in town before he went to the courthouse. All he
knew would have been of no use to either party, but he swore that he
had seen Ryan’s bull inside Buckolts’ Gate at daylight (on the day
which wasn’t in question) and had turned him out. Uncle Abel mixed up
the court a good deal, and roared like the bull, and became more
obstinate the more he was cross-examined, and narrowly escaped being
committed for contempt of court.
Ryan, who had a high opinion of the breed of his bull, got an idea that
the Buckolts had enticed or driven the bull into their paddock for
stock-raising purposes, instead of borrowing it honestly or offering to
pay for the use of it. Then Ryan wanted to know why Abel had driven his
bull out of Buckolts’ Gate, and the Buckolts wanted to know what
business Abel Albury had to drive Ryan’s bull out of their paddock, if
the bull had really ever been there. And so it went on till Rocky Rises
was ripe for a tragedy.
The breach between the Careys and the Buckolts was widened, the quarrel
between Ryan and Reid intensified. Ryan got a down on the Careys
because he reckoned that Uncle Abel had deliberately spoilt his case
with his evidence; and the Reids and Careys were no longer on speaking
terms, because nothing would convince old Reid that Abel hadn’t tried
to prove that Ryan’s bull had never been in Reid’s paddock at all.
Well, it was Christmas Day, and the Carey family and Aunt Emma sat down
to dinner. Jim was present, having arrived overnight, with no money, as
usual, and suffering a recovery. The elder brother, Bob (who had a
selection up-country), and his wife were there. Mrs Carey moved round
with watchful eyes and jealous ears, lest there should be a word or a
look which might hurt the feelings of her wild son—for of such are
mothers.
Dinner went on very moodily, in spite of Aunt Emma, until at last Jim
spoke—almost for the first time, save for a long-whispered and, on his
part, repentant conversation with his mother.
“Look here, Mary!” said Jim. “What did you throw Harry Dale over for?”
“Don’t ask me, Jim.”
“Rot! What did he do to you? I’m your brother” (with a glance at Bob),
“and I ought to know.”
“Well, then, ask Bertha Buckolt. She saw him last.”
“What!” cried Jim.
“Hold your tongue, Jim! You’ll make her cry,” said Aunt Emma.
“Well, what’s it all about, anyway?” demanded Jim. “All I know is that
Mary wrote to Harry and threw him over, and he ain’t been the same man
since. He swears he’ll never come near the district again.”
“Tell Jim, Aunt Emma,” said Mary. And Aunt Emma started to tell the
story as far as she knew.
“Saw her at Buckolt’s sliprails!” cried Jim, starting up. “Well, he
couldn’t have had time to more than say good-bye to her, for I was with
her there myself, and Harry caught up to me within a mile of the
gate—and I rode pretty fast.”
“He had a jolly long good-bye with her,” shouted Uncle Abel. “Look
here, Jim! I ain’t goin’ to stand by and see a nephew of mine
bungfoodled by no girl; an’, I tell you I seen ’em huggin’ and kissin’
and canoodlin’ for half an hour at Buckolts’ Gate!”
“It’s a—a— Look here, Uncle Abel, be careful what you say. You’ve got
the bull by the tail again, that’s what it is!” Jim’s face grew
whiter—and it had been white enough on account of the drink. “How did
you know it was them? You’re always mistaking people. It might have
been someone else.”
“I know Harry Dale on horseback two miles off!” roared Uncle Abel. “And
I knowed her by her cape.”
It was Mary’s turn to gasp and stare at Uncle Abel.
“Uncle Abel,” she managed to say, “Uncle Abel! Wasn’t it at our Lower
Sliprails you saw them and not Buckolts’ Gate?”
“Well!” bellowed Uncle Abel. “You might call ’em the ‘Lower Sliprails,’
but I calls ’em Buckolts’ Gate! They lead to’r’ds Buckolts’, don’t
they? Hey? Them other sliprails”—jerking his arms in the direction of
the upper paddock “them theer other sliprails that leads outer Reid’s
lane I calls Reid’s Sliprails. I don’t know nothing about no upper or
lower, or easter or wester, or any other la-di-dah names you like to
call ’em.”
“Oh, uncle,” cried Mary, trembling like a leaf, “why didn’t you explain
this before? Why didn’t you tell us?”
“What cause have I got to tell any of you everything I sez or does or
thinks? It ’ud take me all me time. Ain’t you got any more brains than
Ryan’s bull, any of you? Hey!—You’ve got heads, but so has cabbages.
Explain! Why, if the world wasn’t stuffed so full of jumped-up fools
there’d be never no need for explainin’.”
Mary left the table.
“What is it, Mary?” cried Aunt Emma.
“I’m going across to Bertha,” said Mary, putting on her hat with
trembling hands. “It was me Uncle Abel saw. I had Bertha’s cape on that
night.”
“Oh, Uncle Abel,” cried Aunt Emma, “whatever have you done?”
“Well,” said Uncle Abel, “why didn’t she get the writin’s as I told
her? It’s to be hoped she won’t make such a fool of herself next time.”
Half an hour later, or thereabouts, Mary sat on Bertha Buckolt’s bed,
with Bertha beside her and Bertha’s arm round her, and they were crying
and laughing by turns.
“But-but-why didn’t you _tell_ me it was Jim?” said Mary.
“Why didn’t you tell me it was Harry, Mary?” asked Bertha. “It would
have saved all this year of misery.
“I didn’t see Harry Dale at all that night,” said Bertha. “I was—I was
crying when Jim left me, and when Harry came along I slipped behind a
tree until he was past. And now, look here, Mary, I can’t marry Jim
until he steadies down, but I’ll give him another chance. But, Mary,
I’d sooner lose him than you.”
Bertha walked home with Mary, and during the afternoon she took Jim
aside and said:
“Look here, Jim, I’ll give you another chance—for a year. Now I want
you to ride into town and send a telegram to Harry Dale. How long would
it take him to get here?”
“He couldn’t get here before New Year,” said Jim.
“That will do,” said Bertha, and Jim went to catch his horse. Next day
Harry’s reply came: “Coming”