CHAPTER VI.
That night all was bustle and excitement in Dumboon. As a rule the town was as dull as the Old Man Plain, with scarcely a pedestrian to be seen along the grassy side-walks and only teams of struggling oxen and creaking timber trucks, filing at intervals through the streets, and raising clouds of dust in passing. To-night there was a fair crowd at the principal corner, and in front of the pub, which stood opposite the "Assembly Rooms," a noisy lot from the Upper Yeerong—the "Cedar Push"—had congregated.
A mixed few were gathered in the ballroom. The instruments—a violin and a concertina—were already screeching and screaming when the dogcart from Fairymede drove up, and there alighted from it Mr M'Gurren, Ethel and Aunt Jo. The first dance was just concluded, and the two ladies had hardly dismembered themselves of their wraps when the Master of Ceremonies requested the gentlemen to "S'lect partners for the fust set o' quadrilles."
"This is oor dance, lassie," said M'Gurren, as Ethel entered on Aunt Jo's arm. The spinster frowned, and looked furtively around her, in search of a probable partner. It would be so embarrassing to have the companionship of Ethel taken from her. There were several men present whom she had smiled with in her time, but these had their quantum of female. For a small back-block town, there was a distressing quantity of female to be provided for, wherever they came from.
"I wish you would excuse me, Mr M'Gurren," said Ethel. "I've hardly had time to get my breath yet, and I'd rather sit it out. I don't like the figures, and there's such a crowd geting up—I'm afraid there will scarcely be room. Do let us rest awhile—or, perhaps you and Aunt Jo—"
The sentence was concluded with an appealing look towards the latter lady. Of course, it was a preconcerted arrangement that Aunt Jo was to have the monopoly as far as possible in the matter of dancing with the laird of Tillalee. She saw that her aunt would have a poor chance of obtaining a better chevalier among that assemblage, whose majority was composed of the roughs, and, ever indulgent to her, Ethel was prepared to forgo her own desire to dance rather than be an obstacle to her aunt. But M'Gurren was obdurate.
"Oots lassie, ye mauna sit doon in the cauld. Coom alang noo, an' dinna brek y'r promise. I ken your auntie winna lack for a partner th' nicht."
He spoke with some asperity; there was even anger in his voice. Ethel, without further demur, took his proffered arm and permitted him to lead her away. Soon the music started, and she was mixed in the rapidly-moving throng, passing in and out in a continual dizzy maze.
"It's a strange thing," mused Aunt Jo, sitting down to wait until good fortune should attend her, "that a man is always chary of the one he loves on these occasions. Now, if he had loved Etty he would have asked me to dance and ignored her. I don't quite understand it—I suppose I will some day. Perhaps he doesn't want the public to know he cares for me, though, forsooth, he needn't be ashamed of me. Perhaps he wants to try me, to make me jealous. But he needn't trouble—I'm not jealous." And she tossed her head in scorn.
Seated on her left were Bill Sooley, in hob-nailed bluchers, and Amelia Jane, in thirsty 'lastic-sides—the elastic much stretched. She moved closer to address Amelia Jane, when both got up to fill a vacancy in the squares left by the retirement of a couple at the far end. Aunt Jo could scarcely conceal her annoyance. Everybody, it seemed, was going to dance. She was the only wallflower, the only one destined to look on in silence, denied the unique privilege and the rare pleasure associated with the dance. It could not be the fault of her looks—there were many there who were plainer; her hair was done up in faultless style, her dress was perfect and becoming yet she was the only woman there unasked.
She sat it through, contenting herself with the self-assurance that Mr M'Gurren would take her up in the next. It was a schottische, and, next to a waltz, that was a favourite with her. She heard him ask Ethel for it, and heard her tell him that she was engaged, though it did not appear to her that such was the case. Then, with glaring eyes, she saw him lead the extra-corpulent, red-faced Mrs Cadby, the publican's wife, down the hall! Aunt Jo was fairly vexed, and sought relief in an ante-room. About the middle of the dance her privacy was intruded upon by two persons whom she had not wished to meet there. They were Ethel's cousin, Leonard Lynton, and Miss Liela Battye.
"Why, Jo, what are you doing here?" the latter exclaimed, and her cheeks went a deeper pink.
"I came in here for a little peace, Liela. I feel so tired after my drive. I don't know how it is, driving tires me dreadfully of late. It didn't use to. And those men are so persistent. When one tells them she doesn't want to dance, isn't that enough? You would think so. But they won't take no for an answer. No less than seven begged me to get up with them in the schottische. It's very annoying. So I had to run away and hide myself. They're such a nuisance. Are you not dancing, Liela?"
