2024-Aug 4th (PART III) _ [AUNT JO - A Love Story of the Cedar Scrubs by Edward S. Sorenson (Chap 11 - 15)]

CHAPTER XI.

Mark had become more solitary in his habits than ever, and, like Myles, spent much of his time fishing. It wasn't a very exciting diversion for a jilted lover, but it led him to a discovery that stirred the devil in him. He was sitting in a shaded nook, where he was screened from view by overhanging lillipillies and wild cherry trees, nursing a crooked rod, and watching a monotonous floater. Presently voices disturbed his quietude, and a moment later he recognised Kilfloggin and "Crowbar." They were on the same errand as himself, both carrying their whipsticks, the whips being rolled tightly round them, and a fishing line dangling from the small end of each. This saved the trouble of cutting special rods.

Mark looked about for a means of escape. He didn't want to meet those kind of people. They always asked him, with a grin up their sleeves, "hadn't he got a job yet?" It was humiliating to admit even that he wanted such a low thing as a job. He hauled in his lines quickly, and, not having time to slip away unseen, he hid himself in the thick undergrowth. To his chagrin, they threw down their tackle close by, and commenced fishing. Under the circumstances, he could do nothing but remain like a crouching rabbit until they went away, as discovery now would be doubly embarrassing. They were in a talkative mood, and soon he was listening attentively.

"So yer goin' ter spend yer Sunday at Gimbo," Crowbar was saying; "Whatcher little game there?"

"Jes' wait awhile. Got a good thing on. Sumthin' better'n roughin' it in them man-killin' scrubs," Kilfloggin replied.

"I see!" said Crowbar. "Hangin' yer hat up to ther widder, eh?"

"Got it on th' peg, me boy. Goin' ter be spliced soon. This is strickly confidential, mind yer. Whatcher think of it?"

"Wal, dang me if it don't beat cockfightin'. A wild scrag of a scrub warrior like you puttin' th' yoke on Widder Keaton. S' must be kinder 'ard up."

"Hard up be hanged! Reckon I'm good enough for Widder Keaton eny day. She's not one o' them as goes in for finery, an' puttin' on airs, an' that sort o' tomfoolery. 'S rough an' ready as they make 'em. Jes' my style to a T. Ye'll see me spare-chainin' her up ter parson's 'fore long. Won't I cut a shine then!"

"Wot about Lord Muck, th' pote? He'll bite a bit, I reckon."

"He'll bite sumthin' purty hard, you make no error. Wait till we're hitched up all tight an' square, an' I'll let him know wot for. I prog-nos-ticate there'll be a lively-bust-up in that fam'ly. 'Tween me an' you an' th' gate post, I've put up with a' lot of his foppishness for th' sake of old Mary. Why, dynamite his eyes, he's too almighty big to look th' way we're goin'. Like Mad Sambo down at th' dairy. Sacked th' best qualified worker he ever 'ad 'cause th' feller was too much of a white man to crawl round him like a grovellin' worm. . . . I only took th' job to oblige him while I was spellin' me bullocks."

"Oh, you was th' bloke wot flung th' dish o' butter over Sambo?"

"I was. By th' jumpin' Jemima, it took a fall out of him. Lapped round his mug bewtyful."

"Did yer go back for yer wages?" asked Crowbar.

"I didn't. Wouldn't touch his dirty stuff if he brought it to me," Kilfloggin answered. "But Mr High-an'-mighty Mark Keaton Esquire needn't try that game on," he resumed: I'll 'ave it all out of him, take my tip. Got a spare team, 'n if he don't like to go an' portify that he ken put a coil in his bluey an' get. I'll 'ave none of him. 'S a bit too sudding for me."

"Time he chucked th' titty-bottle onyway," said Crowbar.

"I mean ter yoke up th' widder," Kilfloggin went on. "But darn me if goin' to find grass for th' whole herd of 'em like some do."

"Ye'd be a chump if yer did," Crowbar rejoined. "I wish yer luck, ol' man. That's more'n we're 'avin' 'ere, so wot's 'say if we shift?"

"Jes' as well. Bitin' tarnation slow ter-day. Wanted ter get a couple extra purtikler too. Ol' gel likes fish, she do."

When they had gone Mark stepped out of his hiding place, filled with loathing and disgust for his prospective stepfather and angered with his mother for contemplating the espousal of "a fellow like that."

As he plodded over the hills he encountered Leonard, who was on his way home from Dumboon.

"Great bit of fun yesterday," he said, dismounting.

"What was that?" asked Mark, absently. He was still thinking of the threatened increase in the family.

"You know, Abe Watts has been breaking his neck for some time to get home on Sooley. Same time he didn't allow it to be suspected that he bore any malice, being on the most friendly terms with the long person. Sooley has the faculty of grasping his opportunities at a moment's notice, but Abe is a slow mover, and the amount of brain work he did after that crowning indignity on Red Road was prodigious. The inspiration came when he saw Peter Johnson driving home from town with a horse called Stopdead in the shafts of the spring cart. That horse has one characteristic the thought of which so pleased Abe that he even patted Yellowman as he unyoked him at the campingplace. The bullocks were turned up the flat by Peter's selection for the night. Abe took them up, and rode back on Stopdead. Said he'd bought him for fifteen quid. Sooley said he was a fool; the horse was no good. 'Jes' get on an' try him,' says Abe. Canters like a racin' 'orse, an' ken jump anything with hide on. Dirt cheap, I reckon.' Sooley got on, smoking, and took a twist or two out of him. 'Fair ter middlin' he says. Bit hard in the mouth.' 'Try him at th' gutter.' says Abe. 'Go over like a bird, ye'll find.' The gutter was about ten feet wide, with a foot or two of water in it, covered with weeds, and very boggy. Bill went a long way back, and pelted at it with arms and legs and reins swinging. Doesn't ride as well as he shoots. Abe was standing near the take-off, and just as Stopdead was going to leap, he yells out 'Whey!' sharp and sudden. The old horse acted up to his name. He stopped dead—but Sooley didn't. He shot head first into the gutter like a frog off a rail. Abe just waited to see him regain his perpendicular—with a heap of mud and weeds dripping from his head. Then he remembered that Johnson wanted the horse at 6.21 sharp, and raced away to keep the appointment."

"Thought he bought the horse?" queried Mark, as cheerfully as Bill Sooley might have said it after he had combed the weeds and crayfish out of his hair.

"Bought him be hanged! Just borrowed him to chuck Sooley. Didn't get back till midnight, having spent the evening exaggerating the circumstance to Peter Johnson. Sooley was in bed, and Abe was getting in very quietly when his feet touched something deadly cold. It was a warm night, but the contact made him feel like an iceberg. If you remember, he had seven years' growth frightened out of him once in the scrubs. Woke up one night and felt a snake crawling under his shirt. Had to lie mighty still while Sooley got a light and a waddy and as soon as Sooley saw the shirt move he gave Abe a most unmerciful welt across that part of him where his supper was digesting. Explained afterwards that he'd forgotten, in his excitement, that Abe was under the snake. Abe upended like dynamite, knocked Sooley through the tent, and stood over the fire till the snake was rooted out and exterminated.

