2024-Aug 11th (PART IV) _ 2024-July 21st [AUNT JO - A Love Story of the Cedar Scrubs by Edward S. Sorenson (Chap 16-22)]

CHAPTER XVI.

A dark and stormy night, with heavy rain clouds hovering overhead and low rumblings of thunder in the distance. The windows and doors at Fairymede were barred against the fierce wind. The willows bowed and sighed, and the dead leaves fell in showers. A night to hug the fireside, yet two figures stood under the swaying branches by the bridge. Both were closely muffled, and their cloaks flapped and twined like living things about their legs. They were a man and a woman, and that woman was Miss Monaugh. In one hand she held a huge umbrella; in the other a bull's-eye lantern.

"Jumpin' Jemima! this is a lovely night to bring a feller out in." the man grumbled. "Couldn't yer leave it till ter-morrer?"

"No. I want a hundred pounds before six o'clock to-morrow morning. I have nowhere to get it but there; an; as no one must know of this plant, it must be accomplished to-night at all hazards. Have you got the tools?"

"They're 'ere."

"Then get to work. The sooner it's done the better. It shouldn't take you very long."

"Dunno so much about that. I ain't a steam engine. Aint got eyes like a mopoke neither. How's a feller to see what he's a doin', I'd like ter know?"

Miss Monaugh turned on the light, which enabled her companion to find the pick and shovel he had been groping for.

"Where's the spot—the eggs-akt spot, mindger. I ain't goin' to turn the whole darned paddick upside down lookin' fort. 'F I don't drop plump on to't fust shot I claims another fiver. That's straight wire."

"Now George, don't be unreasonable. Five pounds will pay you very well. And, bear in mind, I didn't bring the storm."

"No one sed you did. But you ought 'ave knowed 'twas comin'. I could see it dinner time when them white fleeces was bowlin' up from back o' Dumboon."

"Well, I couldn't."

"That's queer. Warnt so sudding that you couldn't 'ave 'ad a hopportunity o' judgin'."

"I don't take any interest in the weather, George."

"Don't it stir up your pet corns when there's rain comin'?" George inquired. "It do mine."

"For all that," Miss Monaugh proceeded, ignoring the rudeness of her companion, "I am sorry it has turned out so unpropitious for us—"

"Unpro-whater?"

"So unfavourable," Miss Monaugh explained.

"Wal," growled George, who was in a cantankerous mood, "why couldn't yer say so. What's th' use o' chuckin' yer jaw-breakers at me? Jumpin' Jemima, if this aint a bull-snorter of a black perisher, tell me."

"At the worst," said Miss Monaugh in a conciliatory tone, "we'll only get a drenching if it does rain. We're not sugarsticks that will melt. And there's a chance of its holding off till we're finished—if you would only get to work. Look at the time we're wasting!"

"Where's the eggs-akt spot, that's the question?" Miss Monaugh gave a little cough, and commenced to examine the root of the tree under which they were standing. "Have you the axe?" she asked.

"Holy wars!" he exclaimed. " 'S not stuck under that spiflicated tree, is it?"

"Fair under that tree, George."

"Wal, that's a nice go if yer like."

"I'm afraid you'll have to grub it out. It has such a cluster of roots that to undermine it would take too long. A pity—a great pity! But there's no help for it. It must come out."

George swallowed an oath. Then he said "Look 'ere, Jo, this is a bit sudding. There was nuthin' about tree-grubbin' in the contrak, an' 'less the terms is altered I'm goin' ter strike. Why, 't'ill take ter Sunday mornin' to finish it an' I doesn't work on Sunday. Make no error about that. I wants a fair deal, else we'll 'ave to squash the 'greement an' go 'ome. Them's my sentiments. So there you are."

"Goodness me" cried Miss Monaugh crossly, "what an aggravating fellow you are. If I give you a hundred pounds, what would be the use of it to you? You'd only go and drink it."

"An' what's it to do with you if I did? What do you want with th' money, eh? I'll tell yer. You wants to buy off a rival, so yer ken cop old spooneywinks. See! I'm up to you. So jes' fork out, an' none o' yer funny bizness. Aint I kep' yer secret all these years so them bobtail swells wouldn't sniff at yer? What 'ud they say if they knowed—"

"George!"

"That's me!"

"We can dispense with speculations of that kind—please."

"Right-o. Stump up, an' I'm dumb. What's th' bargain?"

Miss Monaugh picked up her skirts, and fidgeted with the lantern. She was very angry, but to some extent succeeded in controlling her temper.

"If you get me that money in one hour," she said, I'll—I'll double the honorarium though I must say it's very extortionate."

" 'Onor-rary-orum! Ex-tor-shin-it! Purty good, them!" George mumbled as he peeled off his coat. "One hour, eh? Yer too sudding, Jo—too sudding!"

With these vague expressions the dilatory George spat on his hands and rubbed them together. "Ye'll soon 'ave yer darbies on it, Jo," he said, more agreeably. "I ken work like anything when I start."

The first, half-hour made little impression on the matted roots, which appeared to defy the repeated assaults of pick and axe. Miss Monaugh stood by, holding the light, now breaking the monotony with little coughs, now humming fragmentary songs, to keep up her patience. At last George, with a long sigh, stood up to straighten his back. He leaned on his pick handle, and looked at his companion.

"What th' buckjumpin' adder did he shove it under there for? Must 'ave 'ad white ants or beetles in his socks, or something."

"I beg your pardon?" said Miss Monaugh, icily.

"Beg yer parding!" George repeated with scorn, and spat on his hands again—impressively.

"George," said Miss Monaugh, sternly, "you should speak respectfully of the dead."

"He showed respect for th' livin', didn't he?" George retorted. "He helped me when I come 'ere fust, didn't he? Him with his thousands; me without a shirt to me back. What was th' use of it to him after all? Had t'leave it behind him. So will you. An' who'll get it? Who'll 'ave th' pleasure o' splashin' it up? That herrin'-gutted' old geyser, I s'pose?"

"George!"

"That's me!"—calmly.

"You—you're insulting!"

"I ken understand a man plantin' spuds," George went on; "but good money. . . . That ain't the aggreeculture wot pays, Jo. You make no error. Why don't yer splash it up an' enjoy yerself? I'd help yer—willingly."

Without waiting for a reply he drove the axe into the roots with a vicious thud. Minutes passed. George worked hard, now with the pick, now with the axe, till at last, with the assistance of a gust of wind, the tree came down. The second thrust of the pick in the hollow struck the iron box in which the treasure was secreted. With a little leverage he hauled it out, and Miss Monaugh, with much show of excitement and exultation, proceeded to inspect it.

She had hardly scraped the clay off the rust-eaten top when she heard a footfall close behind her, and, springing round, threw the light full upon the face of an unexpected intruder. One glimpse of his face sufficed, and both uttered an involuntary exclamation on recognising Mark Keaton!

For a moment he stood looking from one to the other, and from them to the tree they had felled. Then he said, in a voice husky with anger:

"Miss Monaugh, what is the meaning of this? Why are you destroying my property in this ruthless manner?"

"It had to be destroyed, Mark," said Miss Monaugh, desperately. "I'll explain directly."

"That won't replace the tree. I wouldn't have had it destroyed for a hundred pounds. It was under that very tree my father sat the last time he was here. And didn't Eustace, perched in its branches, sing to you, 'Woodmen, Spare That Tree?' And you've cut it down!"

He almost choked, and Miss Monaugh knew from experience that his eyes were filled with tears.

"Oh, Mark, I'm sorry—I couldn't help it—it had to be done—"

She stopped, panting. Then she turned to the dark figure crouching against the fallen trunk. "George, I wish you would gather up these implements and—and go home."

"Go home!" repeated the low, deep voice of Kilfloggin. "That's what we say to dorgs—Go home! That's my thanks. An' yet we's—old acquaintances! Too sudding, Jo, too sudding!"

When he had gone Mark said, as he took up the box at its owner's request: "Is that man a special friend of yours?"

"N—no!" she replied, with a hesitation that Mark did not fail to notice. "I employed him to do this work for me."

"To uproot my favourite tree for this worthless box," said Mark, reproachfully. "Jo, you have done me an injury."

"Oh, Mark, don't say that! At least, say it is reparable."

"How can it be? If the tree were replanted it would wither and die. I can only preserve its precious wood. Even that must be entrusted to other hands, for I'm going away in the morning. That's why I am here tonight. My mother asked me to come and have tea with her. I wish now I hadn't come."