"Oh, yes. But we have only just arrived; and we're a little too late," answered Liela, who was a pretty little coquette of nineteen or twenty, the one ewe lamb of Braxton Battye, of Murrawang. Leonard's uncle, Edwin Lynton, a gentleman-farmer of moderate means, was Battye's nearest neighbour.
"I think we'll remove to the ballroom, Liela," said Leonard. "Won't you take a turn at all to-night, Jo? I'm surprised to see you running away from the boys. You'll never get a husband if you do that."
"Oh, Leonard, you shock me! A husband! Do you imagine for a moment that I'd have a husband?"
"Why not? You surely do not intend to die an old maid?"
"I am not otherwise minded, Leonard. There is no disgrace in that. An old maid, I should think, is deserving of the respect of all good people. Her state is a credit and an honour. It shows strength and courage in having resisted the temptations of the vulgar sex."
"Not always," said Leonard, practically. "Many become virtuous old maids through the want of temptation. In any case, it's against Nature. You are shirking your duty to her. It may be in you as in any other woman, to contribute the strong hand that is always wanted at the country's helm."
"Ah!" said Aunt Jo, smiling demurely, "if all men were like you, Leonard, I might be prevailed upon to change my mind. But they are unjust and cruel. They consider themselves woman's superior in everything. She is man's slave. He commands, and she must obey. Do you call that fair?"
"She has the power, by her finer qualities, her natural gentleness and love, to make man all that could be desired," said Liela, smiling sweetly into Leonard's face. Aunt Jo felt envious, a little bitter.
"Ah, yes." she said, most girls at your age fall in love—they have no control over themselves; and they are apt to exaggerate far too much for their future happiness. They see things only with a lover's eyes and you know Cupid attaches an invisible though beautifying lens to the orbs of his victim and each in her clientele thinks she has found an angel, and that the world is a paradise. By-and-bye the veil will be torn away, and they'll wake up as from a dream. I've had an opportunity of judging."
"Miss Monaugh," said Leonard, gravely, "you are a traitress—you are a mistake! Liela, I can't allow you to remain longer in such company. Miss Monaugh, I trust, will change her views and join us presently. Otherwise, the finger of scorn will be pointed at her."
"Do you really think, Leonard, she means what she says?" Liela asked as they left Aunt Jo to her own thoughts. Leonard laughed.
"She'd buckle up this minute if she had the chance. She's as ugly as virtue, and as flat as a slab. Only a marooned ourang-outang would get enthusiastic over poor old Jo."
But the old maid thought she had scored a point. She could not for a moment have it supposed that she remained single for want of an alternative. To the general public she must appear a woman of rigidly moral principles, who considered it contaminating to hold intercourse or associate frequently with the opposite sex when such was avoidable. She was in reality a little pious—as little as she could afford to be. She liked truth, honesty and goodness in others; but never scrupled to tell a white lie herself when the truth was inconvenient.
She sat listening to the music, and the trip of many feet—sounds that intensify a woman's feelings, and fill her with longing. Presently she heard voices near her, and the language was a jarring discord.
"By gosh!" said a deep bass voice, "I'm sweatin' like a 'orse. Been on the go ever since I come. Reg'lar flyer that larst piece I 'ad. Hang me if I could hold her times. Thought it was a she wallaby I'd bumped agin. Dyer know her, Crowbar?"
"Never clapped eyes on her afore. Wot dyer think o' Dick th' Walloper?"
"He's goin' it 'ammer an' tongs. An' twig th' capers o' Roarin' Tom! Blow me if I could keep it jiggin' at that pace. Think you could, Doodlum Buck?"
"Not me. Doan b'lieve in it. 'D ruther 'ave a long shandy."
"Doan mind if I do. Works wants a bit o' lubricatin' after swingin' them heifers."
"Ribuek. Hulloa here's' Kilfloggin. Tip us yer flipper. An' how yer poppin' up?"
"Fusrate. How goes it with you coves?"
"Tip-top. How's Sarah from th' Dairy tickle yer fancy eh?"
"Yum-yum! Too sudding. Arst her up jest' now, an' got a look that was frosty enough to make hair grow on a window pane. She's collared on Abe Watts—stickin' to him like a leech. No one else es got a look in. Not es I care a hang personly. I'm off her."
"Wal, le's go an' 'ave a drink, an' a pull o' the pipe."
Aunt Jo returned to the ballroom, which was now pretty well crowded. It was a strange medley, and everyone seemed to be dancing and enjoying themselves except Aunt Jo. She felt extremely small, and began to fancy that every-body was looking at her, and laughing at her solitude. She was sorry she had come; she vowed she would never come again.
"There's too much larrikinism and impropriety going on at diversions of this sort," she remarked to a young woman who sat near her, fanning her flushed face. Just then a tall bullock-driver, in corduroys, striped shirt and black coat, accosted her. "Hingaged, miss?"