"Well, feeling the cold thing the other night, his hair bristled, and he bounded out double quick, and yelled out to Sooley to light up. But Mr Sooley was in an extra heavy sleep and didn't hear. He snored loudly in confirmation. Abe got the lantern and a stick, and searched carefully all round then he turned the blankets back very gently with the stick, and discovered a wet shirt, the one Sooley had taken his mud bath in, tightly rolled up. Abe clutched it vengefully, and was tip-toeing towards Bill's bunk when the long one sprang out and cut away through the bush like a startled emu. Abe after him with the wet shirt; but Sooley had too much foot. Chased him half way to Johnson's, then went back and chopped up a lot of horsehair and sprinkled it in Bill's bunk. Bill was very restless after he turned in again, and got up earlier than usual. They cried quits at breakfast time."

Mark walked along in moody silence. He rarely fraternised with the bullockdrivers, and the yarn only riveted his mind on the horrible idea of calling Kilfloggin "father."

"I want you to come with us tomorrow," Leonard said, after a long pause. "I'm taking Liela and Etty to the mountains for a ride."

Mark shook his head. "We don't speak now," he explained.

"What! has it come to that?" cried Leonard. "What's happened?"

"She declined me—I mean," Mark stammered, "she won't have me."

"The deuce!" said Leonard, pacing steadily, through the grass. "I'm sure she cares for you. I could stake my life on it."

"She has a queer way of showing it," Mark rejoined.

"It's as I tell you; she's tied to M'Gurren. You must wrest her from him. Keep your pecker up. A woman's 'no' means nothing."

"Then how can a woman's promise be relied upon?"

"Oh, they always mean 'yes.' I'll try and get to the bottom of this first time I'm alone with Etty. I'll put Mac's pot on if there's a possible, anyway."

It was nearly dark when they separated; and Mark received another shock when he reached home. His mother had a visitor for supper, and that visitor was his now deadly enemy, Kilfloggin. On the table stood a black bottle, explaining the cause of his mother's flushed face and garrulity. Mark's brow clouded, and there was an ominous look in his eyes as he approached the table. He stopped near the bibulous visitor; and, looking from one to the other, said:

"What is the meaning of this, Wrightson? Is it your intention to make my mother a hog like yourself?"

Wrightson guffawed. "It 'ud take Goramighty to make a hog of a sow," he said. "Eh, old woman?" Then he turned slowly round in his chair and faced the old woman's son. "Look 'ere, young' un, if I am a drunkard it's me own money I get drunk on. You make no error about that. I'm not a sponger, strike me blue blind if I am. An' there's no 'arm es I ken see in havin' a friendly nip with yer mother. She was jes' tellin' me es how she's got a letter from Luke an' Eustace, who's out Mackinlay way breakin' 'orses, an' makin' two quid a week an' we've been drinkin' their good healths."

"Luke an' Eustace are both well off, while you've 'ardly a boot to yer foot," his mother added. "Ye'd better go to work now while ye've got the chance. George says he's got a spare team, an' he'll give you the job o' drivin' it."

"Mr George is very anxious to get me out of the way no doubt," said Mark. "I happen to know his intentions. Before I'll lift a whip for him I'll go barefooted."

"It's what ye'll soon have to," his mother retorted. "Ye'll have to go an' do something. I can't keep you.

"Would you see me driving bullocks for a fellow like that?"

He pointed a scathing finger at the oxen proprietor, while keeping his gaze on his mother.

"An' who are you that you shouldn't drive bullocks?" that lady demanded. "Your poor old father wasn't too stuck up to do it."

"He was a man, he was," said George. "Twas an honour ter drive on th' same road with him."

"The honour was very much one-sided," Mark returned.

Kilfloggin drew his feet in and threw his head forward. "Young feller," he said, "yer ought ter be ashamed o' yerself. Go an' buckle to it like a white man, not be a loafer all th' days o' yer life—"

Mark's fist shot out suddenly. George blocked it neatly with his mouth, and fell over a chair. He staggered to his feet, looking ugly. Mark picked up the chair and poked him through the doorway with the leg of it.

"Now take yourself off," he cried. "And don't dare put a foot inside my paddock again."

"Don't bust yourself, young feller. You're rather sudding—"

Mark slammed the door, and strode back to the dining-room.

"Mother, why do you encourage that brute here?" he demanded. "Is it possible you can entertain the thought of marrying such a man as that? Do you want to make yourself an object of ridicule?"

"Shugh!" cried his mother, with a flourish of her skirts. "I'm goin' to marry George Wrightson, an' I don't care a fig for what you or anyone else says. You pack up your duds an' clear. I've had enough of you an' your cuss-ed books."

"Right!" said Mark. "That settles it."

He went to his room. She heard him packing up, but did not go near him. At daylight he was gone. Two hours later the widow entered his room, and found a note on the packing-case table. It was short.

"Mother, I am going into the bush. If you marry Wrigntson you will never see or hear from me again. Good-bye, Mark"

Then the silence, the heavy stillness, of that great lonely house was broken by a mother's sobs. Mark was really gone.

 

CHAPTER XII.

Amelia Jane, while riding across the hills at the back of Fairymede, was surprised to see smoke issuing from the chimney at Nolan's Hut. It had been empty for two years. Standing back off the road, and screened by the scrub, it was never visited by travellers. She bore down, beating a tattoo on the ribs of her grey pony. The traveller who had broken the repose of Nolan's Hut was getting grass for a bed. He was a young man, and new chumish in appearance.

"Campin'?" she asked.

"Campin'," he answered.

"Been 'ere long?"

"Three days."

"Lookin' for a job?"

"Not exactly. Prospecting."

"Oh! Y' a gold digger," she cried. "Get ony gold?"

"Haven't tried this neighbourhood yet." he answered.

"Where'd yer try larst?"

"Down country."

"Must be a good way down."

"Why?" She was looking at his white hands and whiter neck. "Y' seem to've had a longish spell 'tween jobs," she answered.

The prospector hacked off more grass. The pocket-knife was blunt, and his hands reddened.

"I'm lookin' for Strawberry," the girl volunteered after watching him awhile.

"Who's Strawberry?" he asked, indifferently.

"One o' father's bullocks. Reg'lar cow ter poke away."

He straightened up again. "You're Miss Johnson, I think?" he said, thoughtlessly. Then he bit his lip and bent again.

"Amelia Jane Johnson," she amended. She eyed him more critically, and a look of intelligence came suddenly into her weather-beaten face.

