2024-July 21st (PART I) _ [AUNT JO - A Love Story of the Cedar Scrubs by Edward S. Sorenson (Chap 1-5)]

CHAPTER I.

It was the ninth of November, a day that was "kept up" at this time by a section of the people who had plenty of money and no work to do. Riding and picnic parties had been organised days before, and a dance arranged in Dumboon township for the evening. The feminine division, especially the love-lorn, looked forward to it hopefully, even anxiously. Dances were seldom held in that neighbourhood, and opportunities for matchmaking in a scattered, hard-working community were chance ones, with heart-breaking intervals between. Occasionally "Long Bill" would meet Amelia Jane in the bush while bullock-hunting, and they would say "Good day" to one another. Bill would ask Amelia Jane if she had seen anything of Battler in her travels; and Amelia Jane would make a similar inquiry concerning Strawberry. Then they would say "So long," and go their ways. There wasn't much satisfaction in that. Besides, Amelia Jane was barefooted, and her old print frock gaped at the back. It always did have a gape somehow when she met Bill. The consciousness of her shortcomings was discomfiting, and her manner towards him restrained in consequence. It was different when they met in the fine feathers, and it was night, and they could discourse with strangers, and hug them, too, by special license.

The ballroom, with its varied associations, communions, whirls and excitement, is responsible for much of the matchmaking in such country places. Masculine Dumboon was not wildly interested in the marriage question. It had gone its sober way so long that it seemed to have forgotten there was such a thing as a connecting link. Some of the girls were drawing perilously near the border of old-maidenhood, and were desperately anxious to change their condition. One or two had already ceased to have "birthdays," with a determination to remain young. They had been young a long while.

A spinster appeared to them like the black sheep in a flock. She was liable to be regarded as one about whom there is something amiss, and, in small places like Dumboon is usually a conspicuous person. She particularly desired the thrill and the intoxicating glamour of the ballroom to stir the devil in the other party and bring him to the scratch.

Amelia Jane was one of the neglected ones. Why, she did not know; she was as much a woman as any other. She was plain, sun-browned and toil-scarred; but who wanted good looks in a cedar scrub? She had the strength of a man, and was not afraid to use it. As her father, Peter Johnson often remarked, "She's es good a bit o' stuff in th' yoke es e'er a puncher put a brand on." But Amelia Jane didn't go off.

She had been running wild in the jungles from infancy, and had never taken any care of herself in the way that girls do. Being an only child, she acted as general rouseabout for her father, and often went with him to the mountain camps to cook and hunt the bullocks. She could climb like an aborigine, and her knowledge was principally of timbers, birds and animals. Only lately, when the sex instinct began to waken and incline her irresistibly towards the lengthy William, did she consult the looking-glass, and set to work to cultivate her rebellious hair, and to decorate herself with bits of ribbon and white myrtle flowers. Nor was this the only change in the jungle girl occasioned by the propinquity of Bill. From a bold romp, whose innocent eyes would flinch from no man, she became shy and reserved, and pensive glances took the place of the fearless stare of old time. Above all, there came a distaste for the masculine pursuits that had been the leaven of her jungle life, and a love for home that was decidedly feminine.

She chanced to meet Long Bill, otherwise "Crackshot" Sooley, this day near the township. For once she was walking. The pony had got out.

"Huloa, Bill!" she called from twenty yards off, making towards him.

"Whey!" roared Bill and his team came to a stand! He was a thin, sinewy giant, and his face was set in a perpetual grin.

"See yer got a new bullock in t'day," she remarked. "Where'd yer get him."

"Swopped Yallerman ter Abe Watts for him."

"Thought Yallerman was a clinker?"

"He could heave a trifle when he liked, but 'twas seldom he liked. Reckon I scored a p'int on Abe in that deal."

"Where's Abe now?"

"Comin' along behind. Ruther a close call he had th' other day. 'Tween me an' you an' that waggon, he was about the scaredest man as ever dived into water. We wur raftin' logs at Big Hole, an' had got one poised ready to let go down the slope, when Abe noticed a junk o' wood in the way, 'bout half-way down, that 'ad been dislodged by th' last log. We holds on while he jogs down the shoot, but just as he'd removed th' obstruction th' log slipped away from us, an' boomed an bounded down 's if it was a live thing with a special commission to flatten out Abe Watts. Seemed to whiz round an' jump more'n any log ever did. We let out a yell to warn him, an' he just shot one look at that revolving horror—only a roll or two from him then, an' cut like Charlie Samuels for the river. Couldn't have escaped any other way very well, as his time was purty limited, an' the rollin' ground bein' hollow, with, a dense brush on both sides. There warn't a man there but watched th' stampede with blanched face, an' scarce a one breathed as Abe dived wildly into deep water, an' the big cedar plunged with a mighty splash fair over him. I tell yer, we never expected to see him come up alive; but up he bobbed, sure enough, ten yards out, an' turned a scared face towards the dancin' log. 'Are yer hurt?' yells everybody at once. 'Not much!" says Abe; an' when he'd scrambled out he said th' log 'ad struck him hard on the soles of his boots, an' druv him to th' bottom. 'I'll take my solemn oath,' he ses, 'no logs go pile-drivin' me agin!' "

Bill spat into the grass. "See there's to be a bit of a flare-up in town tor-night," he remarked.

"Yer goin'?"

"Dunno."

"Y' orter."

"Why?"

"Be orlright fun."

Bill drew snake tracks in the dust with his whip handle.

"Where'll yer be after tea?" he asked.

" 'T home."

"Might be round," Bill went on. "Think Ginger's runnin' near your paddick somewhere."

Amelia Jane made snake tracks in the dust with her big toe.

"I've got no mount," she said.

"I'll mount yer," Bill answered with sudden decisiveness. "This ole moke o' mine's jest in his nateral element under petticoats. Come third once in th' ladies' hacks at Grafton show."

How many 'orses was there in it?" Amelia Jane inquired.

"Three," said Bill, his eye dwelling admiringly on the veteran. " 'Ain't much to look at now, but he was a daisy them times. My oath, yes."

"What ar' you goin' to ride?" she asked.

"I'll rake up something 'tween now an' sundown," said Bill. "If I don't afore I'll be beat, I'll ride ole Brindle in th' pole there. I stuck a saddle on him up at the scrub one day, when I was pushed for a 'orse, an' he didn't shape too bad. Bit rough, an' stiffnecked when yer wanted to haul him round anyways sharp but he'd gee off an' come hither good enough where he'd plenty o' ground. An' quiet 's a lamb. Was comin' clitter-clatter down th' road to see M'Gurren about some logs I wanted to sell in a hurry. He was buyin' then. Just near Tillalee slip-rails a bald head shot up from behind a log, an' the next thing I knows, I'm rollin' under a cockspur bush, an' Brindle's peltin' back to th' mountains, with th' flaps o' the saddle floggin' him like two big wings; an' ther's Aleck M'Gurren divin' under th' fence 's if he was after something an' 'adn't much time to ketch it in. The old scamp 'ad been on his hands and knees squintin' up a holler log, lookin' for native cats. 'Losh!' he ses, leanin' across th' fence. 'Tis yesel', Bill Sooley!' 'Some of it is, I ses, unwindin' a yard o' yaller spider web from me neck, an' subtractin' th' prickles. 'Ye're a lucky mon, Sooley,' he ses. 'Ye're a varra lucky mon.' 'Where's th' dash luck come in?' I ses, wipin' the blood off me nose. 'Ye didna break ye' neck,' ses M'Gurren! 'If ye ken when ye're wul off, mon, yell step it hame.' Seein' as Brindle was only a speck on th' horizon, an' still makin' tracks, there warn't much choice about it. Never straddled him since; but I reckon I'm good for him ter-night if there's no prad to be got."

"I ken expect yer to call then, for sure?"

"You ken."