"I am not dancing, thank you," said Aunt Jo, with much satisfaction, for Mr M'Gurren had just come up in time to hear the words that were interchanged.
"Whee lass, I havena seen ye oop once ta-nicht," he exclaimed.
"I didn't feel in the humour for dancing, Mr M'Gurren," she answered in her sweetest manner. "I've been enjoying myself looking on."
"Buit ye maun shake a leg ta," said M'Gurren. "Wul ye have a short squeeze' wi' me? Eh?"
"Certainly; Mr M'Gurren." Jo assented, with a most enravishing smile. "I have refused everyone till now. But you are the only one with whom I care to dance. We are used to each other. And in a crowded room like this one wants a good partner. It's not an easy task getting round without a mishap of some sort."
"Dinna be afeart aboot that. I wadna ask ye at a' if I thought there was a danger. I've been roond mony a time the nicht, an I ken there's room for a'. Ye maun ken the step, that's a."
Aunt Jo was in raptures as she joined the throng of enthusiasts for the first time that long and tedious night; but the next instant she nearly dropped to the floor as she caught the words of the bullock-driver, whom she had refused a moment before.
"Say Kilfloggin, d'yer see that wry faced old hag bobbin' about there?"
"Eh? Why—that's—Aunt Jo!"
"Yais. The old tomcat told me jes' now she didn't darnce. Only arst her out o' pity—she looked so lonely holdin' the wall up be herself. An' look at her with Moneybags! S'pose I warn't good enough for her. Aint got enough beans. Wot won't money do, eh? By cripes, she do make me laugh!"
Other remarks were made about the way she hopped, and some of the younger girls even giggled as she panted past them, and altogether made things unpleasant for Aunt Jo. The rough-shod scrub men bumped her heavily, and once she was knocked off her feet. M'Gurren, in trying to save her, went down on top of her. The building shook, and several couples dropped on to the seats in paroxysms of laughter.
"I theenk we'd better sit down, lass," said M'Gurren, kindly. But Aunt Jo wouldn't hear of it. She whirled on furiously, with tears of indignation in her eyes, and swung hard against every female she could reach, especially the married ones. The timber-getters took up the gauntlet, and bumped her more than ever. They went out of their way to meet her, and each collision was accompanied by ribald jest. One would yell out, "Whoa there! wild cattle from the Mooni!" Shortly another would send her reeling towards the centre, and shout as he swung on, "Gee off, Bismarck!" A third would swing out arid drive her back to the tune of "Stand over, Brown!"
Finally, Kilfloggin, who had been watching the proceedings with a sullen look, bumped one of the jokers heavily on the jaw, and the dance ended in a short but gory fight. Kilfloggin gained the victory also a black eye.
Aunt Jo, having lost Mr M'Gurren in the confusion, retreated hurriedly to the ante-room, panting like a knocked up dog. She said she would never again be induced to go among the libertines that convene at a bush dance. And she wasn't.
CHAPTER VII.
A few days later Leonard called at Gimbo. The house, which had a garden all round it, with two large mulberry trees in the back corners, and a front awning of grape vines and honeysuckle, stood on the prettiest of the Yeerong hills. It looked out upon a long stretch of moorland, near the head of the lagoon which coursed round Fairymede. A raised red road ran across it between the boundaries, over which the cedar teams passed into Dumboon. That red road was engraven on Mark's memory. He and Ethel used to meet and part there when they went to school.
As usual, Mark was sitting behind a plodding pen.
"Now then, old boy," said Leonard, haven't you had enough of that for one day?"
"Never have enough of it," answered Mark. "Think I was born for it."
"Don't know how you stick to it like you do," Leonard went on. "One day would kill me."
"You weren't intended for a novelist," said Mark. "I've been at it for years, and I love it now more than ever."
"Have you heard from the publishers yet?" asked Leonard.
"Got a letter yesterday," answered Mark.
"How did the first book get on?"
"It's waiting for postage to come back."
"And the second?"
"It wants postage too."
"What about the third?"
"It also wants postage."
"Must cost you a tidy sum for stamps," Leonard remarked.
"A good bit," Mark admitted. "That's the result of living in the bush."
"What are you doing now?"
"The fourth."
"Better chuck it, old man," said Leonard, kindly.
"No," said Mark. "I'm confident I'll succeed some day. I've been assured by two or three who saw my work that they've often read worse. I don't allow everyone to see them. I like a man who'll tell me exactly what he thinks, not seek to flatter me with undeserved praise."
"Quite right," his friend agreed. "I've read some of your tales, and I can assure you I spoke my mind concerning them. If you take my advice you won't write any more like them." Mark tried to look pleasant. "I told you The Sundowner was too serious," Leonard went on. "I don't say it couldn't be read through if a man put his mind to it but there are books, you know, that are harder to read than chopping wood. Another thing, your hero gets mixed. 'Dunno where he are' half his time. But—we've had enough of books for once"—with an impatient half-turn on his heel. "Let's go for a walk. I've got something to tell you, and perhaps I'll be able to do you a good turn." He nodded towards Fairymede.