"Oh! Why you must be th' cove wot writes portry 'bout bullyfrogs an' things er—Mark Keaton?"

"Yes," he admitted, crimsoning. "My name's Mark Keaton."

She became reserved at once. She seemed to understand the situation, and gathered up her reins. "Must find Strawberry," she said, and went off with her back hair bobbing up and down to the rough canter of the old grey.

Her recognition of him was sufficient assurance that the news would soon spread, and he wasn't a bit surprised when next day Miss Monaugh paid him a visit. She left Myles on the road with the dogcart, and walked across.

Mark expected a warm lecture from the spinster but she only laughed, and expressed a hope that he would like the change of quarters.

"The quarters are right enough," he said. "It's this what's troubling me just now." He handed her an open letter, which he had received that morning. "It concerns 'The Sundowner.' They will publish if I pay part of the cost price. It's a good chance, but I'm afraid I must let it go."

"That would be a pity," said Aunt Jo, wrinkling her forehead and frowning as she read the missive. She laid it down carefully and drummed her fingers on the table. Presently she said: "The amount, is only sixty pounds. You'll get two-thirds of the profits—if there are any."

"There's bound to be a profit," said Mark, confidently.

"How long do you think it would take to recoup your outlay?" she asked.

"Depends," said Mark. "Might be only a few months, might take years."

"Do you think it's worth the risk."

"I'd risk ten times the amount tomorrow if I had it," said Mark, impatiently.

"Hem! How much—you'll excuse the question—how much have you on hand?"

"Two pounds."

"Oh!" said the spinster, with a twitch of her lips. "You only want fifty-eight pounds more."

Only fifty-eight pounds more," Mark repeated seriously.

"It seems to me," she said, meditatively, "you were too precipitate in leaving home, Mark. Parents often quarrel with their children. That's nothing. It doesn't take long for the breach to mend. I've had an opportunity of judging."

"You don't know the nature of the quarrel," said Mark, gravely.

"Yes, I know all about it," Aunt Jo interposed.

"Of course! Nothing spreads like scandal," he remarked grimly.

"There's some talk of your mother marrying George Wrightson," Jo went on, "and you think it would be scandalous for her to do so. You make a great mistake. It is her duty. She's been a widow long enough. Let her marry."

"But, Miss Monaugh, the man is a sot—low, vulgar, and as ignorant as the proverbial pig."

"We are not all wiseacres. Besides, you must remember your mother is not—er—refined. She's getting old, too, and she's lonely, and poor as a bandicoot. You can't keep her, and the other boys are missing quantities. All good reasons why she should accept George Wrightson. Marriage will be to their mutual advantage. The single state to a woman, let me tell you, is not an unmixed blessing. I've had an opportunity of judging."

"Do you know anything of Wrightson's antecedents?" he asked her.

"His antecedents are all right," she answered easily. "Don't you worry over that. He's led a wild life, I know. But he's a hard-working man—when he working—and as honest as circumstances will permit. His worst fault is a weakness for drink. Plenty of people drink."

"So they do," Mark admitted. "But that doesn't make George Wrightson any more respectable."

"George isn't as black as he's painted," she responded. "I could tell you something that might alter your opinion of him. But not now—some other time. For the present, rest, assured that she will he marrying into a good family—a very good family indeed."

She stood up and brushed the front of her dress with her hands. "I would like you to meet me on the hill," she continued, "say Friday afternoon."

"What time?" asked Mark.

"Let me see! I'll be here about four—with Etty."

Mark started. "Couldn't you come alone? I'd rather not meet Miss Lethcote. We—We—"

"Well?"

"Didn't she tell you?" Mark was embarrassed, and found difficulty in explaining himself.

"Oh, yes," Miss Monaugh replied. "She told me. I made her."

"You know, then, it wouldn't do—"

"Don't be a fool!" she broke in. "I can assure you Ethel won't be displeased to see you. I've been speaking to her."

"I'm sure I'm much obliged to you." said Mark, a little irritably. "But I couldn't think of forcing my society on to a girl—"

"Again I say don't be a fool!" Miss Monaugh interrupted. "Your besetting sin, Mark, is false pride. You stand too much on dignity. You are too vulnerable, too sensitive; you are so easily wounded. The average bushman, in your shoes, with the chances you had, would not have walked off at the first rebuff with defeat stamped all over him in large capitals; he would have shown a bold front, and talked her out of her silly little caprices. It only wants a little pluck, a little determination. The lack of those qualities in a man is hateful to a woman. I've had an opportunity of judging."

"You think I am a coward," said Mark, flushing. "Because I would not press my suit, when I had no home to offer her, when I hadn't the price of an engagement ring; and there is the fact that the family is against me—"

"Deuce take the family!" Miss Monaugh interjected fiercely. "Biddy is against you tooth and nail; but she isn't as numerous as that. She may be captain of the ship, but she's got a mutinous crew, and one of these fine days she'll find herself drooped overboard. I'm one of the family, and you depend on it, when Biddy reckons without me she makes a false calculation. You be on the hill on Friday afternoon, and if there is need of a ring after you've seen Ethel, I'll buy you one. As for the home, the consummation of the marriage you are kicking against may put that over your head. But never mind that now. All in good time. You meet us without fail."

Mark pondered irresolute, and while he pondered Abe Watts rode up. He peered in with a grin, then gave a violent start, looked serious, and departed hurriedly without having said anything. But he carried a bolt in his quiver, and was bursting to throw it out when he reached the camping-ground, where Bill Sooley had just turned out for the night.

"By cripes!" he cried, tilting his battered white helmet to the back of his head. "Wot d'yer think, Bill?"

"What?" Bill was all attention. Abe's manner betokened something above the ordinary.

"Mark Keaton's took up his residence in Nolan's Hut."

"Go on!" cried Bill. "Is that a fact?"

"An' ol' Johanna's keepin' house for him."

"Never!"

"Straight! Jus' seen 'em with me own eyes." said Abe. " 'Melia Jane told me mornin' he was there, an' I called round, thinkin' to chiack him a bit. Looks in, an' there they are, the two of 'em, as thick as flies on a dead 'orse."

"Wot sort o' furniture 'ave they got?"

"They've got a table wot used ter be th' door; a block an' a gin-case, a billycan, a bottle of ink an' a pen, an' a lot o' writin' paper."

Bill chuckled, and jerked his head like a dummy at a Punch and Judy show. "That beats all!" he said. "Never thought Jo 'ud come ter that."

"She's been, splittin' her blessed self to get a bloke ever since she ar-rove," Abe went on. "Warn't over purtikler neither. 'Ad serious designs on yours truly, let me tell yer, time I was workin' on th' station."

"Y' orter copped out on her, Abe. Been well brung up, they say. Play th' melodium an' all. Why, ye'd been purty near respectable with a woman like that,"

"Couldn't stand her 't any price. Too boney."