Amelia Jane smiled approval, and passed him slowly, looking down at her feet. Bill lifted his whip. "Whey, come 'ere, Roan! Gee Brandy!" The loaded jinker strained and creaked, the bullocks switched their tails as they bent to the yokes, and a dust-cloud floated between them.

"Crackshot" Sooley was one of the semi-civilised, way-back settlers of Yeerong Creek—the pioneers of a wild, wallaby-haunted region, reeking with the oaths of giant bullock-drivers, and a-tingle with the far-sounding notes of the bullfrog bells. These settlers had kept sturdily to their usual avocations and the ring of the axes and the roar of the whips were heard in the scrubs as on other days. Why should they go holidaying in honour of a princeling who was "no relation of theirs?" That was their philosophic view of the case, expressed in the rough jargon of their kind.

They were a rugged people. Of various nationalities, of many shapes and sizes; they displayed as great a diversity in their dispositions as in their opinions and appearances. Yet the majority were related, and bound together into one whole like the correlative inhabitants of Pitcairn Island. It was not safe for a stranger to speak ill of any one of them, though among themselves they would pull each other to pieces with the liberality of a married couple in a domestic squabble. Where there was no other relationship there was still the always ticklish point of an anticipatory connection. "Kilfloggin," otherwise George Wrightson, a teamster who had made a name in Dumboon by frequently getting drunk, was wont to go beyond this limit by saying, "His old man an' my bundle o' charms swopped dorgs, an' 'twas a fair an' square deal if they did palm off wasters on one 'nother, an' I'm not agoin' ter hear nothin' sed agin him. So look out."

Their main income was derived from the cedar trees that fringed the banks of the Yeerong, and contributed to the gloom of the adjacent scrubs. Team after team crawled regularly along the roads to Dumboon, where the logs were rafted, over bog holes, rocky gullies and corduroyed swamps. Everyone on the Yeerong could drive bullocks, even the settlers' wives and daughters; and everyone could exhort in the picturesque language of the ox-conductor without misplacing an expletive once in a week. They had been inured to it from the cradle; and, when some of the men succumbed to the attractions of Cadby's hostelry, Amelia Jane and "Sarah, from the Dairy" thought nothing of taking the teams out of town, while the postmaster and the storekeeper, and the publican and the policeman, stood looking at them in an idle, used-to-it sort of way.

Their homes were little slab humpies, with uneven earthern floors, and roofs of stringy bark, fastened to the rafters with strips of greenrhide. The doors hung on leather hinges often made out of the tops of old boots and were fastened with wooden pegs. Corn sacks hung over the square openings left in the walls for windows. Fowls and ducks ran in and out all day, and at night roosted in the surrounding trees. Long grass grew up to the doorsteps, whence narrow tracks zigzagged to the water-hole and the cockatoo yards. It wasn't very lonely, though it looked so in the daytime, when the men and boys, and sometimes the able girls, were away at work in the scrubs. There was scrub everywhere, thick, dark jungles, where brush turkeys and wonga pigeons abounded, running away back to bluecapped ranges. The only fences to be seen were little dog-leg squares, in which an old horse was kept for rounding up the bullocks. Among the hills, a short distance off the Yeerong, were a few settlers who formed quite a different class. They were farmers and small cattle-raisers. The elite, of course, were gathered together in Dumboon and none but the most respectable were received within their circle. Ladies who took in washing, and gentlemen who had been in gaol, were treated with scorn. Of those among the hills—or "The Hielans," as Aleck M'Curren, the rich bachelor laird of Tillalee, pleased to style them—three families had the privilege of entree. These were the Lyntons of Druton, the Battyes of Murrawang, and the Lethcotes of Fairymede. The Keatons of Gimbo, the only other homestead on the hills, were now almost forgotten personages. The triumvirate were copioneers of the district, and were respected both by the silvertails and coppertails, though some of them were near as rough and wild as their surroundings.

"Buit that's naething to fash aboot," said M'Curren when discussing the subject one day with old Edwin Lynton. "There's gude under th' rough exterior that appeals mair ta a mon thon softness o' speech an' gude luks. There's only one I dinna care muckle aboot, an' that's th' Widow Keaton. I canna stun' that wuman at a', mon. She's a vulgar wuman."

"She's had no learning," pleaded Lynton in extenuation. "That is the fault of those who were responsible for her bringing-up."

"She wasna brung oop at a'," said M'Gurren, viciously. "She was drug oop. But she needna hae sich a bad tongue for a' that. She has a varra wickit tongue. Why, mon, ye never hear her speakit weel o' ony one, not e'en o' her ain folk, 'cept it be Eustace. As for th' lad Mark, he's a gude-for-naething."

"Oh, Mark's all right," said Lynton, who was a widower. "He'll astonish some of you cynics one of these days, take it from me."

But M'Gurren shook his head. "It's not in him, mon, it's not in him," he said, with emphasis. "He's a neer-da-weel, an' he loafs on th' auld wuman. I dinna like that in ony man."

"He's a clever lad for all that, and he might be a blessing to his mother yet. Did you see his 'Ode to a Bullfrog' in the last paper?"

"Ood ta fiddlesticks!" cried M'Gurren, irascibly. "Wul his 'Ood ta th' Bullyfrogs' bring him bread, an' butter?"

"It would surprise you if it turned out to be the foundation of fame and fortune," Lynton argued.

"It wad," M'Gurren admitted. "Buit—losh, mon, I canna see it, I canna see't."

"Well, time will tell."

"'T wul," M'Gurren agreed. "They telt me his mither an' Kilfloggin keepit company—eh?"

"I think poor old George is more at home in the company of a rumbottle," said Lynton. "I laughed at him at the races last Boxing Day," he went on hurriedly. He didn't want to discuss the widow with Mr M'Gurren. Mark was a friend of his.

"Ah!" said M'Gurren, expectantly.

"You were away, I think?"

"Aye; I was owre on the Logan wi' me brither Tonald."

"Well, Kilfloggan and Sooley had taken a little too much of our friend Cadby's 'extra special' on board, and became troublesome. At last the trooper took them both, and chained them to a fair-sized log behind the booth, with the intention of releasing them when the races were over, if they were then sufficiently law-abiding to be at large. It was a blistering hot day, and the thirst of the prisoners soon grew to be unbearable, being aggravated by the gurgle of liquor through the bush wall that separated them from the bar. No one heeded their shouts and solicitations; their friends were too interested in the sports. 'Jumpin' Jemima! this is a bit too sudding,' says George. 'Must 'ave a beer somehow.' 'Kinder like to sample some meself,' said Sooley. George stood up. There was plenty of chain. 'Let's see if we can't breast th' bar, lock-up an' all,' he says. 'I ken manage my end of her. Hook on.' 'Purty heavy,' says Sooley, trying the weight. 'Fraid ye'll wobble an' drop her.' 'Don't you make no error,' says George. 'Ain't that shikkered. Kon only see one Bill Sooley yet, enyway.' ' 'D'ruther burn th' consarn 'an carry it,' says Sooley. 'Blamed thing's chockfull of ants.' 'Wonder wot they're in for?' says George, regarding the log as an official reformatory. 'Drunk an' dishorderly,' says Sooley, absently. A race started, and the clatter of hoofs put fresh vigour into George. 'Got a holt of her,' he says. 'Can't stand this caper ony longer.'

"They hoisted the lock-up on their shoulders, one at each end, and, staggering round to the front, banged it down on the bar. 'Beer!' gasps George. 'Bucketful' adds Sooley. They drank their beers saw the race out, had more beer, then shouldered their lock-up again, and hurried back with it before the trooper returned. He found them asleep some time later and when they woke up the chains were off, the log was gone, and the course deserted. 'Dunno who stole th' lockup,' said George, when I saw him a few days afterwards; 'but we took our discharge quick' n lively.' "

 

CHAPTER II.