Mark was putting on his coat when Mrs Keaton came into the room.
"Are you off, Leonard?" she inquired, standing in the doorway.
"Have an appointment at the bridge," Leonard answered.
"Oh!" said the widow archly, "is that the way the wind blows? Goin' to see Ethel Lethcote. I thought she was Mark's girl."
"I didn't know she was anybody's girl," Mark said, sulkily.
"Well, she ain't yours, it seems." She made a wry face and looked towards the red road. "You're too quiet for her—an' too slow to catch a cold."
Mark hurried away. He was a little afraid of his mother. As they turned their backs to the gate, a whip-crack bounded in the distance. Leonard looked up and laughed.
"Was thinking of Abe Watts," he said, and chuckled again.
What about him?" asked Mark.
"One of his bullocks—Yellowman, he called him—was lying down in the yoke as I crossed the road. Abe was prodding him and twisting his tail and cursing him by turns. Couldn't get so much, as a grunt out of him. 'That fellow would be better in a cask than in the team,' I said to him. 'It's a bloomin' pity Bill Sooley warn't in th' cask with him,' says Abe viciously. 'Swopped me that crawlin' cow for a spankin' good steer. Sed he could pull like Bill Beach. By cripes, I'll be one with him. You'll see!' Sooley came along behind, singing:
'If I 'ad a 'orse an' he wouldn't go,
Wouldn't I whack him—no, no, no!'
" 'Wot th' jiggins d'yer do with a bullock that won't go?' says Abe, sulkily. 'Tell yer fusrate plan,' says Bill, leaning on his whip. 'Put yer mouth to his ear an' whistle. Takes his mind off everything else, an' fetches him to his feet in one act.' Abe took hold of Yellowman's ear, and, thrusting his mouth through the hair, blew a sharp and sudden blast down the orifice. Yellowman snorted, and, swinging his big head round, struck Abe on the jaw and knocked him sprawling in the dust. Then he jumped up and kicked Abe in the commissariat department, and rushed into the yoke so hard that he shifted the jinker himself. 'Heerd tell that was a good dodge,' said Sooley. 'Ye'll know how to manage Yellowman now.' Abe got up slowly, rubbing his stomach, and spitting out dust. He scowled across his shoulder as he brushed his helmet, then, walked away in dead silence."
"Ominous," said Mark. "He'll get back on Sooley before many days."
"I bet he will," said Leonard. "The other evening Abe went fishing in Big Hole. Half an hour afterwards Sooley strolled down for a dip, and found him asleep, with the line hitched to his leg. He stripped behind a bush, hauled that line up, and cut the hook off; then he gripped the sinker in his hand, and dived quietly into the hole with it. A couple of tugs woke Abe, and in a second or two he was on his feet, bristling with excitement, and hauling in hand over hand. 'By cripes,' he says, as he gets the full weight of it, ' 's th' old man cod what's been nabbin' hooks 'ere for th' last forty year.' Bill wriggled and twisted a bit to show he was a live fish but 'twas like hauling up a log all the same. He had no propelling force where his tail should be, and he wanted a pull at the atmosphere pretty bad. He shot up close to the bank, threshing the water like a harpooned whale. His head and face were covered with weeds, and as soon as he's out he rears over the first ledge of bank and astonishes Abe with a snort that would have shamed a koala. Abe's eyes bulged. 'What in thunder ken that be!' he gasped, backing away. 'Bow-wow-wow!' barked the fish, making a scramble after him. Abe dropped the line and cut up that bank like a whipped dog. Bill washed the mud off himself, and followed with his clothes under his arm. Abe was at the camp, wildly excited, telling the other men about the monster. By this time it had red eyes, as large as saucers, a green mane and tail, four tremendous legs, and claws ten inches long. 'Never saw th' like of it,' says Abe. 'Never heerd th' like of it. 'Twarnt no known animal, I'll swear.' Bill walked up. 'Here's your tackle, Abe Watts,' he says. 'Darned hard lines if a man can't go for a dive 'thout gettin' hooked an hauled up like a blamed fish!' The men roared, and poor Abe slunk away to hide himself."