"Mark, listen to me," said Miss Monaugh. She was almost crying. "That box isn't so worthless as you think. It contains a—a thousand pounds in gold."

"Good heavens! Are you so rich?"

At other times Mark would not have been so impertinent as to ask such a question; he was carried away by the astounding announcement of the opulence of the spinster whom he had always regarded as being in straitened circumstances, and dependent on her relatives.

"Yes, she replied. "I am passably rich, though nobody knows it, and I can well afford to give you a hundred pounds for the damage I have done. I intended from the first to give you that, as I could not get my money without injuring you. You need it too. It will enable you to bring out your book. So you may consider it a streak of good luck."

Mark was silent and thoughtful, and Miss Monaugh realised with pleasure that she had succeeded in accomplishing her generous wish without hurting his sensitive feelings.

"Now," she continued, with something of her usual buoyancy, "I'll give you this sum before you go away, so that you won't be under any inconvenience. And I must ask you as a favour not to betray the perpetrators of that deed, or reveal your knowledge of the facts. Old Biddy would be ramping if she knew the truth. Myles and I will cut up the wood and preserve it for you and I'll plant a sprig of the old tree on the same spot, and it will have a history more important than the others. Ten years hence, when you are master of Gimbo, and a man of wealth and fame, let us hope, you may sit under its branches and tell the tale to your little wife, and thank me for cutting down the old one."

"That sounds like a fairy tale," said Mark. "Too good to be true."

"We mustn't talk any more," she whispered. "I want you to sneak that into my room for me as quietly as possible. I'll have to hide it in my big box."

The storm burst on them before they reached the house, and two miserably wet creatures crept in like burglars going to crack a crib. He put the box down by the side of Jo's spotless bed, while she brought out a bottle of wine. The room smelt of lavender, and it was cosy and warm. A sleek-coated cat (pet and comfort of the old maid) purred drowsily on a white goat-skin; and on her dressing table stood a statuette of the Virgin Mary.

"You're the only man that's ever been in here," she remarked, with a blushful smile as she handed him a nobbler-glass.

Mark drank it off and left hurriedly.

* * * * * *

Early as it was, Miss Monaugh was in Dumboon before the coach departed with Mark on the box seat. He went away with a radiant face, and she returned to Fairymede in time for breakfast, conscious that she had been of service to at least one fellow creature.

 

CHAPTER XVII.

"Are ye goin' out this mornin', Jo?"

"Yes, Biddy. I'm going over to Widow Keaton's," Miss Monaugh replied as she came in to breakfast, her hair in curl papers. It was nearly nine o'clock, and Biddy was completing the table arrangements. Mr Lethcote was in the garden, "potterin' about." Biddy did all the morning work indoors, and Miss Monaugh officiated during the rest of the day. The scrubbing, washing, and such laborious work was done by a black gin—the only servant Biddy could afford nowadays.

"Sure, I knew ye were off for a galivant," said Biddy, with an arch smile, which she generally put on when in a good humour. " 'Tis aisy to tell whin I see you bobbin' about like a paper facthory. It bates me phwat you see in frizzlin' yer thatch so. 'Twould look as well in a plait."

"Ah!" the spinster sighed, pressing back a rebellious curl over her ear. "My hair is a great trouble to me since Etty's gone. It takes such a time, and is so tiresome and awkward."

" 'Tis a waste of time, it seems to me," said Biddy. "Takes somethin' more'n a bit of curly hair to do the thrick. So it do."

"Really, Biddy, you try me out of all patience," cried Miss Monaugh, testily. "According to your idea, I should cut my hair off and go naked."

"Faith, ye'd be more attractive if ye did," Biddy answered.

Miss Monaugh tossed her head, a look of dull disdain in her face.

"An' ye're goin' over to Widow Keaton's?" Biddy pursued presently.

"I am," Miss Monaugh replied, nodding.

"Phwat in th' world are ye goin' over there for at all?"

"I arranged to meet George Wrightson there. I have a little business to transact with him. Also, I wish to speak to them about the approaching nuptials."

"Th' Lord save us! Is she goin' to make up to him?"

"Is he going to marry her, you mean. I don't know when it's to be, but I shall know all about it before lunch."

"Of course you will. An' here I'm left to do all th' work an' Mr Lynton comin' over for a day's fishin' wid th' old man. He's beginnin' to ramble, to be sure. I s'pose he finds it lonesome like now Leonard's gone."

"I suppose so," Miss Monaugh returned. "I'll be back for lunch, so you'll have all the afternoon and evening to gossip with him."

" 'Tis yeself ought to be a little attractive to him," said Biddy. "He's a decent man, an' rale good company, Jo."

"So are others," Jo replied, darkly. She picked up a serviette and examined the ivory ring. Biddy brought the tea in and set it on the side board.

"Sing out to the old man, Jo. He's clanin' th' flowers out of the wades somewhere."

"Cleaning the weeds out of the flowers, you mean," Jo corrected.

"Indade I don't," said Biddy. "The old amhadaun dunno a flower from a wade. He just makes a guess at it, an' 'tis a fade to a shmell he guesses wrong. There was me bed o' what-d'yer-call-'ems, wid some pigwade growin' in it. I showed him which was pigwade an' which was what-d'yer-call'ems; an', bedad, whin I wint to see how he was gettin' along wid his job, there was all me lovely what-d'yer-call-'ems pulled up be th' roots, an' th' dirty pigwade left in the bed. Sure, the old fool's goin' off his chump."

"Bat you must remember, Biddy," said Jo, more leniently, "Myles isn't an experienced horticulturist. He does his best—"

"He do—in the distructin' line. That's about all. Sind a yell out o' the windy there. Sure, the tay 'ill be cold, an' th' day's goin' an' nothin' done."

Myles came in, wearing bo-yangs, and dragging his feet like a working bullock. He sat down at the head of the table, took up the carving-knife, examined it carefully, and ran his thumb along the edge.

"D'ye want th' grindstone?" asked Biddy, watchin' him with arms akimbo.

"Whar's steel?" asked Myles.

"In th' yard where ye left it whin ye killed lasht," said Biddy. " 'Tis lucky yer head's screwed on. So it is."

Myles picked up another knife, and, having slashed the two together, proceeded with the carving of a cold joint.

Breakfast over, Miss Monaugh immediately betook herself to Gimbo. The punctual George was ensconced in a big, cushioned chair, toying with a piece of cotton, while a kitten lay on its back at his feet clawing at the lower end of it. Little things like that amused George. Already he looked upon Gimbo house as his own, and made himself thoroughly at home.

The widow was sitting at the sewing machine, preparing her own trousseau, as Miss Monaugh remarked, on entering.

"I'm getting a few things ready," the widow admitted. "I've 'ardly got a dress fit to go to a dog-fight in, an' yer want to look something decent at a time like this."

"Of course," her visitor assented. "This is an occasion that occurs but once in a lifetime to most people. With some, like yourself, for instance, it—it repeats."

"Aye, George chipped in, "an' with some people it's a 'casion that don't occur at all. Now, that's darn curious, ain't it?"

The spinster winced, and her dark eyes flashed angrily. "Getting ready for marriage is a momentous thing for maidens," she went on: "They're in a flurry all the while, and don't know half they want. With you, of course, it's different. As I said, you've been married before, and know by experience what's required."

"She's 'ad a hopportunity o' judgin', which you haven't, Jo," said George. Jo pretended not to hear him, and went on in a dry, matter-of-fact way:

"I'm very glad to hear that you have decided to change your name again, and must take this opportunity of congratulating you. I'm sure I wish you every happiness, though, I suppose, it will be a little hard for you to lose the old home."

The widow shifted uneasily, and looked quickly at George, on whose face there was a puzzled expression. It was no secret to Miss Monaugh that George coveted the widow's property, that is, Gimbo homestead and lands; nor was it unknown to her that he possessed nothing apart from his teams and a small selection. She had an idea of helping him to build, but that was a kernel that was not advanced enough to burst from its casement yet.

But for his drinking and gambling proclivities, George might have been a rich man. He repented sometimes, when he was alone, and his thoughts took that course. But invariably he ended his cogitations with the reflection that it was all in a lifetime, and a man might as well have all the enjoyment he could while he lived. He would be a long while dead.

Miss Monaugh smiled. She took it for granted that nothing now would part them, and was confident of her ability to do with George as she wished.