Though ignored by Dumboon society, and treated as a nobody by most people, young Mark Keaton was well received by the few families among the hills—with one exception. Mr M'Gurren could not tolerate him, despite the fact that he was handsome, prepossessing in manner, and clever in many ways. He was twenty-one, tall, slightly built, and fairly well educated. His father, Hugh Keaton, had made his pile in the cedar trade when the timber was handy, was easily got out, and brought a big price on the bank. With this he had purchased Gimbo. His predecessor was Patrick Monaugh, whose relict was the present Mrs Lethcote, who presided at Fairymede. Hugh had since pegged his claim in Necropolis, leaving his widow comfortably well off.

Besides Mark, there were two younger sons, Luke and Eustace, who had left their books for the teams and the scrubs when they had barely entered their teens. The lushful shadowlands were enchanting then but when the father died they sold out and went west. How they got on, or what they were doing there, no one on the Yeerong knew. Like most men who wander into the bush to look for work, they "never troubled to write."

Mark had always been a favourite with his father, and as he lacked the robust physique of his brothers, and was thus less fitted for the hardships of the cedar getter, he was allowed to follow his natural bent—"book learning." He was a perfect philomath compared with the others. He read and wrote, was always thinking, and never had much to say. That he had talent, that he was a colt of some promise, was admitted by his friends, though none accredited him with being a genius. Some of his poetic efforts had experienced the glare of print in the local paper, and those M'Gurren had sneered over, and cited Bobbie Burns, and snickered. He had also written three or four novels of enormous bulk, and teeming with hair-bristling incidents and utterly impossible things. The want of funds, he said, prevented his becoming famous on the spot, and those who had plenty held tight to it, and refused to recognise his claims. Mark was sorely wounded by this apathy and diffidence.

"If I could only get money enough to publish my first book," he exclaimed, "I would surprise some of these scurrilous cynics of Dumboon."

"Why don't yer go an' work for it?" his mother snapped. "D'yer 'spect to sit down an' whistle an' see it come rollin' up to yer?"

"Aint I working day and night!" Mark retorted.

"Phugh!" said his mother. "Th' most yer do is to sit in there, cooped up like a sittin' hen on wooden eggs, scribblin'. What in the name o' Patience's th' good o' that? You don't get nothing for it. An' yer call it work! Look at Luke an' Eustace, how they use ter buckle to it in the scrubs an' on the road. You work!"

"Mental work is harder than ordinary labour," said Mark, humbly.

"Get out! Can't I see the difference with me own eyes? Look how tired they use to come 'ome—regular knocked up. An' th' way they use ter sweat. Lord bless' me, when did I ever see you sweat. No," she iterated, " 'taint work at all simply a continyel worryin' o' the brain that'll put yer in Collan Park, or Yarra Bend, or Tarbon Crick, or Woogaroo. That's what bookworms come to. They go crazy."

That, Mark complained, was another handicap. He had, from a literary point of view, a bad mother. However much he studied and struggled, he got nothing but snubs and sneers for his pains. There were some who took an interest in him, and were sanguine that a prosperous future awaited him. These were mostly impecunious persons, who had nothing to give but advice. They made no charge for the advice. He confided in them, but never wholly in his mother. There was a time when she was his confidant, before she knew of the many difficulties a scribe has to contend with in his first attempts. She thought he was a wonder at that time, and rushed around, showing the neighbours what her boy wrote out of his own head. The utter failure of Mark's initial effort opened her eyes, and henceforth his productions were "useless rubbish." She was a querulous woman, a pessimist who found fault with the universe and the inscrutable ways of the Almighty; a selfish woman, who had an insatiable greed for money, coupled with a relish for scandal and gossip. This often caused Mark, a modest and sensitive young man, much embarrassment and confusion when in company of people of cultivated tastes. This occurred only at the races, however, when they stood in a crowd.

When the "Dumboon Express" began to blazon, his soulful effusions before the public eye, he thought his mother's prejudices would be swept away. He was disappointed.

"What's th' good o' writin' po'try?" she demanded. "There's enough o' that maudlin stuff writ to supply all creation till doomsday. If you was paid for it 'twouldn't be so bad, but yer never get a cent."

"The money will come by and bye," Mark protested.

"Phugh!" said his mother. "Fancy I see Bill Sooley an' Abe Watts an' Kilfloggin givin' their cedar away to anybody as would take it for the askin', an' say th' money 'ill come by an' bye. They're not such fools. They make sure o' the spons fust."

"One has to make a name in literature," Mark explained. "Any hoodlum can cut and sell cedar."

"He can't sell rubbish though," his mother retorted. "He can't sell mahogany for cedar. An' seems to me, your books is all mahogany, while them printer coves wants genuine cedar. 'Taint names they want to buy. It's quality stuff. I know. I've seen books with no names on 'em. An' yours 'ud go, name or no name, if they was the genuine cedar."

She picked up a mat and shook it viciously, then carefully replaced it.

"I see by th' last paper that cedar's riz, an' it's likely to go up more," she resumed. "Abe Watts an' Bill Sooley's makin' a good thing out of it these days. They know which side their bread's buttered. My word! An' here's you, stuck in the house day in an' day out, maunderin' like a lovesick fool about a girl's lovely blue eyes, an' her sweet red lips, an' her rosebud cheeks, an' her beautiful brow, an' her swan neck, an' her musical voice, an' her silken hair, an' her snow-white bosom—Yah! Can she bake a batch o' bread that yer ken eat, or make a shirt to put on yer back? You give me th' pip, you do."

Mark shouldered his gun, which he had been cleaning, and departed hurriedly. What was the use of talking? He could never make her understand. He felt that a crisis was approaching, and already in spirit he was wandering over the broad wild lands that spread around him, knowing that, like Luke and Eustace, he would soon be far away. And once away, he would be prepared to tackle any kind of work, and work hard; but here, where every child and every dog knew him, having set out on the inky way with a blare of trumpets, he could not bring himself to throw down the pen now and take up the tools of the cedar getter for such would be an admission of failure. Foolish pride! But Mark was only a stripling yet.

With his old dog for mate, he cut across to Druton Hill on the pretence of getting a duck. In reality the duck he was thinking of was known as Ethel Lethcote. He was so wrapped up in thoughts of her that all else was a blank; and presently when his foot and his eye lit simultaneously on what appeared to be the sinuous body of a snake, he leaped into the air with, an involuntary cry. Stepping cautiously back, with gun in readiness, he saw that it was only the thick part of a broken bullock whip, which had been placed reptilian fashion' across the track. As he kicked it into the grass, a low laugh from the road brought a flush to his cheeks. He was at the teamsters' camping grounds, and Abe Watts, lying in the bunk under the tail of his waggon, had been, watching him for some minutes.

"Seem to 'ave th' jumps purty bad t'day, Mark," he said, sitting up and wiping his eyes.

"Thought it was a, snake," answered Mark shamefacedly. "Didn't notice it till I was on top of it."

"Reminds me o' Kilfloggin," laughed Abe. "Come home purty late one night, half sprung as usual. Th' door of his hut (wot is Thompson's now) was open, an' as he steps in he stumbles agin something big an' hairy. It sed 'hee-haw,' tremenjus loud an' sudden, an' as George sprawls out, it bumps him in th' stomick an' purty nigh knocks th' roof off with him. 'Fore he ken drop back, a pesky old rooster makes a spring off o' some tin cans he was roostin' on, an' hits him agin, with th' gol-darndest clatter yer ever heard. Soon's George got his feet he cut for Cadby's pub like a barrel down a hill. He was purty wopsy for a week after, an' he wouldn't sleep in that hut agin for three beers. They told him 'twas only Thompson's donkey what'd fetched him one in th' bread-basket. But George couldn't swaller that yarn—not by a long sight. He punched that donkey though one day 'when it smelt at him through th' fence. 'Twarnt because he believed the critter 'ad anything to do with it but he jes' punched him on genrel principles."