"Don't think Jo's bad lookin' though, when y'r come to know her," Bill persisted.

"Ye must know her a dash sight better' n I do then, if ye've seen enything good-lookin' about her," Abe returned. "Her face 'ud blunt an' axe. An' she's as silly 's an old ewe in a dry paddock. Never reckoned th' pote 'ud rub chins with her. Thet knocks me bandy."

"Must be goin' to fetch him out," Bill surmised. "Kinder like to hear 'em holdin' forth over there."

"Warn't sayin' much when I peered in," said Abe. "Looked 'bout as eloquent as a pair o' Quakers at a wake. Might a been-ex-orsted though."

"Hang me if I don't lose some bullocks round that way ter-morrer," Bill declared. "Kinder like to see 'em."

But Bill had his trip for nothing. Mark was a hatter, looking as happy as a sick crow in a storm. He went back later to make sure; but still there was nothing of a suspicious character to be picked up. After that the long gentleman who shot bees and beetles had a suspicion that Abe Watts had been pulling his leg. Others went straggler hunting round by Nolan's Hut, and seeing no sign of the prude Johanna, they were unanimous in their opinion that Abel was an inventor. Thus Aunt Jo's good character remained untarnished.

 

CHAPTER XIII.

That night Miss Monaugh, after a short consultation with Ethel and her father, shut herself up in her room. Seating herself at a side-table, she unlocked a small escritoire, and took from it a pile of letters. Old and musty letters they were, some older than Jo, and were tied up with faded red tape. She carefully untied it, and selected two sealed missives from the packet. The first had found her at Nanango on the occasion of her only absence from Gimbo during her brother's ownership of that place. She returned immediately, and had never since paid a visit to her parents' home. Since that hurried journey her father had been planted on Baramba Creek, and her brother among the hills of Yeerong; Gimbo had passed into the hands of the Keatons; her sister-in law, the redoubtable Biddy, had yarded Myles Lethcote, and Fairymede had become her real home.

A big sum of money had been paid for Gimbo by Hugh Keaton, and what had become of it was a mystery, and the sorest of points to Biddy. She suspected that he had buried it somewhere, and had forgotten to tell her; and the thought that a fortune—which should be hers—was hidden somewhere near at hand was galling in the extreme. She had often spoken of this, and in a hundred places she had made the sceptic Myles dig for the hidden treasure, and a hundred times had he carried his spade home and reported that he had seen "nowt on't."

"Ye don't dig dape enough," Biddy would say. "'Tis only bandicootin' ye are. 'S well sind an old hen to scratch about as you."

"Better," Myles conceded. "There be worms for th' hen. There's nowt else. Onreasonable," he said. "No un 'ud bury money in a hole 's if 'twas a dead cat, an' say nowt. No good un diggin'."

"Phwat th' divil's become o' the money thin?" cried Biddy. "Tell me that if you know so much about it. Now, thin."

"He mought a spent un," Myles suggested.

"No, he didn't spend it," Biddy rejoined. "Not a skerrick he'd spend but I'd know it. Divil a fear."

"They mought'n paid un—"

"They did pay him. He told me he was goin to put it in th' bank, he did, an' I thought he had. But whin I looked for the resates I couldn't find thim, an' whin I wint to th' bank the sorra a cent of it had he put there at all. He went off so suddent—bad luck to it—that I hadn't time to get things in ordher, an' be told where this was, an' where that was. 'Twas meself searched th' house high an' low, but th' divil o' use o' sarchin'. 'S well look for a nadle in a haystack. So where can it be but buried undher a tray?"

"Naw" said Myles. "Nowt but a gawk ud put un underground. He warn't a fool, Pat Monaugh. He wouldn't bury un."

Biddy believed otherwise. She had dreamt of it, and each morning she led him to a fresh spot that a shadowy hand had pointed out as the repository. Myles came to dread late suppers, as that made Biddy dream something awful. He believed she ate heavily on purpose to dream; and she put all sorts of things under her pillow, including Pat's photo with a sovereign tied to it. But nothing came of it, and after a time she desisted in her fruitless pursuit, and ultimately ceased to talk about it.

All this and many other incidents, were recalled to mind by these two mouldy, time-worn letters, the first of which ran:—

"My Dear Friend,—I wish, you would come down at once. If I could leave my little Ethel in good hands, and know that she would be well cared for, I could die happy. I wrote to my brother, Reginald Courtenay, and to my sister, Theresa Lynton, and begged them to take her and bring her up with her cousins, Leonard and Adeline. They replied that they could not receive a Lethcote into the Courtenay family. You know, I married against my father's and brothers' wishes; married beneath me. It is hard on her, but it can't be helped. So, my dearest friend, I appeal to you to take charge of my little girl, and bring her up in the best way possible. You are yourself but a girl; but you have influence—you have wealthy relatives. I will leave you £200 to use on her behalf. Myles has been a good husband and a loving father; but, as you know, a man isn't fitted to take sole charge of child, particularly of a girl. Moreover, he is easily led, and might be persuaded to give her to some woman who would neglect her, and even be cruel to her. Therefore I give her wholly into your charge, with authority to act as you think right in all matters pertaining to her welfare. But I do not wish you to separate her from her father unless it becomes absolutely necessary. Watch over her unobtrusively—like a guardian angel. Never desert her, and heaven will reward you. —Your sincere friend, Lavinia Lethcote."

"Poor dear Lavinia!" Miss Monaugh murmured, refolding the sheet. She suspected that Myles would marry again. She wished him to marry me for Ethel's sake. I was young and hopeful then. But poor brother Pat followed Lavinia, and Biddy, of course, must step in and cut me out. It was just like her. She was always selfish and designing. But my day will come yet, and— Sigh! I'll snap my fingers at her."

Mechanically she flipped her fingers above her head, and tossed the letter back into its receptacle. Then she lay back in her chair, and gave way to a more sober train of thought.

"Yes, I've done my duty," she cogitated. "No one, not even Ethel herself, knows of that money which I have kept in the bank so long. Nor does Ethel think that the money I give her from time to time—in presents—is in reality her own—the accumulated interest on her own capital. Perhaps I ought to tell her—no; it's too soon yet. She's doing all right. But I'd pity her if she had no better guardian than Biddy. A nice one she is to have charge of another's child. A nice one, indeed. I'll spoil her little game, trust me. Leonard and Liela will soon be married now, and Ethel and Mark must come together—if I know how many beans make five. They've been very foolish. Just like young people. But I'll fix that up. Only let me get this satisfactorily settled, and Widow Keaton and George Wrightson married, and it won't be very long after before I am mistress of Tillalee. This' is leap-year, and— Well, I've had an opportunity of judging."