"What game now Jo?" asked that gentleman. Jo's only response was a stony stare. The widow looked up, resting her arms on the stand of the sewing machine.

"Did you ever see the will?" she asked.

"Often," Miss Monaugh replied. "You know, Mr Lethcote is one of the executors."

"Yes—Lethcote; Brexton Battye an' Edwin Lynton. Don't you think it's a fool of a will to go an' make?"

"Oh, dear no. I consider it very sensible will:"

"But where's the sense come in.?"

"Don't you see, your marrying again is to be considered as more unfavourable than otherwise to your children. The property would be at the mercy of your husband." She looked meaningly at George. "Mr Keaton did quite right in protecting the interests of his sons; and he naturally expected that, if you married again, you wouldn't require the place, as your husband would provide a home for you."

"A bark hut in th' scrub," the widow sneered. "I reckon half th' wimen are better single. They ken dress themselves decent, if they do 'ave to go to service. An' they 'ave comfortable rooms, an' good tucker, an' money of their own to spend as they like—go to a dance or a play, or anywhere else, for th' matter o' that. But when they're married they've scarce got a stitch to put on. Always in rags, always slavin' an' stuck everlastin' in one place like a lamp-post."

"Of course, it's nice to have some independence, and fine clothes," Miss Monaugh assented. "But that isn't everything in the making of happiness. Fine clothes, after all, are only dead adornments. There is more satisfaction in having a man than stagnating in fine clothes."

"Now yev've said it, Jo," cried George, repeating it slowly to himself. "Ruther like them sentiments. 'More sat'sfaction havin' a real live man than bein' a stag eatin' fine clothes.' Must r'member that, Jo."

Jo looked at him with withering scorn.

"You was talkin' about a will," George resumed, unabashed. "Isn't this place your'n, Mary?"

"Yes, 's long's I'm a widder, but when I chuck off the weeds it goes to Mark."

"Do, it?"

The widow nodded.

"Why didn't yer say so before?"

"What's it matter?" the widow demanded. She faced him sharply. "Is it me or the 'ouse you want?"

"You, of course!" George answered with emphasis. "But it kinder 'urts me feelings to see th' old place goin' to him. He'll never work to keep it together."

"Mark Keaton works harder than you do, George, and is already making money," Miss Monaugh informed him.

"Must 'ave started purty recent," George remarked.

"Mark has always been diligent," Miss Monaugh reproved severely.

"I'm not sayin' enything agin his intelligence," George drawled. "He's got enough o' that to keep away from hard graft. Him an' work fell out at the fust go off. 'S regards splosh, I ain't got nuthin' to blow about, but I'd back my forty years' gatherin' agin his, for all that."

"Yer might' fall in th' pot like yer did th' other day," the widow snapped with sudden ire.

"Don't you make no error!" cried George, and his back seemed to stiffen.

"Dear, dear!" said Miss Monaugh. "I hope you two are not going to quarrel. It would be so inopportune. By the bye, when is the wedding to be?"

"I dunno—an' I don't care," the widow snapped. "I don't see th' use o' gettin' married at all." She turned over the hem of a dress, and ran it under the needle. George drew a long face, and remained silent.

"I am sure you would be happier as George's wife than living here by yourself," said Miss Monaugh, consolingly. "George, I must tell you, is my cousin—"

"Your cousin!" the widow exclaimed; dropping her work. This was the spinster's trump card.

"That knocks her!" said George, grinning. "Ruther surprises 'er to hear as I'm 'ighly connected. Worst of it is," he added, scratching his head, "they won't own me."

"Good gracious!" said the widow, somewhat conciliated. "I never knowed that before."

"Nobody else knowed it. Jo took care of that."

"And I don't wish it to be known now till after the wedding," Miss Monaugh rejoined. "You are so indecorous, George—"

"Jumpin' Jemimah!" cried George. I knowed I was a purty bad egg, but never reckoned I was enything like that. In-de—what th' — is it agin?"

"I am ashamed of you," Miss Monaugh went on. "You are never respectable; you make no effort to better yourself."

"You an' me warn't made for th' same track." George returned. "Ye're doin' all right in this country, Jo. Don't you leave it."

"You are a plebeian. Your own family are ashamed of you," Miss Monaugh continued severely.

"Dunno what a flea-bean is," said George, rubbing his chin. "As fer th' High-an'-mightys bein' ashamed o' me, that's nuthin' new. I'm used to that sort o' thing. 'Twouldn't surprise me if I was to be ashamed o' meself someday."

"It would surprise me," Miss Monaugh declared with a brisk inclination of the head. "You ought really to conduct yourself better—being my Aunt Mary's child. Poor dear! Do you ever hear from her?"

"Me?" cried George, chuckling at the bare idea. "No," he drawled, "I ain't quite stylish enough for them. Neither Crogans nor Wrightsons ever trouble me."

"Your aunt was a Miss Crogan?" said the widow, addressing Miss Monaugh. "Is she George's mother?"

"Unfortunately, she is."

"Dear me! To think of that now!" said the widow, musingly. "They, are such high people, too, I've heard."

"I'll tell you how it happened," said Miss Monaugh, answering the widow's inquiring gaze. "George was always a scapegrace. He ran away from home when a boy—went off with a swagman. They travelled as father and son, right away into the wilds of Queensland—"

Something like a muttered oath from George interrupted her. He ducked suddenly, and whipped up the leg of his nether garment.

"What's bit yer?" the widow asked.

George screwed a bristly shank round and searched energetically under the folded tweed, making a lightning grab at one place, and scratching vigorously at another. "Flamin' bug or something's assaultin' me," he said.

"There's no bugs 'ere— unless you brought 'em," the widow dissented.

"Must be a flea, then," George surmised, baring more leg. He had no socks on.

"Might be fleas," the widow admitted. "Pincher's always layin' about inside."

"George!" the spinster cried in shocked tones.

"That's me!"

"How dare you!"

George continued in pursuit of the insect. "Can't stand fleas," he said. "Makes you feel like a blackfeller's dorg."

He had another exhaustive look round, then gave it up. "Must 'ave got away," he concluded.

The spinster coughed softly, and resumed: "Mr Wrightson in the meantime was searching high and low for Master George. He found him six years after when overlanding with cattle. He was then stock-riding on a station three hundred miles away from his home. He was brought back, and everything was done to repair the evil effects of his wandering. But George was not to be repaired. He soon ran away again. His father followed him to the Dawson River, and there lost sight of him. Seven years passed, and one day a ragged tramp called at Mr Wrightson's and asked for a situation. A stray word or two aroused the old gentleman's suspicions. 'Who are you?' he asked. 'Who are me?' cried the tramp. 'Well, that's pure, that is. Fetch out th' old woman an' see if she'll say who are yer? She'd know me old hide if she seen it hangin' out on th' fence. I'm George Wrightson!' It was indeed the prodigal son. His father gave him some clothes and money, and told him to go. 'Go!' cried George, abashed. 'Doncher want me?' 'No,' his father answered. 'You have chosen your bed, so lie on it. Henceforth you are no son of mine.' George smiled grimly. 'You—you're a bit sudding, old feller,' he said, 'too sudding.' He never went home again."

"Well, that beats all I ever heard!" said the widow, looking at George in a new light. "You never said anything about that. What 'ave yer got to say for ye' self?"

George jerked his thumb towards Miss Monaugh. "Ask Jo," he said.

"I forbade him to speak of it," she explained. "Now, of course, it doesn't matter, so far as we are concerned. I considered it my duty to inform you of these facts on hearing of your engagement. Now that you know, I hope you don't think any the worse of him?"

"Worse, no! I think more of him. Ye're quite a hero, George—an' Miss Monaugh's cousin, too! Well, I declare, if that ain't as good as I've heard since I dunno when."

"At least," Miss Monaugh rejoined, "he's to be made a hero, for Mark's book is founded on his adventures in the bush. He's the sundowner."

"How did Mark know?" asked the widow.

"I told him the adventures as being those of a Queensland acquaintance of mine, and instructed him to take Kilfloggin as a model."

"Jumpin' Jemima!" cried George. "In a book—makin' fine speeches, doin' wonders I couldn't manage nohow, an' muggin' some purty gel I never knowed—Too sudding, Jo!"

"Do you really think he'll ever do any good at it?" the widow inquired with a little enthusiasm; and Miss Monaugh was glad to see that there was a little motherly pride in this woman after all.

"There is abundant reason to hope for the best results," Miss Monaugh replied. "I've had an opportunity of judging."