"One gets a daddy of a scare at times from things that would hurt him no more than his own shadow," said Mark. "I'll never forget the time I went to get a drink at the Horseshoe Lagoon. I was lying on a big gum log, and stretching far over to reach the water, when up pops something wet and hairy right under my eyes. It gave me such a start that the bit of dead bark I was holding on to broke, and I shot head-first into the lagoon. I was out again as quickly as ever a man left water, not knowing yet what kind of aquarian horror I had encountered. Didn't even want to drink. When I'd been on dry ground long enough to get my breath back, I saw it pop up again under the reeds. It was the celebrated ornithorhynchus paradoxus, whose everyday name is platypus.

"I had a ripsnorter of a fright myself last week," said Abe. "Was comin' down with an extra big load on, an' jes' past Black Gully I pulled up to give th' cattle a blow. Was squattin' in th' shade, with me back agin a coolabah, when something limp an heavy comes whack on to me head an' begins to claw an' scratch about like fightin' tomcats. I got the bends out o' me, an' hollered, an' lit into new territory, all in one spontan-eous act. Then I sees a long black streak scratchin' gravel like billy-o for th' next tree an' 't 'adn't gone far up when down it comes slap-bang agen, through hookin' on to a bit of loose bark that give way. That blamed critter was th' celebrated varanus varius, which his everyday name is goana."

"I saw M'Gurren in a terrible funk one day with a goana," Mark rejoined. "It was about twelve months ago. He'd been putting a rail in his bottom line, and on the way home his dog flushed one from the grass, and there being no tree handy, it circled round M'Gurren and scurried up on to his shoulders. And there was the dog springing and barking at it, and Mac skipping about kicking at it and yelling to it to lay down. The goana had him clutched by the shoulder and by the nape of the neck, and Mac daren't lay hold of its tail to haul him off in case he took some shoulder and neck with him. He sidled around for about five minutes, squinting cautiously round, left and right, and perspiring like a cheap waterbag. The nearest tree was a hundred yards off, and at last, keeping the dog in front of him, he backed slowly towards it feeling his way, and wincing and screwing his neck up when the sharp claws pricked a little more than usual. When he got to the tree, he put his shoulder carefully against the trunk, and invited his goanaship to get aloft. As soon as it did, Mac rushed home for his gun, and pretty soon there was one goana less on the Yeerong."

There' d 'ave been another missin' at next summer's congress if I'd spotted that pet fright o' mine when I went back that way," said Abe. "Took th' rifle for that, special. But th' carrion 'ad removed an' left no address."

"Well, I must remove, too," said Mark. "Getting late."

He tucked the gun under his arm, and continued his way to Druton Hill. Reaching the crest, he paused awhile under a big ironbark, and looked wistfully towards the homestead. It was some satisfaction to see the duckhouse, even if the duck wasn't visible. Just then, however, the report of a gun echoed through the scrub below him. He ran down, and, picking his way through the underbush, came suddenly upon the man who had fired the shot. It was Kilfloggin. Mark had noticed his team on the road near Gimbo, where he had unyoked for the night. He had conceived a mild feeling of animus towards the pot-famous gentleman, and this inimical sentiment was unstintedly reciprocated by the Herculean bullock driver.

He was singing—

"Oh, what would you do if the billy boiled o-ver?

Molly, O Molly, my lo-ver—"

 

"Hulloa!" cried Mark. "What are you doing here?"

"What's that ter do with you?" Kilfloggin demanded, calmly tucking a pigeon under his belt.

"It's a lot to do with me," Mark answered. His ears began to burn. "You're in Lynton's paddock, and he allows no one but me to shoot here."

"Well, that's his affair, not yours," said Kilfloggin, reloading.

"You mind yer own bizness, young un."

"I'll make it my business to report you. You're trespassing on our preserves."

Mark was angered. The man's insolence and sangfroid stung him.

"You're a bit sudding, young feller. Better mind yer aint too sudding," Kilfloggin returned as calmly as before.

"What do you mean by that?" asked Mark, mastering his temper. The other was a big man.

"I've got es much right ter bang around 'ere es you 'ave," the latter replied. "Who th' jumpin' adder are you, enyway? Jes' you get along, young 'un, an' hold yer gab. I don't want ter do yer eny injury—barrin' yer force me. Be a pity ter spile yer good looks. That bit o' skirt over th' hill wouldn't like it for one. Kinder 'urt her feelin's."

"It might be your own looks that would suffer," Mark retorted. The man took a step forward, and, leaning on his gun, said: "Look 'ere, me cockshaver, you come th' crawlin' informer bizness with me, an' by th' jumping Jemima, you'll fall in. I'll bundle you out o' yer home neck an' crop; see if I don't."

"You will?"

Mark regarded the big man with a new interest.

"Yais, I will. I ken do it, mind yer. There's no bloomin' gassin' about it. So don't be too sudding."

He turned abruptly and plunged through the scrub, with another burst of song:—

"My old bay 'orse run down th' hill;
If he hasn't come up he's down there still"

Kilflogsin was a bit of a mystery on the Yeerong, and for a moment after he had left him Mark wondered what power he could have over him or his. Then he laughed scornfully and walked away. Soon he had forgotten the incident.

 

CHAPTER III.

Mark beat round so that his way home would take him by Fairymede House. Ethel was in the garden and saw him coming. As he approached a side gate that was well screened by trees from the house she came across the lawn and met him. He raised his hat with stiff formality. Ethel hated formalities.

"Good sport," she said, her eyes on the gun. "But where's the game?"

"Only had two shots," said Mark, "Didn't, hit anything, though."

"You are a duffer," she commented, laughing. "Reminds me of Abe Watts."

"How did you know him?" asked Mark.

"He used to be a rouseabout on Fairymede. Earned his team here. He was awfully fond of shooting, but could never hit anything he fired at. One day father was driving home from town, and met him in the paddock. Abe had nothing, as usual, though he said he had wounded some fine ducks and they dived. He always wounded something when no one was with him. Father twitted him. 'D'yer think you could hit un haystack, Watts?' he said. 'You throw your cady up,' says Abe, 'an' see if I can't hit it.' Father had a brand new white helmet on. He got out of the dogcart and threw it into the air. Abe squinted along the barrel as it went up and covered it while it came down, and when it lay on the ground—just a few feet in front of him he fired and blew a great tunnel through it. Abe has worn that helmet bullock-driving ever since, with the holes patched up with brown paper. They call him 'The General.' "

"Didn't he pay for it?" asked Mark.

"Not he," said Ethel. "Abe thinks no end of that helmet. When the bullookies chaff him about his shooting Abe pulls off the old helmet and shows the holes as proof that he can shoot. When he tells the yarn, though, the helmet's in midair when he 'plunks it.' 'You ask old Myles didn't I,' he says, as a clincher."

"Bill Sooley's a goot shot, I've heard," Mark observed, by way of saying something.

"Oh, he's ratty," said Ethel. "He shoots bees and beetles on the wing with bullets. When he goes fishing and wants bait he shoots his grasshoppers whilst they're flying—also with bullets."

"I've heard of that kind of shooting," said Mark. "Never saw it, though. There was Stamps our postmaster in Dumboon. According to his talk, he never missed a shot once in a blue moon. His greatest ambition was to shoot the first snipe at the opening of the shooting season. Leonard Lynton swears that he used to crawl about the moorlands from midnight till sunrise to catch the early bird. He gained the distinction for three years in succession, but the fourth year Leonard, bent on beating him, potted his bird the day before, and hung it in a bush. A bare-legged youngster, with a bridle on his arm, observed the maneuver, and, awaiting his chance, took the bird and presented it to Stamps. The latter was out early as usual next morning, deposited the dead bird in a tussock, and then concealed himself behind a log to watch. About dawn, Leonard came along, fired at the bush, and, with a comically set face, searched around for the game that wasn't there. Suddenly another echoing report rang out, and Stamps came forward with a triumphant smile. 'Beat you, Lynton, old chap!' 'Where?' asked Leonard shamefacedly. 'Fell in that tussock.' Leonard rushed it; but at the tussock he stopped, and his face became radiant. Stamps pulled up a second later with a sickly grin. The first snipe was stiff and cold, and covered with a regiment of ants!"