She was rocking herself to and fro, with a contented smile on her face; but now paused as she suddenly bethought her of something else?

"Let me see," she soliloquised, as the clock was striking eleven. "Mark's business must be disposed of first. If I'm not greatly mistaken, that will be an easy matter. I must run over Pat's last letter to begin with." She took it up and read:

"My Dear Sister,—I received the final instalment of £1000 yesterday for Gimbo. Last night I buried it at the spot I showed you and this morning, whilst our furniture was being removed into Dumboon, I planted a willow tree over it. The other £2000 I sent to the old people. We will never miss it. My wife will be well provided for when I go. I told her I invested part of the Gimbo money in mining, and by-and-by I shall have to invent another story to the effect that my mining speculations failed, and that I went into it deeper to recoup my losses and lost all. She's a spendthrift, and the money would be ruthlessly squandered were it left to her. It gives me more contentment to divide the bulk of it between my mother and sisters, knowing it will make them comfortable. When I am gone you can dig up the money and bank it. Don't be too hasty, however, for your sudden acquisition of wealth would arouse Biddy's suspicions. I have done my best for all in a quiet way. Our cottage will soon be finished, and then I would be glad if you would come and live with us again.—Your affectionate brother, Pat."

With her elbow on the table, and her chin resting on the palm of her hand, Miss Monaugh sat for many minutes poring over her brother's letter. The town house, she remembered, had been left to Biddy, and was sold by her after her marriage with Myles Lethcote. During all the years since then the buried money had never been touched. Often the spinster had decided to remove it and put it to some profitable use, and as often again decided to leave it alone. So the time passed, and the willow grew till now a great tree with far-spreading roots stood, a silent sentinel, over her treasure. It might have been better for her had she possessed herself of it, and so enhanced her own position, and drawn after her a coterie of followers—mostly of the indigent order. But a woman never does know what to do with money, and indecision is often the bane of her life.

However, Miss Monaugh had now determined to utilise her fortune, and after accomplishing her various missions, if she failed to tempt the Laird of Tillalee—well, people often advertised for wives. She could answer one of these advertisements. There would be no harm in that; in the event of failure, she could live with Ethel, or return to Nanango. She had corresponded regularly with her mother, who frequently asked her to return. But Miss Monaugh would not go back to her home. The why and wherefore of this was the secret which she never allowed to pass her lips—the secret of a first love and a dark past.

The house of the Monaughs stood on Baramba Greek. With them lived Miss Helen Crogan, who was Johanna's aunt, and only two years her senior. This young lady paid constant visits to a station in the vicinity, the attraction being the squatter's son, Gerald Trevors. Gerald was at the time engaged to Miss Monaugh, then on her first visit to Gimbo. She was only eighteen then; Gerald was twenty. The families, said rumour, were instrumental in bringing about the betrothal. There wasn't much love in the match, unless it were on the weaker side. She, however, on returning and learning the true state of affairs, broke off the engagement for the sake of her aunt, and likewise to preserve the good name of the Monaughs. The sacrifice of a lover was not a very serious matter then; Eighteen has time and opportunity, Forty has neither.

Gerald eloped with Helen, and Johanna fled to the Yeerong. That episode had long ago died out, and Miss Monaugh thought that if Fortune did not attend her now she could return to Nanango without fear of any humiliation. Having come to this definite conclusion, she rose and put away her letters. It was past midnight when she retired to her virtuous couch to dream of Aleck, who just now appeared to be her last desperate hope. She always called him Aleck in Dreamland. Once he had kissed her there. Others had kissed her, too. Ah; the lovers she had known—in her sleep.

Once she had been nearly married. She stood at the altar with—she could never think who the man was; someone she had picked up on the way to church. There was no church in Dumboon and no parson. The postmaster officiated in matrimonial matters. But she was sure this place was a church. She stood in her bridal robes—resplendent, triumphant. The parson opened his book, and was about to grant the license demanded by Mother Grundy when in waltzed Biddy.

"Phwat the divil's this she cried," aghast.

"Sh, woman!" said the parson.

"God be good to us!" Biddy exclaimed. "Is it a dirty Chow she's goin' to wed!"

"Jo looked round, and was horrified to see beside her a grinning Mongolian, with shaven head and pig-tail as long as a cable—the ugliest Chinaman she had ever looked at. Then she saw that she, too, wore a pig-tail, and the two were tied together. This was the nuptial knot, only wanting to be drawn tight to make them one until the Divorce Court doth them part. But the bubble burst, and next day she almost hated Biddy. As it was only in Dreamland it didn't matter what her husband was. She felt that Biddy had robbed her of a great opportunity of judging. It was just what Biddy would do, in any case.

 

CHAPTER XIV.

On the day appointed Mark set out for Druton Hill. He walked slowly, his eyes bent on the ground in meditation. So many things had happened during the last few weeks, and a great deal more was expected to happen in the near future. Strange to say, his mother held the foremost place in his thoughts. He wondered how she was getting on all alone in that big house, and half regretted, in spite of all he had said to Leonard and Miss Monaugh, that he had not been more patient and considerate.

In an uncertain mood he climbed the hill. From west to south he could trace the sinuous course of the Yeerong, and on the flat he saw Leonard and Liela, arm-in-arm, approaching Druton garden from the hill. They got into a trap, and he watched them drive away in the direction of Murrawang. They had evidently left the summit but a few minutes before he reached it. They would soon be husband and wife, and Mark thought of the approaching nuptials with horror. They would want him to be best man, or something, and he would rather see Leonard lose his girl than go through that ordeal just now. He had a notion of shifting from Nolan's Hut into some unfrequented jungle, and lying low until the trouble was over. It did seem annoying that a man could not take a wife to his bosom without so much fuss and bother.

Just then he descried Aunt Jo coming from Fairymede, and observed the patient Myles dodging about after the calves. They met in the little home paddock but Mark did not know what was said till long afterwards.

"Goin' up hill, Jo?" said Myles, interrogatively. Jo said she was.

"Will you see un there, think you?" Myles continued.

"Oh, yes," she answered. "He won't fail to keep his appointment. That is one good point in Mark Keaton."

"I like un," Myles declared. "Like un to marry my little gel. Where be she?"

"I expect to meet her on the hill. She's been spending the day with Liela."

"So she be," Myles agreed. "I want to get un away from here, Jo. Leonard an' Liela will take un on they honeymoon. That 'ull be summat. Baint enough, though." He edged nearer. "Y' see, Biddy wants to yoke un on to Mac, cos he's got a pun or two. Mus'n let un do that, Jo. 'D ruther see un tied to Crackshot!"

"Don't you worry, Myles. Mr M'Gurren will never marry Etty." Aunt Jo spoke with a firmness that reassured Mr Lethcote.

"Good!" he said, his eyes twinkling with pleasure. "Good on you, Jo. Do 'ee think she an' Mark will make a match on't?"