"A day or two later, when they'd finished rafting, Abe called out to Sooley, who was paring a lash for his whip. 'Hey, Bill, look 'ere!' He pointed out a boomer kangaroo, standing bolt upright about two hundred yards away. 'What about some 'rootail soup?' Bill whipped in and got his rifle. 'He's mine, first pop,' he says, dropping on his knee. He fired at the chest, but, the roo didn't fall. It never moved. 'Must 'a' been something wrong with that cartridge,' says Bill, puzzled. He examined the next, put it in carefully, and fired again. Same result. 'Why, I thought you could shoot!' says Abe. 'Danged if I ken make it out,' says Bill. 'Swear them shots hit.' 'Strange he didn't move,' says Abe. 'Didn't so much as wince.' 'Never saw a blamed 'roo stand fire like it,' says Bill. 'Mus' be hard o' hearin',' says Abe. He's lookin' straight at us, whether-or-no,' says Bill. 'Mus' be par-blind, too,' says Abe. Another slug was presented to him. Still he stood. 'Well, that beats all!' says Bill. ' 'S either paralysed with fright, or he died standin'. Reckon I'll alter his attitude 'fore I'm done with him.' He walked towards the animal, loading as he went. Fifty yards off he fired again. No impression. Then he walked right up, sidled round him, prodded him with the gun fore and aft, and peered into his eyes. Then Bill pulled him savagely by the ear, and his head fell over, showing the top of a stake and some dry grass sticking up through the skin. When Bill came back, he was about the maddest man ever seen around Big Hole."
They had barely crossed the house paddock when Kilfloggin thumped into Mrs Keaton's front room. He had lately taken an interest in that lady.
"Seen yer son, an' 'air gaw'n Fairymede way," Kilfloggin remarked, flopping into a chair, and spinning his hat under the table. S'pose yo'll soon be 'avin' a weddin' in th' fam'ly?"
"Why—who's there to get married?" asked the widow, surprised.
"Mark."
"Phugh! He can't keep himself, let 'lone a wife. He's stuck in that room there, an' not a word out of him, from jackass to mopoke, an' from mopoke to jackass agin. I tell him if ever he gets married his wife 'ill run away from him the fust week."
"Too much edjecation, missus, too much on't. 'S all very well for them as is rich an' ken afford to put on airs an' live up to it, but for a poor man it spells ruin. Spoils him every way yer look at it."
"It's spoilt him, 't any rate. I told th' old man it would at th' outset. I sed as sure as eggs wasn't onions he'd be a ruined man if he got too much edjecation. An' wasn't I right?"
"You was, missus. There's no two ways about that."
"There's Luke an' Eustace." the widow went on. " 'S there anyone on the Yeerong can drive bullocks or use a cross-cut saw better'n they can?"
"There ain't. They was real bobby-dazzlers, them boys."
"An' you should just hear Luke singin'!"
"Heerd him, missus. Fine singer, Luke,"
" 'Way down upon th' Swanee River' was a great favourite of his. He could sing it grand. I used to sit on that doorstep, a nights listen in' when Eustace 'ud be on th' woodheap with th' concertina, an' Luke 'ud be lyin' on his back on th' grass, singin' th' 'Swanee."
"Could play the jews-harp a bit, too," Kilfloggin added, spitting on the cat; and wiping his mouth with his arm. "Use ter like ter hear him."
"He was the jolliest of the fam'ly, th' only one with any music in him. The others couldn't so much as whistle a toon. Luke was full o' fun. Plenty o' life in th' place when he was 'ome."
"Aye, Luke was the rollickin' sort."
"Bit fond of his nip, like his father. That's his only fault. We'd all been well off if 't 'adn't been for Hugh drinkin' so, an' fillin' that boy's head with a lot o' rot. 'S right enough, I use to tell him, to have enough learnin' in the fam'ly to make up a log, but we've got no use for any more. 'S like learnin' 'Melia Jane to play the goana, as old Peter was talkin' o' doin' once. Ah, well, he's gone now, poor old feller, an' there's no use stirrin' up old sores."
"Not a bit o' use."
"I only hope Luke won't turn out like the old man. One thing, he's got Eustace with him, an' that might keep him straight."
"Aye, Eustace 'll keep a pull on him. They'll be comin' 'ome some day with a good stockin' for y'r."
"God send they will. I'd be sure 'o' what Eustace had. He was always good-hearted, an' never kept a penny from me. Luke's seldom got any to give. Fools it away. Mark's the stingy one. He'd skin a flea for its hide. But he wont work 'cept at them books. He'll go mad over 'em yet. Mad as a hatter."
"He will; no two ways about that."
"He hasn't enough edjecation to be a real scholar, an' too much to be a man."
"That's it. Ye've jus' sed it, missis. He ought to go out an' jine his brothers. They're th' coves 'ud make a man of him. P'rhaps they'll take him out when they come."
"I wish to God they would."
"Le's 'ave a drop on the strength of it, missus," said Kilfloggin, with a shy look, at the same time extracting a flask from his pocket.
"You're a terrible man, George," the widow reproved. "You're goin' from bad to worse." And she shook her head and looked sad.
George grinned;. "Come on," he said persuasively. "Wish 'em luck in a good old nobbler."