"I saw Leonard the day before yesterday at Murrawang," said Ethel. "I was spending the day with Mrs Battye, and Leonard was over for the mustering. Leila Battye and I helped to muster one paddock in the afternoon, and then we helped in the yard, perched up on the cap, working two of the drafting gates. It was great fun. When I was coming home, I saw Amelia Jane in the Ironbark Paddock. She was riding full gallop after a dingo, her hat hanging from her neck, and brandishing a long stick. Poor dingo was cutting for his natural, his long red tongue lolling out, and his eyes glaring; but he hadn't pace enough. The pony would rush up with its ears back, and then you'd hear that stick whiz; but he'd dodge under the pony's neck and make off in another direction. He'd get about twenty yards start before she could haul round, then down on him she'd ride again like a charging lancer. At last he plunged into Long Swamp, and Amelia Jane plunged in after him. It was deep, too, and weedy. So you can imagine the state she was in. She caught him halfway over, and brained him in the water. Then she towed him ashore by the tail, and hacked off his scalp with a tomahawk she had in a pouch hanging to her saddle. 'What a glorious chase you've had, Amelia,' I says to her. 'And what a glorious pickle you're in!' 'Oh, that's nothing,' she says. 'You should a seen me when I collapsed with the emu eggs.' 'How did that happen?' I asked. 'Had half a dozen or 'em stowed in the bosom o' me dress,' she says, an' was joggin' along home quite pleased, when th' pony puts its hoof in a hole an' soused me. I dropped right on them eggs. Talk about squash! Th' blessed yolk run all over me. An' sticky! I tried to scrape it off with a bit o' shell, but that only spread it about more. Had to get in th' crick, clothes an' all, when I got home.' "

"Wonder that girl doesn't break her neck," said Mark.

Ethel laughed. She was a pretty girl of eighteen, with dancing blue eyes, and long brown hair, and she had a brisk, piquant style that was pleasing. Often had young Keaton looked with longing and admiration upon her sweet face, and he was enraptured when she smiled upon him. She was one of the smiling sort; her pleasant countenance was like a sunbeam. Yet her life was not a happy one, the consequence of her father's second marriage. She was but a mere child when her mother died, and her father, Myles Lethcote, worried with the care of his daughter and his house, and haunted with financial difficulties, became fascinated with the happy future pictured for him by the widow Monaugh, who, though ungainly, and horribly ignorant, was endowed with a fair fortune. Still he dangled a long while at the bait, but ultimately he was hooked and landed. He regretted the step ever afterwards, for Biddy soon got the upper hand of him, and at Fairymede her word was law. The fortune for which he had married her he never saw, but he very soon lost sight of the little he had left of his own.

To begin her new state of existence properly, and in accordance with the dictates of social conscience, Biddy considered it necessary to have a lady's companion, and so brought her first husband's sister,' Johanna Monaugh, out from Dumboon. She was an antiquated spinster, not at all good-looking; indeed, in her natural state, she might be described as ugly; but, unlike Biddy, who had a brogue that would trip a donkey, she spoke with the accent of the native born. She possessed one good quality: she loved little Ethel, and the girl had learned to call her "Aunt Jo." This did not accord with the tastes and wishes of Biddy, who subsequently endeavoured to expel Miss Monaugh, but that good lady resolutely refused to be expelled.

"Lavinia Lethcote was my dearest friend, and I'm going to stay here to look after her daughter,'" she said, with a great many nods and twirling of fingers. "That was her wish."

"Ugh!" said Biddy, indignantly. "D'ye think now, Jo, I'm not able to look afther th' colleen just as well as you? Bedad, I'd ate me hat if I couldn't do that, anyway."

"You could if you liked, Biddy. But you know you don't love the child. And children want love—girls above all. They can't live without it. I've had an opportunity of judging."

Miss Monaugh almost invariably ended her arguments in this way. She knew exactly how things should be, or would be, from previous experience. It aggravated Biddy more than anything, but, for all that, she had to put up with it.

So this ill-assorted family continued to live together at Fairymede until Ethel had grown into the fine young woman that Mark Keaton saw her—in a loose, white dress and a broad sun hat, and a mass of wavy brown hair flooding her back.

"How have you enjoyed your holiday?" he asked her, rubbing an imaginary rust spot off the barrel of his gun.

"Didn't have one," answered Ethel. "Been working all day."

"What doing?"

"Helping Aunt Jo with her flounces, and tucks and pleats, and ribbons and laces, and goodness knows what not. It beats me why some people can't go out of doors without carrying a milliner's shop front with them. It makes such a lot of work and I don't particularly love work. However, tonight is my own."

"You are going to the dance?"

"Of course. Aren't you?"

"I don't think so—unless——"

"Well?"

"—Unless you are going—alone?"

"Alone?" cried Ethel. "Now, wouldn't I look well going alone. All through that dark bush, and running against some rough scrubber at every turn. That would be nice. If I could ride or drive like they can, and was used to their gipsy life like Amelia Jane, I might manage all right without a chaperone. But, you see, I can't. Another thing, I haven't Amelia Jane's brazen cheek."

"Then may I hope for the pleasure of your company?"

"Oh, Aunt Jo is going in. Mr M'Gurren will drive—"

"I see!" said Mark, with ill-concealed displeasure. M'Gurren was frequently in Ethel's company. Consequently, Mark didn't like M'Gurren. He would tell himself that the Scotchman was a moulty old bird, while Ethel was only a chicken; but the ugly thought would obtrude that wealth covereth many defects and forgiveth many sins, and he would be filled with resentment. M'Gurren, moreover, was a favoured guest at Fairymede. He dropped in at all times of the day—in fact, the dogs had ceased to bark at him. But Mrs Lethcote did not want Mark. Like M'Gurren, she had no liking for him. Though the warmest friendship existed between him and the other inmates of Fairymede, the despotic and unctuous Biddy was Governor-General, and that closed the portals against indigent persons. Still, it did not prevent occasional meetings between the young couple. Where there's a weakness there's a loophole.

"Of course, you'll be there," she added, after a brief silence.

Mark shook his head, tracing figures on the rail with his fingers.

"Everybody will be going," Ethel went on, "that is, everybody of any consequence."

"Well, I'm not of any consequence, it seems," he returned. "No one will miss me. And there's not much fun in dancing—unless you can take someone, you like."

He looked at her meaningly.

"What about Amelia Jane or Sarah from the Dairy?" asked Ethel, mischievously.

Mark threw the gun across his shoulder with savage energy.

"I hope you'll have plenty of fun," he said, doffing his hat again. "Goodbye!"

Ethel was annoyed, and leaned across the gate, gazing after him. They had known each other from childhood, and had tramped to school together. She had always liked him. He was kind and good-natured and so different from the brawling tatterdemalions who frequented their road. He had often carried her over the cowals and muddy places so that she would not soil her dainty shoes. He received no thanks for those little attentions from her stepmother; but her own little heart was filled with gratitude. They had gathered wild flowers together along the slopes of Fairymede's hills; had studied head against head under the sheltering gums, where he had coached her through difficult lessons with a patience that was inexhaustible, so that she might keep at the top of her class and pulled among the lilies and the moaning reeds on the lagoon in the evening. These were sweet memories now that the days were so far away. Though Ethel was to all appearances heart and pocket light, and fancy free, at eighteen, she often felt the same regret as Mark, and could murmur in chorus with him:—

The days we lived in the bygone

We'd live if we could again;

We'd pass once more into childhood,

That knoweth no ill or pain;

And we'd romp again as we used to,

So glad on the cool green lea,

And confide our thoughts to each other

In the shade of the old gum tree. 

 

CHAPTER IV.

Ethel had just turned from the gate, and was picking a bouquet for herself, when she was joined by Mr M'Gurren.