"Oh, yes," said Jo. "I know she likes him."

"An' him?"

"He's dead gone on her."

"Good!" said Myles, rubbing his hands. "Do yer best for un, Jo. If un want t' 'ave a word alone wi' Etty—why, let'n 'ave it."

"Certainly."

"N' if un seem bit backward, Jo, why—" He nudged her meaningly with his elbow. "Help un along, Jo. 'D ruther see it fixed up 'fore un goes away. An' Biddy won't know nowt on't."

"It will give me pleasure," said the spinster, "to spoil her little schemes. She's treated Ethel very badly. Poor child! For her sake I have often regretted that you married that woman."

"Drat un," said Myles, who also regretted that circumstance. "She bewitched me, Jo. Dunno how. She baint a takin' sort—when 'ee come to look at her. . . I didn't know you so well then, Jo. If I was single—"

"Never mind that, Myles. It's too late now."

"So 'tis, drat'n all. Mought live long while yet too," said Myles, reflectively. "But we make, un chew cold cabbage yet, I'll warrant."

He went on with his calves, and Mark from his coign of vantage watched the spinster treading cautiously through the grass. She had a horror of snakes. She encountered them frequently, but, beyond further surprising them with a sharp scream, and an impromptu skip and hop, did them no harm. Such circumstances, however, were detrimental to Miss Monaugh, for horrible snake dreams was the inevitable result to each encounter, and Aleck was never at hand to pull the reptiles off her. At times she would stop short, or spring aside, and when it transpired that the cause of her trepidation was only a crooked stick, resume her way in the same preoccupied manner. Mark smiled at her groundless alarms and unnecessary caution. He liked the old maid. Despite her many shortcomings, she was a good woman in the main. Presently his attention was diverted by a sweet voice singing in the scrub. He listened. The trilling notes drew nearer, and the voice became more familiar. He heard the words—

'Twas the last rose of summer,

Left blooming, alone;

All her lovely companions

Are withered and gone—"

 

 

Long, long ago he had heard that song, and then it was from the lips of Ethel. Surely it was her voice he heard now! Jo had promised to bring Ethel with her. Perhaps she had formed some plan for a reconciliation, and caused Ethel to precede her for that purpose. She had assured him that Ethel would he glad to see him.

He started forward, knowing the meeting must naturally be a trifle embarrassing for both, and determined to have it over before Jo arrived. His blood pump worked prodigiously as he approached the outskirts of the scrub, and heard her step on the withered leaves. A scrub, with its dulled light, its commingling of aromas, its bird notes, and everlasting greenery, was a delightful place to meet a pretty girl in. He quickened his pace, but an unsympathetic lawyer vine gripped him and tore his immaculate courting pants. The next moment Ethel emerged from the screening foliage, holding her hat by a ribbon in one hand, and a bunch of ferns in the other. Her cheeks went pink at the sight of him. Beyond that she evinced no surprise. On the other hand, Mark was shy, and felt awkwardly out of place.

"I've been hunting for ferns," she explained.

The ice was broken, and she spoke with a suavity that encouraged him.

"I know where there are some pretty ones—if you will come," he rejoined.

"It's too late now," said Ethel. "Perhaps another day we shall have more time."

This was promising, at all events. Mark was in a measure delighted.

"I'm waiting for my aunt," Ethel continued. "I—I suppose you're looking for Leonard?"

"Oh—not exactly! Er—your aunt's coming up the track," Mark stammered. "Shall we go and meet her?"

"We'll go to the top of the hill if you like."

There was considerable restraint yet on both sides; so different from the freedom of past days.

They climbed slowly up the hill in silence, and when they had almost reached the top he spoke with an abruptness that startled her.

"Ethel, did you intend that I should accept the answer you gave me at the bridge as final?"

She did not speak.

"You'll excuse my speaking of it again," he continued tremulously. "I'm going away—soon—perhaps for good."

"Where are you going?" she asked in a low voice.

"North."

"Over the border?"

"Far over. I thought I might have taken you unawares—that you spoke without knowing your true feelings," he said, reverting to the vital point. "I think—I was dear to you once. Am I to understand that I am no longer so?"

"No, Mark," Ethel replied. "I'll always be your dearest friend—"

"What's the use of that?" Mark interrupted, desperately. "I love you, Ethel—passionately. My whole future's centred in you."

They had reached the top of the hill, and stood face to face in the shadow of an ironbark. She was grinding a leaf into the ground with the ferrule of her parasol. He took the gloved hand in which she held the bunch of ferns, and placed his arm around her shoulders.

"Ethel, do you care for me?—I know you do!" he cried passionately.

She felt his lips suddenly touch her cheek, and drew away abashed. The ferns were scattered at their feet.

"Oh, Mark—Mr—"

"No, no; call me Mark. Ethel, dearest, you are mine!" He bent over her. "It's your father's wish that you should be my bride."

"He never told me so," Ethel answered. "It would be his downfall."

A change came over Mark. They were standing a little apart again.

"You are determined," he said, "to marry money?"

"I haven't determined anything. I'm too young yet. Money alone can save my father."

"And if that money is forthcoming?"

"I am free!"

He clutched her arm in a fierce grip that made her wince.

"Ethel, tell me frankly, do you love me or not?"

"Oh, do not ask me! Let me go!"

"Mar—Mr Keaton, you are hurting me."

She was frightened. Her lips trembled as she straggled vainly to free herself. Her hat was hanging from her hair; her parasol lay on the ground.

"Tell me—I will know!" cried Mark wildly. "Do you wish to cast me from you for ever?"

"It would be better so."

"That's what your judgment tells you. But your heart—Can you say under heaven you do not love me?"

Silence. He turned her so that she faced him.

"Ethel, can you?"

"N— no—"

"Then you are mine—mine! Nothing will ever tear you from me—nothing!"

He clasped her fiercely to him, and covered her face with kisses. Ethel, breathless and trembling, lay limp and unresisting in his arms. He lifted her face gently; And then, like a timid child, she looked up with swimming eyes, hesitated—then put her lips to his. And while they stood there, intoxicated with the lingering sweetness of love's first thrilling kiss, Miss Monaugh, who had crept up behind the tree, her own heart palpitating, surprised them. Ethel broke away, blushing. Mark, flushed and excited, looked blankly at the elder lady.

"I am glad!" she said, simply. She grasped his hand. Ethel turned away to pick up her ferns.

"It's all right now?" she added in a whisper. "I told you so, didn't I? Ah! I had an opportunity of judging."

Mark clutched her arm. His manner, wild and strange, startled her.

"All right now?" he repeated. "Miss Monaugh—My God, I've bought her!"

She thrust him rudely aside. "Fool!" she whispered fiercely. Then, as Ethel came forward: "My dear child, let me congratulate you. I am exceedingly glad. You have realised your father's fondest wish. God bless you!"