"It's the curse o' the country, George," she said, eyeing the bottle. "It's been the ruin o' many a good fam'ly, but—" Her lips were getting dry. —"Still, there's no 'arm in havin' a glass now'n agin. Does good at times if taken in mod'ration."
"Them's my sentiments. 'S all right es long's yer know when to put the peg in."
"What I use to tell the old man," said the widow, rising. " 'Now Hugh,' I'd say, it's time to put the peg in.' 'S all right, Mary,' he 'd say. 'We'll put him in by'n-bye.' He would, too."
"When the keg was empty," added George.
"When the keg was empty," the widow repeated, swallowing as the dryness went down her throat. "Them kegs was the devil's own. Ye'd see one strapped on top of every jinker that went out after pay day, an' there'd be carousin' an' fightin' to no end up at th' mountains. Th' old hands swallered more cedar logs that way an' ever you seen, George. 'Twas th' drunkenest crick this as ever run water."
George shook the bottle and held it up to the light.
"Good head," he said.
"Wait till I get the tumblers, George," she enjoined, and bustled out.
CHAPTER VIII.
Mark and Leonard waited at the log bridge that spanned an arm of the lagoon separating Fairymede from Gimbo. Here was a cluster of willows overhanging the water, a few rustic seats, and a family boat moored at the end of a rough plank. It was an old trysting place, where, as Biddy put it, "many a poor fool had sowed trouble for future rapin';" and it was here that Aunt Jo dreamt her dreams of the sweet by-and-bye.
"We are too early," said Leonard, lightning a cigarette. Mark did not smoke. He was too mean, his mother said.
"Whom are we here to meet?" he asked.
"Girls," said' Leonard. He threw himself down on the grass under the willows. "I've been wanting to tell you a secret ever since the ball," he went on. "You missed a treat by not going—and Ethel missed you."
"D'you think so?" asked Mark, quickly.
"Sure of it. Why didn't you come?"
"Because old Mac carried too many guns. Seems to have the inside running, confound him."
'"You're making a bloomer," said Leonard. "Your chances are as good as mine were. I carried my heart in my boots, as you are doing now. But while the knot's untied there's hope. I pegged away—quietly; and to-day I'm the happiest sinner on the Yeerong."
"So you have won the monopoly?" said Mark.
"Yes, old fellow; she's my copyright," laughed Leonard.
"You're lucky," said Mark, seriously, while his mind pictured all manner of delightfully amorous scenes, and his eyes wore that envious look of a fruitless lover listening to the rhapsodies of a more fortunate swain. "She's a good little girl—the second best about here."
"The second best! Who, then, is the best?"
"Ethel."
Leonard smiled. "Of course," he said, "every man considers his own bit of property the nonpareil. She is par excellence the sweetest and dearest on earth. We'll not quarrel over that. It's only natural that you and I, running on separate tracks, should hold different opinions on this subject."
"Just as well it is so," said Mark, "or we would both be in love with Ethel. That would be a misfortune."
"Why?"
"Rivals can never be friends. We'd be cutting each other's throats."
"More likely you'd be cutting your own in the background," said Leonard. "Old M'Gurren's got you flogging now—and I'd treat M'Gurren as a joke." Mark glared at the lagoon and chewed grass. "You are too backward; too slow, in fact," Leonard continued. "A woman likes a cheerful, fearless man. Ethel is naturally gay, but she's hobbled. She's at the beck and call of a heartless duenna. Why don't you stiffen your backbone and oust M'Gurren?"
Mark's face flushed, and his cheeks quivered for an instant. "Do you mean to tell me," he cried, "that he would marry Ethel?"
"Of course—if he could."
"He can't though?"
"He can."
Mark bit his lip. A flock of parrots swooped over them. Their screechings sounded afar off. "I don't believe it!" he said, with suppressed passion. "Ethel's got too much spirit to marry an old reprobate like him. He's old enough to be a child's playmate, and she's not mercenary enough to take his wealth into consideration. There's nothing mercenary in her nature."
"There is in her stepmother's. She got on the soft side of Myles Lethcote for his stocking, and she'll sell Ethel for M'Gurren's."
"And would you stand by and see her do it?"
"How can I interfere?"
"You are Ethel's cousin."
"That doesn't give me the right to oppose her father and stepmother."
"Surely her father is not a party to it?"
"He's only a mere automaton. He has to lump what Biddy likes. He owns up."
"Then he's no man!" Mark asseverated.
"He's good-hearted, but he's got no backbone," Leonard interposed.
"A henpecked husband is a contemptible creature." Mark persisted. "I'd like to see the woman who would get the better of me."