The widow leaned meditatively on the machine, her hands interlaced, staring into vacancy. Presently she said: "Mr M'Gurren was tellin' me yesterday it was no use goin' into that sort of thing without capital."

"Mr M'Gurren!"

"He often comes here now. He's not a bad old sort, an' he amuses me th' way he talks."

Miss Monaugh made a grimace, and looked at her watch.

"Dear me, it's after twelve! I really must be going."

She rose and smoothed out her skirt.

"Won't you stop to dinner?" the widow asked graciously.

"No, I thank you. I promised to be home in time for lunch, and Mrs Lethoote will be annoyed if I keep her waiting. I had no idea it was so late."

"Mindger come to th' weddin', Jo!" George bawled after her. "Yer mightn't 'ave another charnce."

"Good morning!"

George chuckled as Jo put up her parasol and departed.

 

CHAPTER XVIII.

From time to time letters came from Mark and Ethel. The latter was having a jolly time at Nanango. She asked after Mr M'Gurren. How was the old fogey spending his time? He was spending a great deal of it in Widow Keaton's company, she was informed, and it was rumoured that they were engaged.

"He comes to Fairymede very seldom," Miss Monaugh wrote. "It seems to me that I have only succeeded in ridding you of him at the cost of losing him myself. He is flirting outrageously with the widow, apparently out of spite. Mrs Keaton shows very bad form in allowing it, considering that she is engaged to George Wrightson, and cannot possibly hope to hold her head any higher. Mr M'Gurren may one day regret his behaviour. I am not going to be trifled with. I have Other admirers; as Mr M'Gurren may yet find to his sorrow. I shall only wait for him another year."

It was good news to Miss Monaugh to hear that Leonard was going to manage Woorowolong Station on his return.

"I always told Leonard he could get that billet if he exerted  himself a little," Miss Monaugh asserted. She was seated in the stern of the boat, her hand trailing in the water. Mr Lynton of Druton was plying the oars. He rowed up the lagoon to the bridge. Here the boat was moored, and Mr Lynton courteously assisted his expectant companion to land.

"I just want to see how my tree is doing," Miss Monaugh explained. "Neglect at the start is the cause of most trees not doing well here."

"Have you found out anything with regard to the old tree?" Mr Lynton asked, looking at the few leafless branches that remained, and Miss Monaugh answered unblushingly, "Nothing." She was loosening the soil around the young tree.

"I believe," he added, "there is a little romance attached to these trees that make them so much thought of by the people here."

"Yes; each one has its own little story," she replied, and her eyes grew wistful.

"I should like to hear them," he went on. "Will you take me round Miss Monaugh, and tell me what they are?"

"With pleasure. There's very little to tell, and nothing to interest anyone but those concerned. This one was planted by my dear brother, Pat, on the spot where he confessed his love to Biddy O'Meilly who is Mrs Lethcote now. Pat dug the hole, and Biddy put the tree in. Then each took a sprig and kept it as a memento. Poor Pat is dead now, and Biddy is married again. That second tree, near the bridge, marks the spot where she used to meet Myles Lethcote while she was staying with the Keatons. Do you see that little mound at the lower side? They sat there, and Myles, following Pat's precedent, planted a tree when they were betrothed. The third was planted by Lavinia Courtnay. She was staying with the Battyes, you know. She came over with Mr Battye and Leonards mother, then a girl, to look at Fairymede. The two latter pulled round in the boat, and Myles, and Lavinia walked across. While waiting for the others, he proposed to her there. She was a good woman, the best friend I ever had. The next tree was planted by Ethel; and, strangely enough, it was under its branches that Mark first asked her to be his wife. That is all."

"Very pretty," said Mr Lynton, "each one having an amorous meaning, and the whole forming a Lover's Walk, or, as Mr M'Gurren calls it, 'The Tryst.' But you have only spoken of four. There was a fifth, which, thanks to the unknown vandals, has made way for this mite. Had that one no little secret attached to it?"

"No-no!" She was leaning on his arm, dawdling along the slope towards the boat. He stopped where the young tree was planted.

"This, I believe, Miss Monaugh, was grown by your own hands. It would be a pity to let it grow up without being distinguished. 'T'wouldn't be in keeping with the rest, and lovers would pass it by as a lonely thing, beneath their notice. Let us consecrate it. Like that tree, we are two lonely souls. Let us throw our lots together, and be man and wife."

"Oh, Mr Lynton—I—I never thought of such a thing!" Miss Monaugh cried, blushing furiously. In reality she had expected it as soon as she had begun to speak. There was something in his manner, in his glances that warned her. But it was all so new and pleasing, this sudden realisation of a lifelong dream to receive a proposal of marriage from a man—a real, live man,—that she was startled out of her wits. She was overwhelmed; she was agitated—frightened. She stood there irresolute, with heightened cheeks, her eyes afire and her heart in a flutter. Mr Lynton was a cool, bold man. There was nothing of the passionate ardour and impulsiveness of the youthful lover about him. He had long grown out of that period, and spoke with a calmness and sobriety that a young girl might take for indifference, not to say cold-bloodedness, and perhaps resent. But to Miss Monaugh it was as the dulcet voice of a sylvan idyll whispering in the bowers of Dreamland. And yet she had never thought of him as a lover!

"What does it matter whether you thought of it or not? We are well suited for each other, and I'm sure you'll learn to love me if you do not now. We are not young and foolish. We look for more than love. You'll want for nothing at Druton. I'll be a devoted husband. There's no more to be said. The question is, will you or will you not?"

"It's so sudden, Mr Lynton, that I really don't know what to say," she answered breathlessly. "You have taken me by surprise. And it's a question that needs some consideration. It doesn't do to act in a haphazard fashion. I like to look before I leap. Besides I have been so happy—single—that I don't think I can be any better off by changing my present state."

"Oh, nonsense! A single woman is only half a woman. It's time you had a husband of your own— that is—I mean, a home of your own. All women do, you know."

"Yes, it's expected of us that we should. I don't know why it is. But men can be bachelors to the end of their days, and be just as much respected as the benedicts; but if a woman comes to be an old maid she is ridiculed. All sorts of nasty things are said about her. It's a shame. Woman has just as much right to remain single as a man."

"I beg to differ from you there. Woman is man's companion. He has to feed, clothe and shelter her. Many a man finds it difficult to support himself; others, though comfortable enough themselves, are not sufficiently well off to keep a wife as she should be kept, and are too honourable to drag her lower than the position in which he finds her. Such men deserve credit for keeping to themselves. For woman there is no excuse. Unless she is morally bad, or what we term 'fast,' she will find some worthy one willing to espouse her, and the offer of that man should not be rejected."

Miss Monaugh maintained a breathless silence. If she could have rushed away and had a "good think"! If she could have consulted with Ethel, or Myles, or even with Biddy! She felt incompetent in the matter of deciding for herself. She might accept him; but, then—what about M'Gurren? He might come round again when he had got over his disappointment in regard to Ethel, and propose at any moment. If she engaged herself to him while betrothed to Edwin Lynton, her misdemeanour would be bandied from mouth to mouth. They would call her a jilt, and she could not be called a jilt. She must at all hazard maintain her dignity and honour in the eyes of the public of Yeerong.

"I am waiting for your answer, Miss Monaugh," Mr Lynton reminded her. She started and coloured to the eyes. Would this big man put his arm round her and kiss her if she said "yes?" Would it seem indelicate, or worse, if she snapped him up at the first asking, when there had been no courtship?

Then she stammered, while she felt that she would like to be married at once: "I am sorry, Mr Lynton, but I can't give you an answer to-day. If you will—er—call the day after tomorrow I—I will tell you."

Miss Monaugh regretted having made the request almost as soon as the words were uttered. The day after to-morrow seemed such a long way ahead. She might have lessened the agony by some hours had he pressed her but Mr Lynton was a patient wooer, and nodding acquiescence, he commenced to talk about the beauty and sweetness of gum blossoms.

They strolled slowly homeward, and when he had taken his departure Miss Monaugh, over the supper table, recounted to Biddy and Myles exactly what had happened during the afternoon.

"Begob, thin, we ought to chalk it up," was Biddy's unfeeling remark, which evoked a chuckle from the delighted Myles. He had a soft spot in his heart for Jo, and he liked to see her have her proper share of the world's good things. "An' why' th' divil didn't you say 'yis' at once, you fool?" she demanded in an altered tone.

"I wanted to ask your opinion," Miss Monaugh returned.