She kissed her, then walked away to gather some flowers she didn't want. She gathered them till sundown, and sat on a log by herself, arranging them till dusk.

As the dusk deepened she led them slowly homeward, watching the ground for snakes, and never saying a word. At the sliprails, opening into the little home paddock, she spoke:

"We will leave you here, Mark. Good-bye!"

And again she turned away to let them kiss good-night.

 

CHAPTER XV.

Tuesday was an eventful day. Leonard and Liela were that morning united in the holy bonds of matrimony. Miss Monaugh was not present at the ceremony, but presided over the breakfast table in the big room at Murrawang, where the gentility of Dumboon and most of the Hill's folk were assembled. She was a gorgeous quantity of white satin, paint and frizzled hair, and smiled upon everybody with the utmost Urbanity. To Widow Keaton and George Wrightson, whose presence was due to the courtesy of Mrs Battye, she was particularly gracious, and she had successfully contrived to effect a reconciliation between the former and her son. The widow was penitent, and begged him to return home.

"It's so lonely," she said. "I'll go mad If I stop there much longer. I've got Sarah from th' Dairy stayin' with me now. Such a one to talk an' sing y'r never heard. When I'm too busy to mind her, she'll sit an' crotchet like anything, with th' music box goin' all the time—for hours at a stretch. She makes things hum a bit, she do. But th' house don't seem th' same with no man in it. Seems dead an' holler. Abe Watts comes some nights, but he only comes after Sarah. An' they sit out on the log, muggin' and titterin' till all hours. Come 'ome an' get a good job on th' crick. Don't be a fool."

But Mark said he had already made arrangements to go to Brisbane, and would be off in a few days. She didn't mention the subject again. Mark was headstrong, and at a time like this she did not wish to run the risk of another quarrel. He had been down in the dumps all the morning. A long separation from his sweetheart, but recently won, was a matter that weighed heavily on a man like Mark. Ethel was going away with the newly-married couple, and it would be months before he would see her again at Fairymede, even should circumstances enable him soon to return to his old haunts.

Shortly he went in search of her. He found her with Miss Monaugh and Liela at the side of the buggy, which stood waiting, with old Myles standing at the heads of the horses. He drew her aside.

"I'm glad you're going away from here," he said softly; "and yet—I can't tell you how sorry I am to part from you so soon. We've been engaged such a little while."

"But we'll soon see each other again," said Ethel, more hopefully. "You are going away yourself, and I consider it a blessing I am not left here alone with that horrid old man. I know mother is watching us now. She doesn't like to see us together."

Miss Monaugh, having taken leave of Leonard and Liela, now came back to the lovers. She had opened her umbrella, and, holding it so that it screened them from view of all but a few in front whom they did not mind, said: "There now, no one will be the wiser. I know you wanted to—both of you. Kiss her, Mark— Lors, child, how you blush!"

Still Ethel did not mind Aunt Jo; she was a motherly old person. But it seemed to her improper to kiss a man before the eyes of others. But there was no help for it. They could not be further screened, and she could not leave Mark with a simple handshake. Their lips met, lingered rapturously, tremulously; then she hurriedly disengaged herself from his embrace, and treating her aunt to a stage kiss (which was too quick for the spinster, who only smacked at the air as Ethel was drawing back), sprang nimbly into the vehicle. It was all over in a moment, yet many eyes had witnessed the erotic scene, and ere another day had passed, half as many tongues had told the tale, and by the end of the week all Dumboon and all the Yeerong knew that Ethel Lethcote was betrothed to Mark Keaton.

The bridal party were delayed by the over-generous Biddy, who brought out a tubful of grapes, and insisted on stowing them in the buggy.

"There's no tellin' but ye might get hungry an' thirsty on the road where there's no shanty to be callin' at. The fust day do make ye thirsty, an' there's nuthin' like a grape or two to give relafe to a body, so there isn't. I'm sure the horse can pull thim. Just shtick thim undher the sate, you bosthoon. There that's it. Couldn't ye've done that before? Now, off you go, an' good luck be wid the lot of you."

"Good-bye, Liela," said Mrs Battye kissing her daughter. "You'll come an' see me sometimes, drat—" And then she burst into tears; and while she was still "sniffin'," as Mrs Keaton stoically remarked, they drove off through a shower of old boots, shoes slippers and rice. The horses reared and plunged, and all the old hens and ducks came cackling and quacking after the scattered grain.

"God save us th' mokes have bolted!" Biddy was heard to exclaim above the general laughter. "Avast, ye bosthoons, don't ye see they've bolted! Howld 'em tight, acushla."

"They're a' richt, mistress," was the reassuring response from Mr M'Gurren. "Dinna see th' lad i' whoppin' them oop ta get oot o' th' fire?"

"Aye," said Myles, chipping in. "There's nowt to be feared on when Leonard got holt o' the reins. He'll pull un back, I'll warrant."

"It's a hidiotic pro-sading, anyway." Biddy persisted. "I can't see how it's lucky to get a whack on the shpine, or a clout on the jaw wid an owld boot. Where's the luck come in at all?"

"I dinna ken, mistress," said M'Gurren, his eyes on the departing trio. "Maybe Misstress Keaton can telt us o' the guid that i' in't?"

"I dunno eny good in it," was the prompt rejoinder. "I think it 'ud be more sensible to toast 'em 'an to pelt 'em with shoe-leather."

"There ye've sed it!" Mr Wrightson affirmed. "Them's my sentiments to a T."

When the principals had disappeared the guests gathered in knots to discuss the prospects of the marriage. Many stayed all day, dancing and merrymaking, but the greater number made an early move for home. Among these were the Fairymede people. Mr Wrightson and his intended bride stayed to "see it out," the former being ultimately removed under protest to the Red Road. Biddy and Myles drove back in the dogcart, but Mr M'Gurren and Miss Monaugh elected to walk.

The spinster had enjoyed herself immensely and was in a very good humour. From Murrawang to Fairymede was a long walk, but she would gladly have walked it a dozen times over under the same conditions. The presence of Mr M'Gurren seemed to lessen the distance by half, and rendered her proof against fatigue.

"Did you ever notice, Mr M'Gurren," she said, "that one marriage always leads to another, and very often two or three? This one will be no exception. It's a certainty that at least three more weddings will be coming off shortly."

"Heigh, lass, that's guid for Dumboon! Wha are th' parties?"

"The first, I think, will be Abe Watts and Sarah from the Dairy. Abe is an old acquaintance of mine. The next won't be very far from Fairymede."

"Ah!" said Aleck, looking slyly at the old maid. "Is it yesel' that wul gang ta the altar in a breedal robe?"

Miss Monaugh sighed. "Oh, no," she answered. "Nobody would take that much interest in me. I am left in the cold. I'm afraid I am getting too old and faded."