"Weel? lassie, are ye na ready for the dance ta-nicht?"

"No, Mr M'Gurren, I'm not ready. I'm not quite decided whether I'll go or not."

"Not gang to the dance! Oots, lassie! What nonsense have ye got in yer hud noo?" Mr M'Gurren exclaimed, no little astonished at the change in Ethel; for, until this evening, she had been all enthusiasm regarding the ball.

"You may call it nonsense, Mr M'Gurren," answered Ethel, "but I'd rather stay at home. I'm sure I wouldn't enjoy myself a bit if I went."

"An' whee not?" He bent forward, and his bushy brows knitted.

"I expected Liola Battye over; but at the last moment she sent word that she was going with my cousin Leonard. Then Mark told me just now that he wouldn't be there. So I am disappointed."

"I see!" said M'Gurren, with that strained look on his face that comes of trying to appear unconcerned when something has gone against the grain.

"I wasna 'ware th' lad Keaton cam ta Fairymede," he added.

"He passed here on his way home," Ethel explained.

M'Gurren looked doubtful. "Ye' mither dinna ken ye meetit?" he said, his glance half questioning, half reproachful.

"Perhaps you will tell her, Mr M'Gurren," said Ethel, with a defiant challenge in her eyes. He flicked a pebble hard with his walking stick. It flew through the palings and knocked a fowl's eye out.

"You have only to mention it, you know," Ethel went on, "to stop Mark from coming through here."

"Ye spek varra familiarly o' th' mon, lassie," rasped M'Gurren. "Om I ta understund ye are abboot ta mak a match o' it?"

"There no reason for you to do so, Mr M'Gurren," said Ethel, tartly. "I have known Mr Keaton all my life; and I have always called him Mark. Why shouldn't I? We were children together."

"That's a' varra weel, lassie. Buit ye never call me Aleck. Ye ha' kent me syne ye wur a wee thing in short frocks, an' mony's th' time I dancit ye on my knee, an' sung ye ta sleep. Da ye ken hoo glud ye used tae be whun I singit 'Bonnie Doon' an' 'My Luv She's Buit a Lassie Yet'? Ye liked them, lassie, ye liked them. Ye didna look awa owre the hielans whun I'd have a wad wi' ye, buit ye'd rin am' sit yesel' doon on' my knee. Ye wur a buxom lassie then, buit I'm afeart something's gang agley wi' ya o' late. What is it, lassie? Come, mak a clean breast o' it. Dinna fear I'll telt ony one."

"There is nothing to tell, Mr M'Gurren," Ethel answered. "I am only disappointed."

"Aye, an' a' on account o' young Keaton, not ganging awa' wi' ye ta th' dance. Ye're foolish, lassie, verra foolish. I've naething ta sey agin th' lad, buit, for a' that, I wadna like ta see ye marrit ta him."

"Why not?" she asked, subduing the rebellious spirit that rose to demand what it was to him whom she married.

"Because ye've been used ta luxury an' gude coompany. Ye'd want ta be amang cheerfu' folk, an' in a gude hame. He cudna gi' ye ony o' them, hooever muckle he'd like ta. He's verra poor, an' ye ken he spends ta muckle o' his time wi' his books. If th' lad wad gang awa' an' ploo his lan' and graw something, 'twad be better for him thon a' his books. He 'll ne'er mak a bawbee wi' his scribblin', ne'er a bawbee." And Mr M'Gurren shook his head, and drummed his fingers on the palisading.

Ethel offered no comment. She was a patient little soul, and preferred to await developments rather than to argue with a stubborn man, for M'Gurren was stubborn, and no amount of reasoning could change his opinions once they were formed. He had a secret dislike, as before stated, for Mark, and did his best, in his own cunning way, to prejudice Mrs Keaton against her son's literary efforts. Ethel knew this, and so the futility of attempting to defend him. Besides, she did not wish the Scotchman to know that she took an interest in the doings of Mark Keaton. M'Gurren had long been an admirer, and had the full sympathy and support of Mrs Lethcote, who put it pretty plainly to the girl that she would be better pleased with her room than with her company, and that marriage with him would make them all rich.

At that moment Miss Monaugh put her head—adorned with curl papers—out of the window and called to Ethel.

"Gang awa', lassie, an' get yesel' ready," said M'Gurren. "Dinna fear, there 'll na be plenty o' laddies there wi'oot Mark Keaton. I'll dreeve ye there an' bock safe an' soond, an' maybe I'll do a hop wi' ye mesel' afore th' nicht is owre—if ye wul gi' me one. Eh?"

"Certainly if I go. I'll see what Aunt Jo says."

"A'richt, lassie. I ken she'll bring ye alang wi' her. She wadna like ta gang alone wi' me, as that wad set folks talkin' aboot us."

"And might they not talk about you and me?"

"Not at a'. Dinna be afeart o' that. Ye're a wee laesie yet, an' they'll ken ye're ta young ta be coortin' for a wee. An' Mistress Jo wul be wi' us. 'Twul be protection in their e', ye ken. An' I'm only th' dreever. Sa get yesel' ready, an' I'll gang awa' an' help ye' faither wi' th' dog-cart."

Lethcote was already engaged in harnessing up the horse at the stables. Ethel saw now that she had spoken too late. She feared a scolding from her stepmother if she made known her wish to stay at home, for that worthy dame had arranged with M'Gurren that they two should go together, and Aunt Jo— at her own invitation—was to accompany them as chaperon.

It was not her first dance; but her father had taken her on all previous occasions.

M'Gurren walked round the trap and the horse, tugging at a strap here, and altering a buckle there, making a purring noise the while with his lips, which was the nearest approach he could get to a whistle. Old Myles inwardly resented his interference, and eyed him in the way that a snake looks at a goana when they meet in a hollow log. He was nominally lord and master of all Fairymede, including the trap and the bob-tail nag; but, according to M'Gurren's demeanour, he was only a flunkey, and the Scotchman was boss. It was his thoughtless way.

"Has he hud a drink, mon?" asked Mac, patting the horse.

"Take un down an' try un," growled Myles, giving the bellyband a savage jerk that made the horse jump, and the point of the shaft prodded M'Gurren in the ribs before he could get out of the way.

"Carefu', be carefu'!" he cautioned, while Myles glared. He caught hold of the off wheel and shook it; then went round and treated the near side wheel in the same way.

"A drap o' ile wadna do her ony 'arm, Lethcote," he suggested.

"Put'n on then, put'n on," snapped Myles, and he bustled round as though he had suddenly received a new consignment of energy. Mac examined the stop, and said it wanted screwing up. Myles gasped, and his eyes almost shed sparks.

Mac wasn't done yet. He surveyed the turnout as a whole, standing back and looking under it and round it. "I maun sey it's a dirty trop ta gae ta toon wi'," he remarked, cheerfully. "A drap o' water—"

Myles didn't hear any more. He remembered an engagement elsewhere, and left in a great hurry. Mac completed the arrangements, and tied Bobtail to a post, wondering what had come over Myles to make him so "onfreendly."

"I dunno the reason on't, Jo, but Biddy—she try to shove me in th' corner when old Mac's here," Mr Lethcote explained, seating himself shortly afterwards on the verandah and lighting his pipe. He was an Englishman and, to look at him, one would take him to be a perfect gentleman; but, as Miss Monaugh averred, he spoke like a thrall, and was, to those not used to him, difficult to understand. He was a silent member, for the most part. He liked to sit in a quiet corner, with his pipe, and listen. But he was not to be ignored. He took umbrage if the speakers did not occasionally look or direct a word his way. Not that he desired to take any part in the conversation. He did not want them to talk to him individually, only to talk at him now and again to show that he was included in the company. M'Gurren was a constant offender in this respect; his manner was such as to imply that he was ignorant of the old man's existence.

"Baint as I care for meself; baint fair to Etty," he went on. "I be her father, Jo."