"My opinion indade! Phwat 'ave I to do wid it? Ugh! You ought to think yeself lucky to get th' chance o' marryin' widout anybody's opinion at all. But some people are niver satisfied. If ye give thim a pig they want a shtye to put him in."

"Oh, there's no need to make a fuss over it," said Jo, testily. "I haven't rejected the man."

"You haven't, so; but thin he mightn't come agin."

"Don't reject un, Jo," Myles advised. "I've knowed un goin' on for twenty year, an' baint seen nowt about un to pick at. He'll make 'ee a good mate, I'll warrant."

"The Lord save us, where could she get a better?" cried Biddy, wrathfully. "She ought 'ave rushed him, so she ought. Beggars can't be choosers, mind that, an' nixt time he comes spooneywinkin' around yer if ye ken fetch him on agin—just clinch th' bargain there an' thin, an' none o' yer palaverin' about it."

"Indeed," said Miss Monaugh with some asperity, "I have more strings than one to my bow."

"Ye'd better fasten on to wan of thim thin," Biddy retorted. "They're shlippery things, Jo, an' ye're gettin' purty stale now."

In the course of further conversation Miss Monaugh learned that Mr M'Gurren had made a call in her absence, and in declining an invitation to dinner the following evening, gave as an excuse that he was engaged to dine with the widow at Gimbo.

"Big George be hangin' fire wee bit long," said Myles. "If un doan' watch unself Mac 'ull 'cut un out."

"Bad cess to him, he's always shtuch over there," cried Biddy, frowning. "Phwat do he want to be pokin' over there for at all? He niver wint next or nigh th' place while Etty was here. 'Tis to be hoped she'll be back soon. 'Twas a fool I was, lettin' her go. We're a dhry lot, Jo. There's no more magnetism in us than there is in a fish bone. So there isn't."

"I don't think it is Ethel's absence that has effected him. He must have found some stronger attraction at Gimbo," Miss Monaugh suggested.

"Has he!" Biddy retorted. "That's all you know about it. Just wait till she comes back, an' you'll see him flyin' over here, begob, like a shtreak o' scared lightnin' tumblin' down a graised lamp-post."

"H'm!" Miss Monaugh had her own opinions on the matter. She decided at once how to act with regard to the refractory M'Gurren.

"Things are coming to a crisis." she soliloquised. "I shall soon know the truth."

 

CHAPTER XIX.

On the pretence of seeing Wrightson, Miss Monaugh called upon the widow the following afternoon. M'Gurren was there; but there was no sign of George.

"Dear me, how unfortunate! I made sure I would find him here."

"Ye a' mair likely ta find him in his humpy owre yon," said M'Gurren. "Loh, I was owre there yestereen lookin' for a stirk I'd lost, an' there he was on th' brud o' his back, readin' Ned Kelly, an' sich a fine day to be oot amang the timber ta. Heigh, he's an eedle mon."

"I have always found him industrious," said Miss Monaugh, coldly.

"Oots, wuman, ye ken as weel as I dae the mon's an awfu' drunkard. Evra bawbee he maks gangs ta the publican. He wadna fash himsel' muckle aboot wairk at a' if he cud get his liquor wi'out it. Th' mistress can telt ye hoo he used ta cum here wi' his bottles, an' gang awa' hame in th' middle o' th' 'nicht drunk as a lud. Buit he winna cam here ony mair."

"I hope you have not quarrelled, Mrs Keaton," Miss Monaugh said, in some doubt, focussing the latter's downcast face.

"Oh, no," answered that lady. "But the fact is— Aleck, you'd better tell her. I must see to my bread."

Aleck! The truth flashed upon the mind of Miss Monaugh, and her heart seemed to jump into her mouth. She felt cold and white.

"Weel," said Aleck, throwing one leg over the other, and complacently stroking his beard, "the fact is, she's na longer th' Widow Keaton she hae changed her name."

"She is married?"

"That's sae."

"To whom?"

"Mesel'."

"To you!"

"Aye. She i' th' Mistress M'Gurren. We were marrit twa days syne."

"Good heavens!" the spinster exclaimed, completely forgetting herself in the astonishment that this announcement occasioned her. Her face was the hue of a scraped pig, her nervousness painfully manifest. All the bitterest feelings of her nature for a moment held sway; spitefulness, envy, hatred against the widow—now widow no longer, but the helpmeet of the one she had ear-marked for her own, had striven to gain, had cast all modesty to the winds, and gone beyond the limits of decency, in her unwomanly wooing, only to discover on a sudden, when there had appeared no obstacle in the way of achievement, that she had ignominiously lost; This low, vulgar woman, in her tawdry, indecorous flimsies, had ousted her; the pessimistic female, who had neither breeding nor accomplishments, whose obesity and rubicundity were the results of inebriation and gluttony; this illiterate, shameless, brazen old trollop had caught the wealthy laird in her indifferently cast net, whilst she—the proud and stately Johanna Monaugh, with all her utilitarian views and disregard of conventionalities—had been contemptuously ignored—spurned—scorned! Her pride was deeply wounded; her hands clenched as though they itched to scratch the wretch who had so basely insulted her; and she was filled with sickly qualms as she conceived the base character of that woman who, practising the role of a confidential friend, had surreptitiously cajoled her, and appropriated that to which her claim was the most infinitesimal. Only a few hours before she had breathed ambrosial sweets, now the flames of hell raged within her breast, and she glared at M'Gurren and the slattern he called wife, with the bitter hatred of a scorned woman.

"Ye dinna congratulate me, lass," Mr M'Gurren reminded her. This was adding fuel to an already blazing fire.

"Congratulate you!" she cried, with flashing eyes. "Do you know what you have done? Are you aware that this woman was all but married to George Wrightson?"

"I ken she was engeeged ta him, buit that was bruk off long syne."

"Indeed it was not. George Wrightson does not know at the present moment that his affaire d' amour is at end. Only the other day she was preparing her trousseau under his very nose, and arranging for the wedding. What day it was fixed for I don't know. But it must be near at hand. The poor fool will come to claim her, as he has a right to, and find her your wife! She has treated him abominably; and you, who are her confederate, have acted a part wholly at variance with the conduct of a gentleman. I'm— Really, I'm thoroughly disgusted with the whole business."

"I canna see hoo it concerns ye, lass," said M'Gurren quietly.

"How it concerns me!" the spinster screeched. "George Wrightson is my cousin, and naturally I take an interest in his affairs. Marriage would have been his salvation. Now he will be ruined. He will drink himself to death. That will be your doing. You don't know yet half the mischief you have done. Do you know the old adage: 'Marry in haste, repent at leisure?' You will repent in a very short time. Retribution will come, mark me, and you'll get your desserts. I know it. I've had an opportunity of judging."

Mrs M'Gurren came in, carrying a small parcel in her hand. "Miss Monaugh, this is some of our weddin' cake for yerself an' Mrs Lethcote."

"Indeed, madam." said the spinster, bristling again, "as you didn't consider it worth your while to invite us, after all our kindnesses to you and Mr M'Gurren, you can keep your cake.''

"Oh, dear!" said Mrs M'Gurren, firing up at once. "Yer needn't get into such a mighty tear about it. Yer not the only one, madam."

"Oots, wuman, ye mauna quarrel noo," M'Gurren interrupted. "I'll telt ye th' truth, lass. Ye ken th' folk aboot here wadna lookit kindly on oor nuptials. Sae I tuk Mark alang wi' me ta toon last nicht, an' we were marrit at the registry. There was na party at a'."

"You told me you were married two days ago?" said Miss Monaugh, coldly.

"Sae I did, lass. I was just ha'in' a joke wi' ye. Take the cakes, lass, an' dinna let there be a difference batween us."

"Thank you. If it pleases Mrs Lethcote I will send a servant for it."

"A servant!" cried M'Gurren, indignantly. "It may be harder, lass, ta find th' flunkey thun ta carry the cake home wi' ye."

"Make no mistake on that point, Mr M'Gurren," she returned with an emphatic little bow. "I wish you a good afternoon."

Then, without further words, and still in a temper, Miss Monaugh bounced out of the room. As she passed through the broken gate she heard Mrs M'Gurren humming, in evident satisfaction:—

"Alas and alack,

She—came—back,

An' she'd a naughty little twinkle in her eye."

 

The spinster tossed her head in scorn, and hurried homewards with a flutter of skirts, and oscillation of ribbons and laces, there to confide to Biddy "the disgraceful conduct of Moneybags and that female."