"Don't crow," said Leonard. "Seems to me you're just about beaten now." He nodded towards Fairymede. "You are letting Ethel drift further and further from you, while M'Gurren follows her like a poodle. I'd like her to be your wife, but if you dally much longer you'll lose her. There's too much procrastination about you for good-fortune to be your hand-maiden. Buck up to her as if you owned creation. There's only one road to take in love—straight ahead. Doesn't matter how much you stumble and blunder. The main thing is to keep on."
Mark was accustomed to this kind of plain speaking from Leonard. He remained silent for some time, pulling blades of grass and nibbling them, his brow knitted in meditation. Leonard did not interrupt him. He hoped he had at last instilled some determination in this fluctuating lover.
Presently he said: "Tell me how you did it—what you said, and what she said."
"Don't remember exactly," said Leonard. "Proposals are usually foolish—as seen by others."
"As seen by cold-blooded mortals and useless old prudes," corrected Mark. "You've been through the mill. I might profit by your experience."
"I don't think you would," said Leonard. "Frankly, I had my little speech prepared six months beforehand. I used to be proposing morn, noon and night. I'd lay awake half the night thinking about it, and mope around all day talking to myself. I practised an anticipatory dialogue smart, witty and complimentary what I would lead off with, what she would be likely to reply, and what I would say to that; and so on till I got her in my arms."
"Yes?" said Mark, brightening up.
"All wasted effort," said Leonard. "Ready-made speeches are the hardest to say when you get the girl in front of you. And she doesn't say the things she ought, and her actions don't fit. She's got you bogged in five seconds. Best way is not to think anything till the opportunity occurs—then jump into the first opening she gives you—say whatever comes handy."
"What did you say?"
"Well, we were looking at the stars (astronomy's a fine supplementary subject when you're courting; study astronomy), and she remarked that it was a beautiful night. That was an opening—and I braced myself up at once and jumped in. 'Everything's beautiful where you are,' I said."
"What did she say to that?"
"She said, 'That'll do you now!' and looked at me sideways, and tittered a little bit, you know. That was encouraging, I could see she was pleased."
"Yes but what did you say then?"
"I said, 'I mean it.' Then I put my arm round her quickly, and said, 'Liela, I love you!' "
"Ah! And what did she say?"
"She said, 'Oh, get out!' and tried to pull away."
"What next?"
"I said, 'I do, really.' "
"And what did she say?"
"Nothing. Only hung her head, looked pleased—and blushed."
"What did you do then?"
"Hugged her and kissed her."
"Good What did she say to that?"
"Only looked more pleased, and blushed furiously."
"And what happened next?"
"Her old man happened, next. He popped round the corner suddenly, and he said, 'Hulloa what are you doing here?' I was a bit flabbergasted, and could only grin. You know the fierce way he fixes his eyes on you, and stares, with his head thrust forward. He made no wriggle. We were always first-rate friends, Battye and I, though he was going to help me off his premises with a stockwhip once for taking the loan of a horse of his without asking. I reckoned he'd just about shoot me for taking his daughter. But seemingly the daughter wasn't as important as the horse."
"You were always a lucky beggar," said Mark, enviously. "If Biddy had caught me like that with Ethel, I'd have been poll-axed on the spot."
"Here they come!" Leonard interrupted.
Mark gazed up the track for a moment with flushed cheeks. Ethel and Liela were coming towards them, leading Aunt Jo and M'Gurren by nearly half a mile.
"Looks dainty enough to touch the heart of a wheelbarrow," he said, admiringly.
"Yes, she's a fine girl," Leonard agreed. "Are you going to put it to her?"
"I must."
"Go up to her and spit it straight out. Girls like spirit."
They met. A few trite remarks and some maidenly tittering followed, then Leonard marched off with Liela. Mark stood alone with Ethel, looking as cheerful as a bear with a sore head. His heart was thumping into his neck; five minutes later it might have been a brick he had swallowed by the cold, dead feel of it.
And Leonard, happiest of mortals, dawdling slowly homeward with his little sweetheart under his wing, and admiring the beauty of the evening, and everything mundane, never guessed that Mark's love, like his manuscripts, had been declined with thanks."
CHAPTER IX.
Miss Monaugh and Mr M'Gurren strolled slowly towards the willow trees. The spinster was in excellent spirits, and talked more flippantly than was her wont. She felt that this was a triumph not to be lightly passed over—her walking along with the bird of Tillalee when Ethel was going the same way. He knew nothing of the plans that had been carefully concocted before leaving Fairymede House, or perhaps the two younger ladies would not have eluded him so easily and gone on ahead.
"We'd form quite a delightful procession from the tryst if we all went afoot," said the spinster meaningly. "Three couples, one behind the other."
"I canna see more'n two," said M'Gurren, looking suspiciously in front.
"We are not all paired yet," the spinster answered. "Mark and Leonard are under the willows. See, the girls are now joining them. Don't you think, Mr M'Gurren, that they would make two excellent matches—Leonard and Liela, and Mark and Ethel?"