"So you are," Jo admitted.

"Doant want to have nowt to do wi' un but . . . if un come pokin' arter Etty, I'll crack un bald head for un, I'll warrant!" And the old gentleman shook a formidable fist at the atmosphere.

"You are ridiculous, Myles," said Miss Monaugh. "Mr M'Gurren has no such intentions."

"I hope not, Jo; but . . . drat un, what un allers comin' here for? Dratty nigh live here now," Myles exclaimed, scowling across his shoulder.

"He's an old friend of Biddy's, and comes here simply for company. There's nobody at Tillalee but his man-servant. (And Biddy thinks there's no one in this place when Mr M'Gurren's not here.) But don't be alarmed, Myles. He's not infatuated with Biddy—nor with Etty either. You forget that I am one of the household."

Myles gazed thoughtfully at the grass trying to understand the situation. When he looked round again she was gone.

 

CHAPTER V.

Miss Monaugh was standing before a large mirror in her own room, her head aslant, and both hands engaged in untwisting one of the notable curlpapers above her ear. A few tresses hung in crumples, a few twisted papers lay on the table among a various assortment of toilet requisites. The door opened, and Ethel entered.

"Why, child, what a time you’ve been! I thought you were never coming. Have you become so very interested in Mr M'Gurren all at once? One would really think so."

"No, Auntie. At least, I am interested in him in one way."

"And that is?"

"I want to get rid of him. Auntie, do me a favour to-night. I don't want to go to Dumboon."

“Don't want to go! Goodness, child, what's come over you?" cried the spinster, dropping into a plush-covered chair. Her deft fingers worked with increased speed.

"Auntie," said Ethel, kneeling on the carpet, and clasping her hands on Miss Monaugh's lap, "Liela is not coming for me, and Mark isn't going. So I have no one to take me but—"

"Well?"

"Mr M'Gurren."

"He is taking me, child. You go with us."

"Does mother know of that?" asked Ethel, dubiously.

"It doesn't matter a pin what she knows, or what she doesn't know. Let it suffice that we know it."

"But it wont suffice."

"It will have to."

Ethel leaned her head against her hand.

"Auntie," she said, gently, "you don't understand. M'Gurren doesn't come here merely as a friend."

"Of course not. I know that." Miss Monaugh was emphatic on that point.

"But you don't know the truth. Mother," said Ethel, lowering her voice, "mother wants me to marry him."

"Wants you to marry him?"

"Yes."

"Are you mad?"

"No, Auntie. She hasn't spoken to me about it. But she has hinted. So I don't want to go with him to-night."

Miss Monaugh had let go her curl-papers, and looked at her niece with something like dismay depicted in her face. She was a tall, slight woman, with bent shoulders; and her face, never beautiful, was faded and withered in advance of her forty years. Some of her acquaintances accused her of being older but Aunt Jo never owned to more than thirty-two, and that, she said, was a shocking age for an un-married woman. Had it not been for her own skill, in the elaborate use of rouge and prunella, and the constant and lavish application of cream and buttermilk, Aunt Jo would not only have been unable to compete on something like equal terms with her more bounteously-endowed sisters, but would have been irrevocably doomed. As it was, she kept herself in fair order, and could manage on a pinch to win a smile from the young ones still. She had a horror of cold winds, of hard water, and more particularly of a hot sun, which brought out the freckles like mushrooms after a shower. And this was a sore trouble to her if there happened to be no buttermilk or lemons handy, in which case she would resort to vinola, or glycerine and cucumber, or other mysterious concoctions. She was a good woman at heart, despite her feminine weakness in the matter of looks but she dearly wanted to become Mrs Somebody, for people were wont to call her the old maid, and point her out as one who had missed her mark, and so was fated to be "miss'd" for the rest of her days. She had started on a husband's track at sixteen—sweet sixteen—and had pursued it diligently for twenty-four years without meeting the desired party. Some had smiled upon her, and loitered awhile in her company then passed on into the world of the rhodomontadist to tell of their adventures with "Aunt Jo." This was the only complimentary title she had achieved outside her own home circle. Her life had been one long routine of disappointments. Only lately a glimpse of hope had come to gladden her poor old heart. She had come upon his shadow, and with a little diplomacy, a little tact and patient vigil, she might gain her end, and in the near future be Mrs—

"Come here, child." Ethel had sat down on the carpet. "You have nothing whatever to fear. Never mind what your mother wishes. Treat it as a farce. It is nothing more. Come here. I want to tell you a secret. I can talk to you while you are doing my hair for me."

"I didn't know you had any secrets, Auntie," said Ethel, taking up a position behind the spinster's chair. The latter coughed an aristocratic little cough and smoothed out her dress.

"Oh, yes, Etty; I have a great secret," she said, nodding her head in a way that put the papers in shivers. "I have never breathed a word of it to anyone, and I wouldn't have it known for worlds."

"Then don't tell it to me, Auntie," Ethel advised.

"I must, Etty. I must confide in you for your own sake; to show  you that you needn't be afraid. Be careful with that kiss-curl, dear. It's a favourite. Someone admired it last Sunday. If you notice, it curves so nicely and naturally. Do you think I have put enough of the golden fluid on?"

Oh, yes, your hair has a nice glow. It's like a picture."

"That's a bad simile. Pictures are painted artificial, in fact."

"So's your hair, Auntie—" Ethel stopped abruptly, abashed at her own slip. Jo coughed again, and pretended not to notice.

"I'm so sensitive that I'd be worried all night if I thought it didn't look natural," she resumed. "Women take notice of these things and pass remarks. Men don't mind so much."

She toyed with her curling tongs for a moment as if irresolute. Ethel said nothing, but pursued her task with skill and rapidity. Only, the rustle of the paper was heard. Then, Miss Monaugh said:

"You are not the romping, gadabout little thing you used to be, Etty. You are older, and you're getting sense. You are growing into a woman. And a very nice young woman you'll be. I think you ought to marry well. But I have noticed that you have grown very grave lately. I know the cause. I have grown grave too. But you don't know the cause. That is the secret I am going to tell you. Do be careful of that curl, child. It's the only good one I have."

"If I damage it, Auntie, I'll buy you another," said Ethel, smiling in spite of herself.

"Now, don't be laughing at me, child," said the spinster. "I hate to be laughed at."

She had a full view of Ethel's face in the mirror, which that young lady had momentarily forgotten. She was always in a buoyant mood in her aunt's company, for Jo was not only her best friend and only confidante, but her shallowness and over-estimation, of her own importance amused her. Indeed, Aunt Jo considered herself a very aristocratic personage—a step above anything on the Yeerong as well as an authority on all important matters that vex a woman's mind. She loved a little romance, and would have been in the empyrean of happiness could she have drawn around her a veil of mystery without losing her character, and become the envy of her common, sisters, and the cynosure of masculine eyes.

"I am not laughing at you, Auntie," Ethel replied.

"I saw you smiling, child," Auntie reproved.

"I was thinking of what Mr M'Gurren said," Ethel answered, unblushingly.

"Ah! M'Gurren—What did Mr M'Gurren say?"

"He was talking a lot of rot to me this evening. I believe he's getting childish. He wants me to call him 'Aleck.' "

Aunt Jo bit her thin lips, and clenched her thin hands. Then she said: "I am surprised that Mr M'Gurren should have so far forgotten himself as to make such an improper request. It would be indelicate—impudent. No lady addresses a gentleman by his first name, unless he be some near relation, or, better still, her betrothed. I am sure you are not betrothed to Mr M'Gurren?"

"Indeed I am not," said Ethel, with an indignant little pout."

"You have a lover, I think, Etty. Have you not?"

"Perhaps," said Etty, modestly. "He's only a shadow yet, a phantom that lurks outside the castle walls."

Aunt Jo didn't quite grasp her meaning. She said "If you have a lover, why don't you let him in?"

"Oh, no, nothing like that!" mischievously. "It is sometimes better to keep him out. Absence, you know, makes the heart grow fonder."