Biddy at first was speechless with rage and horror, then she stormed and raved, and stamped her foot on the floor till everything in the room shook and rattled. Old Myles retreated quietly into the next room, and there be shook hands with himself with much enthusiasm, and chuckled in secret over the good news. "Etty 'ill have nowt to fear from un now," he soliloquised, tossing his head waggishly, "an' she'll be right slap glad on't, I'll warrant."

At dinner Biddy denounced him as a viper, and a two-faced thing.

"There's no mahn in him; he hasn't th' spirit of 'a louse. He's only a thing," she raved. "He shall niver come anigh my house agin—niver! Myles, I strictly forbid ye ever to spake to th' spalpeen agin, mind that."

"Doan want to speak to un." Myles beamed with delight.

"I should think not, indade! After all he used to say about Mother Keaton—runnin' her down to the lowest, an' goin' on about Mark so—to turn round an' marry the owld cow. The Lord save us! An' th' way he used to talk to me about Etty an' I dunno how many times he asked me for her. Johanna, take care she niver associates wid him. By the grace o' God, she shall niver be polluted be sich company. Niver will she spake to him—or I'll spiflicate her. Just moind that now, Johanna."

Johanna answered nothing. She was intent upon her own dismal thoughts. They were in nowise lightened by the mornings mail, which brought her a note from Mr Edwin Lynton stating that he had been called upon to act as deputy for Leonard until that young gentleman returned from the north, and consequently could not hope to see her again for some time, unless she favoured him with a visit to Woorowolong. It was not a love letter, merely a formal announcement that might have been written by anybody. Her heart sank within her as the thought struck her that he had mistaken her procrastination for dismissal, and had abandoned his suit for her hand. It was feasible, for could he not have called on his way to the station—if only just to obtain her answer. She had asked him to come, and regretted more than ever that she had done so. It made her feel so small and mean. Perhaps he was indifferent. Old age does not become infatuated with a woman's charms like youth. He may have only proposed in a moment of generosity and gallantry, perhaps out of devilment, thinking that she was already another's, and would, of course, refuse him.

She carried the letter to her room and wept over it, reread it and wept again.

"Oh, why did I hesitate!" she lamented, her elbows on the dressing table, and propping her chin up with her palms. "Why didn't I snap him up, and thus have made sure of one? I have learned a lesson. Never again will I put off till to-morrow a man I can have to-day. I could have been Edwin's darling this moment but for my folly. Now I may lose him. Even if he is sincere, he may not be courageous enough to ask twice. Well, I could speak— Ah, I have it! I will reply to his note, and give him an answer. There is nothing improper in doing that."

She brightened immediately on grasping this brilliant idea, and, without loss of time, produced pen and paper and dashed off a billet doux to Mr Lynton:—

"Your note brought with it much disappointment. I was expecting and wishing for you every minute when I received it. Since I saw you last I have discovered that my heart is not my own. I have learned the truth of the old saying that absence makes the heart grow fonder. It does seem an age since we separated, each day drags away so wearily. I am lonely without you. Do come, or write.— Yours for ever, Johanna."

"That ought to fetch him." she mused, after reading it over to see that it was all right and proper. Her musings carried her along the old beaten of the expectant woman. She spoilt many envelopes by addressing them to her future self, "Mrs Lynton" and "Mrs Johanna Lynton" and "Mrs Edwin Lynton, Druton," and she sketched a postage stamp in one corner, and two or three imaginary postmarks on the back and front, just to see how it would look. Then her thoughts ran on wedding dresses and bridesmaids, and all the silly appointments with which modern custom surrounds the application of the connecting link that makes man and woman one indissoluble whole, till she had almost forgotten the letter.

She re-read the precious document again, then sealed it carefully, and at the first opportunity despatched it to her "Dear Edwin." How easy it was to transfer that term of endearment from Aleck to Edwin!"

 

CHAPTER XX.

Meanwhile, the bibaceous Kilfloggin called on the false widow at Gimbo to see to the final arrangements for their wedding. He was passably sober, and had donned a clean shirt and dispensed with his bo-yangs.

"How dyer do, Mary? Come to see if yer had things shipshape for the parson."

"Oh, yer needn't trouble yerself about th' parson. He's not wanted eny more."

"Not wanted!" cried George. "Surely ter God y' ain't goin' to jib on it now?"

Look here, Mr Wrightson," said the widow, bracing herself, "it's no use beatin' about the bush. I might's well tell yer the truth at once. I thought it over, an' I ses, 'Well, I won't do it without my boys' consent.' So I wrote to 'em, an' they said, 'If you want to marry, take Aleck M'Gurren. He can give you a good home, an' keep you like a lady. George Wrightson drinks, an' he's got nothing.' "

"Got nuthin'!" cried George. How do they know what I got? Might 'ave a darned sight more'n they have. I'll take my oath I ken make a better splice than old Aleck M'Gurren, enyway."

"They've knowed Mr M'Gurren since they wur kids, an' I reckoned it was good advice," she went on.

"Marry th' old Scotchman!" George iterated. "Jumpin' Jemima! y'r must kid yerself. Why, a bloke like him 'ud never think o' lookin' yer way, Mary! Though he ain't worth pickin' up as a man, he thinks th' goldarned sun rises out o' one of his boots an' sets in th' other."

"Not so fast, if you please. An' don't call me Mary. If me husband heard yer—"

"Yer 'usband!"

"My husband," she repeated, nodding her head.

"Well, by cripes!" he gasped. "Where'd yer get him?"

"I am Mrs M'Gurren," she informed him, reddening.

For a full minute George stood staring at her in speechless amazement. Presently he laughed, and drew a flask of whisky from his pocket.

"Here, 'ave a nip, old gel. 'T'll put yer in better humour."

But the old girl made a grimace, and waved him aside.

"Don't come near me with any o' that stuff, or I'll smash th' bottle on the stones," she said, and there was venom in her voice.

"What, not havin' any?"

"Indeed I'm not!"

Again George stared at her. Then he said:

"Mrs M'Gurren, eh? By gum, missus, this is a bit sudding."

"We won't haggle over that," she said. "An' I don't think Mr M'Gurren would like to see you here."

"My troubles about M'Gurren!" said George. "There'll be precious little of him left after you've had him a year. But don't fret about me, missus. My shadder 'll be kep' off Gimbo grass. You make no error!"

With these valedictory expressions he departed. He whistled softly, as though he didn't mind but he was hard hit. Down the flat he lifted his voice suddenly:—

Oh, my heart is broke—

God knows it is!"

 

He stopped abruptly, as he had commenced, and thereafter, as a musical genius, he was silent. What became of him may be told in a few words. Now and again he would deliver a load of timber, and Bill Sooley or Abe Watts, and sometimes Amelia Jane, would take the team out for him, while he remained in Dumboon "knocking his cheque down." At times he got paralytic; again he "saw things," and dodged them wildly among the trees on his way to camp. In the scrubs he sobered up, and would be moody till he got back to the pub. One day the expected happened. George had paid another teamster to load his waggon for him, and went out, drunk, to bring it in himself. Crossing a gully he fell off his horse, and the wheel went over him. Amelia Jane was riding behind, and hurried to his aid.

"Yer hurt, George?" she inquired.

"Put yer cluver on, 'Melia; I'm goan ter take yer out," said George, with a sickly smile.

"Why, split me if he ain't gone stark mad!" Amelia Jane exclaimed. "George, you've gone an' busted yer biler dead sure!"

"Stand over, Brown!"' said George, breathing hard. "Bang yer eyes—mind to knock yer down!"

Amelia Jane got frightened, and coo-ee'd for help. Three or four bullockies ran up. George smiled bravely, and even tried to sing—

Wrap me up in me stockwhip an' blanket,

An' bury me deep down below,

With me saddle an' quartpot for comp'ny,

Down where th' coolabahs grow."

 

"What's the matter?" asked Sooley, breathlessly.

"Ol' jinker's knocked me out," George answered. "Ruther sudding, wasn't it? Too sudding—"

That was the end of Kilfloggin, and Miss Monaugh swore that she would never forgive M'Gurren and that "disreputable female" for having driven him to the deadly bottle.

 

CHAPTER XXI.

Midwinter saw Leonard and his wife domiciled at Woorowolong. Ethel and Mark returned with them, the latter taking the billet of book-keeper at the station as a pot-boiler. Mr Lynton returned to his old haunts. Miss Monaugh had called on him at the station, and, going home across the bush, she encounted Amelia Jane, who was hard riding as usual on the old grey pony. She pulled up sharply, and slewed a little off her course to meet the spinster.