She was fishing for a compliment, but the laird was not a gallant man.

"Aye, lass," he rejoined. "I'm afeart your time hae slipit awa'. Ye're ta auld for the young ones noo."

Miss Monaugh shut her parasol with a snap, and drove it viciously into the ground at every step. "They are not all young," she said, tartly. "I know some old men who would marry, but somehow they have an intemperate desire to wed youth. That is very wrong. Age and youth cannot connubially cooperate happily. It would blight a young girl's life like a touch of frost on a summer flower. There is nothing of that nature in the matches to which I allude. Mrs Keaton is a middle aged woman—a widow and in George Wrightson she has chosen one in her proper sphere—a man in every way suited to be her husband."

"Is't true they're ta be marrit?"

"Quite true."

"Ah cudna believe it."

"Why not?"

"He's sich an awfu' drunkard. He'll swallow oop Gimbo in whusky afore a twa'-month."

"I can assure you he'll do nothing of the kind. Widow Keaton will keep him under control—and reform him."

"I hope she wul, lass. I hope she wul," said M'Gurren, with the air of one who believed that she wouldn't.

"Wha i' the other coople?" he inquired a moment later.

"Mark Keaton—"

"Mark Keaton! Losh," cried M'Gurren, laughing outright. His levity aggravated the dignified Miss Monaugh.

"Indeed, Mr M'Gurren," she said, with some acerbity, "I can see nothing to laugh at. There's' nothing ludicrous in Mark getting married. He's the finest looking man on the Yeerong."

"That's richt enough. Buit what's the guid o' a mon bein' fine lookin' if he canna keep himsel'? The lad i' verra poor."

"Oh, what's the use of talking!" cried the spinster with an impatient shrug. M'Gurren's frequent references to Mark's poverty irritated her. "I have told you," she continued, "that Mark has prospects. He'll be a rich man before many years—and a great man. While a man is down keep him down is the motto of a good many, and I am sure it's no credit to them. Poor men, particularly the working class, are often of the most sterling worth. I can't say so much for the majority of the rich. They have no sympathy with their less fortunate fellows. I've had an opportunity of judging." She paused for an instant while she again put up her parasol. "Yes," she resumed, "I consider Mark, from a social standpoint, the most eligible parti on the creek. He'll be the most envied, too, for his betrothed is sans pareil."

"Canna telt a body her name, lass?" said M'Gurren, pettishly.

"Oh, yes, certainly. But you must promise me faithfully that you will tell no one. Their little affaire d'amour is only known to a select few, and we' don't want it to reach Mrs Lethcote's ears above all persons. Do you promise?"

"Aye—dinna fear I'll telt ony one."

"You know, Mr M'Gurren, Mark and my niece were reared within coo-ee of each other. They were playmates together, schoolmates together—and naturally became much attached to each other. It is very gratifying, therefore, to reflect that a union so auspiciously begun in childhood, and deepened into the warmest affection they grew to man and woman—"

"The Lud bless us—"

"Mark and Ethel are now engaged," Miss Monaugh concluded imperturbably.

"Engeeged ta be marrit!" her companion gasped, stopping short, and regarding her with kindling eyes. In the expression of his face one saw a mingling of incredulity, surprise and dismay, as when a thing long sought and looked upon as a certainty is suddenly blown away like a straw in a gale. With his broad acres, his fine house and magnificent gardens, his huge fortune, and the all-powerful, indomitable Biddy to back him, he had made dead sure of Ethel. He had not pressed himself upon her of late. He had proposed to her, and she had not rejected him; she had promised to acquaint him of her decision on the day when she would be twenty years of age. He had admitted the reasonableness of her wish not to become a wife before she had grown out of her teens. He did not expect that. Therefore her request had been met with a ready acquiescence. Since then he had been given no cause to complain, and had met with no rebuffs from Ethel. She had been the same towards him as formerly, and he had been satisfied. But Miss Monaugh had thrown another light upon the matter, and a great fear permeated him that some intrigue was at work. Either Ethel was false and tricky, or Miss Monaugh was a designing minx, bent upon working out some villainous scheme having for its object the advancement of her own precious ends. He was afraid of Miss Monaugh. She had a way of saying and doing things that discomfited him. Besides, she had been courting him outrageously, which gave him the impression that she had a hankering after his money, but for which she would think no more of him than she did of the meanest of the scrubbers. In reality, Miss Monaugh was not of a sordid turn of mind. She merely had an antipathy for the condition of an old maid. Had another, qualified by approximation of age and social standing to her own, presented himself within reasonable distance of Fairymede, she would have angled for him as energetically as she did for the Laird of Tillalee. She had made up her mind to acquaint him of Ethel's engagement that he might understand the hopelessness of his suit, and give a little more of his attention to her. It was out now, and her heart was in a flutter; yet she was a strong woman.

"Yes," she answered, "I believe they will be married about the end of the year. By then he should be drawing an income sufficient to keep her in comparative comfort. He's not so 'varra poor' as you imagine. He will be rich, take it from me. I've had an opportunity of judging."

"If he is a mon," said M'Gurren, angrily, "he wad bide a wee, an' get marrit whun he cam' inta th' big fortune ye talk aboot. Whee shud he marry on naething whun he may hae enough for a' if he wad bide a wee? He hasna got a hame ta tak her ta—"

"Oh, yes, Mr M'Gurren," Miss Monaugh interrupted. "He will shortly come into possession of a splendid property."

"Whaur aboot? Wha hast noo?"

"Oh," said the spinster, looking straight ahead, "that's a matter I am not yet at liberty to divulge."

M'Gurren eyed her suspiciously.

"I've hud aboon that afore, lass, buit I doot it—I varra, muckle doot it."

"Of course you do," said Miss Monaugh, crossly. "You have a grudge against him, and it wouldn't suit your purpose to see him come into property."

Aunt Jo was quit content to let the matter rest at that, and she was glad when Amelia Jane suddenly shot across in front of them on the old grey pony.

"Did yer see Strawberry enywhere?" she called out, slackening for an instant.

"I dinna ken onything aboot un," M'Gurren snapped.

"He's a blister'd swine, that Strawberry. 'S always away, an' nobody never sees him," Amelia Jane complained, as she whacked the grey into his paces again. Aunt Jo stopped dead, with a sudden straightening of her shoulders, and stared after Miss Johnson with her mouth open.

"That woman has a vulgar tongue," M'Gurren commented.

"Dear me!" Miss Monaugh said, and walked on.

During the rest of the way M'Gurren, contrary to his usual custom, was taciturn and thoughtful whilst Miss Monaugh chatted about the wedding festivities, the dresses and the presents, and such congenial topics. She could afford to discourse on such matters; she felt that she had gained another point, and was nearer the state of matrimony than she had been for a long time.



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

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