Jo shook her head slowly. "Tis always the pretty girls that play the deuce with the boys. I was pretty once—very pretty. I hope, when you are my age, you won't regret lost opportunities." And Miss Monaugh sighed. "With regard to Mr M'Gurren," she went on presently, "do you think he wishes you to be his—er—sweetheart?"

"Yes, Auntie."

"Tut, tut, child! Don't talk nonsense. Mr M'Gurren has been like a god-father to you, like an uncle. He has known you since you were a baby and naturally he takes an interest in you. He has, I believe, some intention of becoming—er—related to the family, and— Perhaps that is why he wishes you to call him 'Aleck,' " she interrupted herself as this idea occurred to her.

"Very likely," said Ethel, with a grimace.

"Ah, yes, there is some likelihood," the spinster continued, and a pleased expression settled on her face. Ethel was puzzled.

"In what way do you think he intends to become related to our family, Auntie?" she inquired.

"By marriage, of course. You know, he's been coming here very frequently the last few weeks. He has lost his heart, Etty. That's the long and the short of it. I've had an opportunity of judging. I've taken an interest in Mr M'Gurren, and have found out a thing or two. He's a kind, fatherly sort of man, Etty, and one who could love deeply—and I am sure he does. He's not over fifty; just in the prime of life. His beard is a little grey—such a nice beard, though—and his hair thin—

"Very!" Ethel interrupted. "In fact,

 

'He has no wool on the top of his head,

The place where the wool ought to grow.' "

 

"Ethel, please don't It's rude. And do be careful of that curl," said Jo, peevishly. "I am sure Mr M'Gurren is a very nice man, considering. He has his faults, like the rest of us. No one is perfect, and never will be. But he has such nice legs, if he is a bit awkward with his hands—or arms. And he has such a nice manner. He speaks so nicely. I've had an opportunity of judging. A least bit more of a turn to that curl, dear. That's it."

"Your hair will be beautiful tonight, Auntie," said Ethel, soothingly.

"Do you think he'll admire it?"

"Who?"

"Al—Mr M'Gurren."

"Oh! Well, he ought to."

"Etty!"

"Yes?" I— I can trust you, Etty?"

"Of course you can."

"You will never tell a soul?"

"Certainly not."

"Nor whisper it even to yourself?"

No. I can think of it just as well. What is it?"

"I—I love him!"

"Oh, Auntie! You!"

"I am sure, child, there is nothing shocking in that," said the spinster, frowning.

"Not the least. But I am so surprised. I never thought—I never dreamt of such a thing. It seems so strange."

"A woman's love strange! All women are born to love."

"Very often they love in vain."

"I shall not love in vain. You will see to-night. That is why I am so anxious to go. What a chance! He has never had hold of me yet—as he must hold me when we're dancing. He may even propose. He has hinted—and looked— You know the way they look. I am sure he cares for me. I've had an—

"Ain't you two nearly ready yit? Bejabers, one 'ud think ye were goin' to a prize show, or something. How much longer are ye goin' to be, now thin?" cried Biddy, bursting unceremoniously into the room.

"We'll be ready in a few minutes, Biddy. I'm just finishing my hair."

"'H'm!" Biddy sniffed. "D'ye think there'll be room in th' cart for you, Jo?"

"Goodness, Biddy, do I take up so much room that a cart won't hold me?"

"There's only wan sate."

"Quite sufficient for three, I should think, especially when none of us can be accused of being afflicted with obesity. If you were there—"

"I won't be there. So just spare your 'ifs,' Johanna, if you please. An' I dunno phwat th' divil an old scrag like you wants to be goin' to balls for, ayther. I niver wint. Indade, I could always get a husband whin I wanted wan widout goin' to balls."

"Indeed, Biddy," cried Jo, bristling up, "if I had been through the mill as often as you I am sure I wouldn't boast of it."

"You have nothing to boast of at prisent, onyway," snapped Biddy.

"And if I was a married woman, I'd respect my husband," Jo continued. "I wouldn't have people coupling my name with another man's."

"'Twould be the height of flattery to you if they did," Biddy retorted. "And who may the other man be?"

"I won't mention names," Jo answered.

"Thin don't mintion your dirty insinuations," Biddy returned. " 'Tisn't me that's kapin' the other man from couplin' wid you, enyway. He wouldn't look at ye if I was dead."

"Who?" asked Jo, with frigid innocence.

"Ugh" said Biddy, turning away. "Don't think I can't see y'r drift. 'Tis as plain as you are, Jo."

Ethel accosted her as she was retreating. "Mother, let me stay. I have no wish to go. I—I have a headache."

"You have, indade! Well, take it wid you. I promised to let you go, an' go you will. So just hurry up."

Ethel was about to expostulate when Aunt Jo tacitly enjoined her to keep quiet. Biddy tossed her head, with an audible sniff, and passed into the dining-room. Aunt Jo finished her hair, whilst Ethel gathered up the pieces of paper she had strewn about.

"Etty, just hand me the things as I want them," said she, smearing her face and neck with an unlabelled cream. "Take this, and give me the hare's foot and that pot of pink rouge."

Having put a bloom into her cheeks—fading away gradually to the faintest tint under the eyes—with this, the lady of punctilious and scrupulous taste requested the powder puff. Next the eyes and eyebrows were delicately embellished with a water cosmetique.

"Now give me that stick of lip salve. There—that's it. Now, I'm ready. How do I look?"

"Oh, charming," said Ethel.

Jo stumped to the end of the room and back. "How's my carriage?" she asked.

"As graceful as a yard of pumpwater," answered Ethel.

Jo looked doubtful. She turned and twisted before the mirror, holding a smaller one in her hand to see the back of her head. "I think it will do nicely," she concluded.

"It ought to fetch 'em," Ethel rejoined. "Don't use such vulgar expressions, child," Aunt Jo reproved. And please don't insinuate that I am titivating myself up to catch—er—something opposite. . . . Men are brutes."

"Oh, auntie!"

"Men are brutes," Miss Monaugh repeated, still smarting from Biddy's cruel stabs. "I've had an opportunity of judging."

"I see," said Ethel; "all men are brutes but the man I want. For him I dress—"

"No, dear I dress to please myself."

Ethel laughed softly as she passed into the dining-room on the old maid's arm. Biddy was furious. Myles smiled from his corner.

" 'Tis a wondher, Jo," said the irate lady, "you don't commince in th' mornin'. It takes you such a whoile to doll yeself up that it's hardly worth goin' at all whin ye're ready to shtart. 'Pon me sowl, I niver saw the like of you. Sit down an' have your tay, for God's sake. I'll pass th' cups meself."

"I'm sure there's no occasion for such hurry," the spinster expostulated. "You needn't get yourself out of breath over nothing. We've got the whole night before us."

"Indade you haven't. The half of it's gone now. Begob, whin I was a young girl I've often popped on me duds an' had a fly round, an' been back agin afore me mistress—me mother—missed me from th' house at all."

"That was wrong to go away without leave."

"Indade! An' who gave you leave, pray?"

"I am my own mistress," Aunt Jo replied defiantly.

"Well," said Biddy from her vantage by the side-table, "ye're old enough to be, God knows."

"I understood you to say you never went to balls," Aunt Jo returned, icily.

"It's thrue for me, I didn't," said Biddy. " 'Twas visitin' me frinds I wint, not leg-sparrin' in a ballroom. 'Twas me dad had th' derry on thim places. ' 'Tis the ballrooms ruin the gals,' he used to say. I mind him well,"

"Then why are you so anxious for Etty to go?" Miss Monaugh inquired.

Biddy suddenly struck a listening attitude. "Was that th' cart runnin' away wid th' horse, Myles?" she asked.

"It warn't," said Myles.

"I heard something like wheels rattlin', enyway," Biddy persisted.

"Old hen floppin' off roost," Myles explained, and peace followed.

 

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

 

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