" 'D yer see Strawberry enywhere?" she asked, dropping the reins to do up her back hair.

"No, Amelia," said Miss Monaugh. "Have you lost that troublesome beast again?"

"Oh, he's a swine," Amelia Jane averred. "He won't stop like another bullock, but pokes away in th' scrubs on his ace every time he's let go. Dunno why father don't pole-axe th' cow. Got me rode blind pretty near."

Miss Monaugh was sorry, and hoped the refractory bovine would soon be found. She did not want to talk today. She was eager to get home to unburden herself of a great secret to Biddy. But Amelia Jane was bristling with news just now, and hung on to her.

"Hear about Abe Watts?" she asked.

"What about him?" asked Jo.

"Spliced," said Amelia Jane.

"Go on!" cried Jo, a little interested.

"To Sarah from the Dairy," Amelia Jane went on.

"When did it happen?"

"Larst night. Great dance."

"Well, I'm glad they're happy." The spinster always took it for granted that people were happy when they got married.

"Me an' Bill was there," Amelia Jane continued.

"How did you get on?"—absently.

Amelia Jane tittered, and pulled at the horse's mane. "Asked me to say when," she said.

"Did he? And when is it to be?"

"Next time he comes in."

"Oh! I'm very glad, Amelia. I congratulate you. You were sensible. Procrastination is the thief of love. I've had an opportunity of judging."

"I s'pose you know Bill?" Amelia Jane inquired.

"I have seen him a few times," Miss Monaugh replied.

"Ain't a bad old stick when yer come to know him proper. Real smart, too. Y' orter hear him performin' when he's stuck. Cripes, he do jump an' holler, an' cracks like guns goin' off."

"He's a good shot, I've heard," Miss Monaugh remarked.

"Oh, rippin'. Hits th' bull's-eye every pop. But I meant th' way he cracks his whip. There's none of 'em comes up to him at that. Never heard nobody swear like him neither."

"It's very wrong to swear," Miss Monaugh reproved. "You must use your influence with him, Amelia, and try to reform him."

"But Bill's a champion," Amelia Jane protested. "It's just lovely to hear him."

Miss Monaugh smiled sweetly. "I am so glad you are going to be settled," she repeated.

"I'll be done jiggin' about after Strawberry enyway," Amelia Jane responded. "Must get along."

She whacked the old pony on the ribs and went off full speed again. Miss Monaugh brushed along as rapidly as her dread of snakes would permit, her dear old face radiant, and her heart throbbing with goodwill to all creation. The hills and the scrubs had never charmed her eyes as they did now and the warbling of the magpies, and the chirrupping of parrots—every sound fell like sweetest music on her ears. Her erstwhile prosaic world was an enchanted land, and the palescent sunset was a dream of Heaven. The quiet old cows browsing on the hills, the foals gambolling on the flat, and the croak of the black shag down by the lagoon, all touched responsive chords—associations of home and of long ago—and filled her with, an indescribable happiness.

On reaching home she rushed in to Biddy to entrust her immediately with her wonderful secret.

"Would you ever believe it, Biddy," she gasped, dropping breathlessly into a chair.

Biddy regarded her with a frigid stare. "Got 'em again," she said.

"I'm engaged!" Miss Monaugh concluded, swallowing huge gulps of the atmosphere.

"Engaged!" repeated Biddy, contemptuously. "Indade, haven't you enough to kape you widout goin' to service? I thought so, anyway. Phwat's it ye' re goin' to be?"

Miss Monaugh pursed her lips in contempt. "Do you imagine I could degrade myself by going out to service?" she demanded.

"I don't" Biddy answered. "I imagine ye'd better ye'self a lot. I've seen more women 'an you at service. You sed you were engaged?"

"So I am."

"In what capacity, thin?"

"In a matrimonial capacity—if you'll have it that way. I am going to be married."

Biddy threw up her hands and laughed loudly. "Ooh, the Lord save us! Are ye goin' off 'at lasht?"

"Do you mean, am I going away, Biddy?"

" 'Tis off the shelf I mane. Sure, 'tis a harrowin' time ye've been on it."

Miss Monaugh was annoyed, but tried to look as though she did not care. "Mr Lynton, you know—"

"Oh, it's Mr Lynton thin! Ye did get him?"

"Biddy, how rude you are. I'm surprised."

"So am I, bedad. I didn't think th' old crony had that much generosity in him."

"Indeed, the generosity is on the other foot, if there's any generosity about it," Miss Monaugh retorted. "It is not the first time Mr Lynton has asked me."

"Well, no," Biddy admitted, slowly. " 'Tis a dhry old shtick he's gettin', all the same."

"Is he!" sullenly. "I'm no dryer than you are, if it comes to that."

"Whin's it comin' off, Jo?" asked Biddy in a more pacifying tone.

"Whenever I like," Jo answered, triumphantly.

"Did he tell you that?" cried Biddy, with distended eyes.

"He did," said Jo, trying to appear calm while fumbling with her gloves.

"An' ye're shtill Johanna Monaugh?"

"I'm still Johanna Monaugh, of course."

"Wal, afther that!" cried Biddy, her face eloquent of dissent. "I'd like to see the bold cockshaver who'd say that to me if I stud in your boots. I'd give him th' crook of me arm pretty shmart, an' I'd say to him, ses I, 'Come on, me bhoy; there's no time like th' prisent.' Men are kittle cattle, an' there's nothin' like takin' 'em on the hop."

"That would be bad form, Biddy," said Miss Monaugh, severely. "Though I'm not a stickler for conventionalities, I believe in observing the proprieties in cases of this sort. There are people who would be glad of something to say about the indecent haste and that sort of thing. Mother Grundy is a nasty old cat in matters of this kind. If a person in my position were to go and marry at a moment's notice, she would turn up her snub nose and talk scandal. But she won't have the chance. Everything will be strictly formal and proper, and I'll get there in good time, never fear."

"Ye'll niver do it younger, Johanna," Biddy said.

Miss Monaugh, highly indignant, bounced out of the room. She found a more sympathetic listener in Myles, and with him expatiated on the many estimable qualities of her fiance and the amiable Myles expressed himself as being delighted to know that she had succeeded in "hookin' summat arter all."

Meanwhile, Biddy was much exercised as to what was to become of Ethel. In her heart she was glad that Johanna was to be taken away to Druton, for then Ethel would not be so much under her baneful influence, and would therefore be more tractable and obedient to her stepmother. She assisted Miss Monaugh all she could in her preparations, and did not trouble herself much to conceal her anxiety to be rid of her.

"Of course she doesn't like me," Miss Monaugh confided to Myles, "because I've upset so many of her plans. But she'll miss me when I'm gone. If she knew the truth about Ethel she wouldn't be in each a hurry to kick me out. It serves her right."

It was about sunset on Saturday when Mr Lethcote, who had gone to the station the day before to meet his daughter, drove her home in the dogcart. Miss Monaugh had returned some hours earlier, and now assisted the young lady to alight.

''You look happy, child—so contented." she said, roguishly but only Ethel knew the meaning of the wink and smile that accompanied the words.

She had benefited immensely by her trip. She was a little sunburned certainly, but there was a healthy sparkle n the dear blue eyes that gave her whole face an animated appearance. She was at times delightfully piquant and her brisk manner was a source of pleasure to her father and Aunt Jo. But her repartees, her fearlessness, occasionally disconcerted her stepmother. The latter realised now that Ethel had grown into a woman, and was not to be so easily cajoled as she had expected. It was all Johanna's fault, of course. She had made her "old fashioned," self-willed and rebellious.

But Biddy did not despair. She'll do my biddin' whin Jo's gone," she declared, "or be th' grace o' God I'll knock shpots off her. I'll let her understand widout eny equivocatin' who's boss of this establishment. Take it from me now."

 

CHAPTER XXII.

"How old are you, Etty?" Biddy asked on the Monday morning.

They were in the drawing-room. In a little sitting-room adjoining were two gentlemen. They had been smuggled in there by Miss Monaugh.

"Just keep quiet till you're wanted," she enjoined them. "You know your role. Pop in at the right time. We'll have a little drama—or perhaps I should say comedy to finish up with. It's the best way to get out of the difficulty."

"I'm afraid ther'll be something of the tragic element in it," said the elder of the two gentlemen.

"Of course there will. Biddy will be in an awful rage. I wouldn't be surprised if she has a fit. But it will soon pass over. Just follow my instructions, and all will be well."

She returned to the drawing-room.

"I am nearly twenty;" Ethel answered. Then, after a pause, she added, "Leonard says I do not look it."

"You mightn't look it," said her stepmother, "but, for all that, you have the way wid you that tells pretty plain that ye warn't born yesterday, it's time, Etty, ye begun to think o' settlin' down. It bates me now what we're goin' to do for you. There was Mr Fogarty—a very nice young man. He's just married Miss Cadby, th' publican's daughter. He always admired you, did Fogarty, an' if ye 'adn't gone away, I'm sure she wouldn't 'ave got a bit of him. An' ye lost M'Gurren (the old bog-throtter) ye lost him through, your own foolishness, so ye did."

"I didn't want Mr M'Gurren, mother. I'm glad he's out of the way," Ethel returned. "There are better men than Mr M'Gurren on the Yeerong—one, at least."

"Who is that, pray?"

"Mark Keaton."

"Phugh! He's not worth his salt. He might own Gimbo (thanks to old M'Gurren), but what's he got to kape it goin'? He won't work, an' phwat's the use of his writin'?"

Miss Monaugh tossed her head and passed into the hall.

"He's going to work at the station," Ethel replied. "His writing is bringing him in money already. In a few years he'll be rich, or I'm greatly mistaken."

"I think you are. It ud take half a lifetime at least to make onything at that game nowadays. Mr Lynton told me so, and he ought to know. Who th' divil would marry a bookworm on that spec, enyway?"

"That question is out of date, mother. He's married."

"Mark Keaton is?"

"Yes."

Mrs Lethcote dropped her hands over her lap, still holding her work—some white material she was sewing. Ethel was slightly nervous.

"The Lord be thanked for that much!" said her stepmother, fervently. Her gaze wandered through the open door. Across the flat, along the Red Road, a few teams were passing. Twining wreaths of vapour rose like snowclouds from the hills beyond. The sun shone out, and insect life began to waken, and to relieve the monotonous stillness of the July morning.

Ethel looked up timidly. "You are glad, mother?" she questioned.

"Of course I am," her step-mother replied. "I didn't think he'd do it. but 'tis as well he has. He's beyond harm-doin', enyway."

"There was never any harm in Mark Keaton, I am sure," said Ethel, picking up a book that lay on the table. "If he is poor, he is honest."

"I always thought ye had a fancy for th' bosthoon," said Biddy. "I hope ye've got over that—now."

"No, mother," said Ethel, slowly. Her eyes were fixed on the book. "I always loved him—I love him dearly."

She spoke very tenderly, her face half-hidden in the thick folds of the curtains. Biddy was horrified.

"Love him!" she cried. "Are ye mad? How can ye say such a thing! Ye don't know what ye're talkin' about, goose. Ye ought to be ashamed of ye'self, so ye ought. To say ye love a married man! Did I iver hear th' like of it!"

"Would you have me hate him?"

" 'Twould be betther so. I wouldn't have ye love him if he was single, but—married! God forbid! Ye must be crazy, child. Phwat would his wife think at all, at all?"

"She thinks it quite proper," Ethel answered in a low voice.

"To love her husband?"

"Certainly."

"The Lord be good to us! I donno phant sort of a woman she can be."

Biddy went on sewing very rapidly for a few seconds. Suddenly she put it down again. "Who did he get holt of, for God's sake? Some wicked adventuress in Brisbane. I s'pose?"

"No, mother," said Ethel, with reproach in her eyes and voice. "He married in Nanango."

"Indade! An' who is his wife?"

"I am!"

"God be good to us! You-u!"

"Yes. mother, I am Mark's wife."

"God forgive you!" said Biddy, hoarsely. Her face was white, and her eyes flashed with an angry glare. "An' ye feel mighty proud, no doubt? Ye think ye'ye done a shmart thing to marry that jackanapes? Th' dirty scamp!"

She sprang up and stamped her foot oh the floor. "By the powers, if he ever comes into this house I'll throttle him! I'll knock him down wid the saucepan! I'll scald the dog, I will!"

"Oh, mother!"

"I'll sphlit his skull open wid the tay-pot—"

Biddy stopped short. Mark Keaton stood on the threshold, looking calmly at her.

"Begging your pardon, madam," he said, "were you alluding to our marriage?"

"Indade I was, thin. Drat you for an impudent pup! I'll have ye presecuted!"

"What wrong have I done?"

"Wrong!" screeched the infuriated woman. "Phwat right did ye ever do ye dog! Didn't ye take my daughter away an' marry her against my will! 'Tis abductin' ye've done. She' undher age. Dyer know that?"

"I do. I obtained permission from the proper authority to marry Ethel."

"The proper authority! An' who th' divil's the proper authority, I'd like to know?"

The side door opened, and Aunt Jo entered.

"I am," she said, with an emphasis that greatly disturbed the curl papers.

"You—u—u!"

"Yes, me."

"You—"

"Now, Biddy, don't make a fuss over nothing. Just listen to me. Before Ethel's mother died she made me the guardian of her child. I have the deed here." She tapped a paper which she held in her hand. "I would have told you this long ago, and let you know all about Mark and Ethel's engagement if you had acted properly towards her. But you tried your best to sacrifice the poor child for M'Gurren's money. So we had to indulge in a little game of checkmate."

"Indade!" cried Biddy, wrathfully. I'll take good care I'll checkmate you for th' future. As ye think so much of her fine husband, ye can get him to kape yez. I won't, so there."

"You never have, Biddy. I've kep myself—although," she added, as an afterthought, "I am indebted to you for the shelter of your most, hospitable roof"

"Ye won't be any longer thin. I'll stake me sowl on that much."

"I won't. I have a home of my own."

"Have you? 'Tis mighty racent ye've found it thin."

"I'm to be married on Wednesday Biddy, to Mr Lynton, and—"

"Lord save us! Do ye mane it?"

"Certainly. And I should like to be married here. Mr Lynton wishes it."

Biddy sank into a chair, hardly knowing whether to laugh or to cry. The clouds were passing over, and Mark, noting the favourable signs stepped forward.

"Mrs Lethoote," he said, "we have not been on the best of terms in the past, which was my reason for not asking your permission to marry Ethel. I knew you would dismiss me at once. We have always loved each other, Ethel and I, and, for fear of being parted, we agreed to marry in secret. I have already made a name, and am in a position to keep her as she should be kept. So I trust you will forgive us our little delinquency, and be good friends."

He held out his hand. Mrs Lethcote accepted it in silence.

"There now," said Miss Monaugh smiling blandly; "you will be proud of him yet, Biddy. Of course you could tear my hair out, and all that, but you'll come to look at it as we do before long. These sort of matches mostly turn out happily. I am quite satisfied this one will. I've had an opportunity of judging."

She threw the door open, and, with many smiles and courtesies, and a modest little blush, announced Mr Edwin Lynton.

"My dear Mrs Lethcote," said that gentleman, pompously, "let me congratulate you. I am very glad things have turned out so happily. Are you not delighted now? Come?"

"Well," said Biddy, reluctantly, "it might 'ave been worse."

"Of course it might," Mr Lynton assented, patronisingly. "But," he added slyly, "it could scarcely have been better. Your son-in-law, my dear madam, is the lion of the Yeerong."

Mrs Lethcote smiled, and drew her stepdaughter to her. "I hope ye'll be happy, Etty," she said, and kissed the young wife on the cheek.

"Happy!" said the excited and delighted Myles, who had been beaming on the company through the window all the while, and enjoying Biddy' confusion. "She's got nowt to trouble un now. She'll be 's happy 's a sandboy, I'll warrant."

"There is only one more act to make all complete," said Mr Lynton, with sly glance at Miss Monaugh, who blushed modestly and slapped him playfully on the shoulder.

"Ye're goin' to take Jo away from us?" Biddy broke in. "That's it of course. Ye don't think she kept that bottled up, do you?"

"Certainly not. I particularly requested her to tell you. I hope you have no objection—"

"Indade I haven't. Take her an welcome. Bad cess to her, phwat hasn't she done since she's been here! But niver mind. A bad indin' often has a good beginnin'. I forgive you, Jo, an'—the best of luck be wid you."

 
Originally published in the Northern Star - Lismore, NSW
June 6, 1906 through October 24, 1906

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