"I ken Leonard an' Miss Battye are engeeged ta be marrit, buit I dinna ken muckle aboot th' relationship o' the other twa. Buit she wadna be sa foolish as ta rin after one o' his ilk, wad she?"
"Surely you have nothing to say against Mr Keaton? He's a good, honest young fellow, and a gentleman every inch of him. I know that for certain. I've had an opportunity of judging."
"That's richt enou', buit he's poor, varra poor."
"What of that? Were not the best of Scotland's heroes poor? Was not Robbie Burns poor?"
"Dinna coompare a skit o' a mon like that wi' Rabbie Burns. He was a guid laddie ta his parents. He didna loaf on them like this mooncalf here. I wadna gi' a bawbee for a mon that cudna earn a bannock wi' the pattle or the whop, or one that cudna gang awa' frae his mither's appron strings."
" 'He's a man for a' that,' " the spinster quoted. "As to not being able to earn a bannock—whatever that may be—let me say, Mr M'Gurren, that Mark works harder than many of those who accuse him of being a loafer. He's a clever man, and he'd be an excellent match, I consider, for Ethel. They are so much of an age. He may be poor as a bandicoot now, but he has good picking before him."
"I canna see it," said M'Gurren. " 'Tis mair likely he'll ga ta the dogs a'tagither. He's not unco strang ta work."
"He's not built for a navvy or a cedar-getter but he's got brains. He's following the avocation that Nature fitted him for. I hope, Mr M'Gurren, it isn't prejudice that makes you speak so disparagingly of Mark Keaton?"
"Na, na. I hae varra mickle agin the lad. I dinna like ta see him carryin' on wi' Ethel in this fashion, that's a'. Her mither wad make muckle ta do if she kent they meetit at the breedge."
"I actually believe, Mr M'Gurren, that you are jealous."
"Na, na; dinna say that," M'Gurren protested hurriedly.
"You give me that impression," the spinster returned vengefully. "There's no more impropriety in her meeting Mr Keaton at the bridge than there is in our walking together. He didn't meet her by appointment either. It was merely chance. He came, it seems to me, for an outing with Leonard."
"Buit he mauna kent Leonard was camit ta meet his sweetheart. I speer Leonard telt him ta cam ta make luv ta Ethel."
"What if he did?" said Miss Monaugh, defiantly. "If Mark is not a proper person to make love to Ethel, who is? I can think of no one more suitable for her among the people of the Yeerong. As I said, he's just the age—about three or four years her senior. I hold that no woman should think of marrying a man who is more than four years older than herself until she has reached the age of—er—thirty. It isn't proper; it's often a sin. Many who have passed their prime, for instance, like to marry young girls. There is no love in such matches, only a morbid desire on the part of the beastly male person. The girl is sacrificed on the altar of Mammon. It's slavery, pure and simple. Does he not buy the girl? And is she not in bondage for life? God grant that Ethel will never be made the victim of such heinous practices. Let her have love in a bark hut rather than be a slave in a castle. There's no happiness in ill-assorted marriages. Money can't buy it. I've never been married myself, but I've had an opportunity of judging."
They had now reached the bridge. Leonard and Liela had gone on, waving their adieux from a distance, and Mark and Ethel stood with downcast faces behind the willows. The spinster had a quick eye, and she discerned in an instant that the subject under discussion was a serious one. She took little heed of this, for Mark was generally grave and meditative, even when others were rippling with merriment. Her attention was more occupied with Mr M'Gurren. He was angry, she could see, and he watched the young couple with an ugly frown. Even when mere civility demanded a reply to some frivolous question, he spoke in an altered tone to her, and shot glances their way that were like flashes of fire. She was puzzled, and was conscious of a chilly fear creeping over her. She dreaded something, but she hardly knew yet what that something was. She had a vague idea that things were not progressing as she wished, that M'Gurren's fancy was riveted on Ethel—not on her. In confirmation of this, there cropped up the remembrance of his preferment of Ethel at the ball, and the recollection of a remark passed by the unscrupulous Kilfloggin, that "Ol' Porridge-pot was breakin' his blamed neck after th' little piece o' Lethcote's." Many other little incidents she recalled, giving credence to her suspicions; but she trusted Ethel too implicitly to suspect her of any conspiracy. If Ethel was a rival at all, it was unwittingly. She was aware that Biddy had base designs on "Moneybags," but the thought that he would be willing to gratify that sordid desire had never entered her mind. She must speak to Ethel. This evening they two would be alone, and she must be acquainted with everything, or—
"Fetch the lassie alang noo, Mis Monaugh, an' I'll get the boat ready," M'Gurren broke in abruptly, bustling about and knocking himself out of breath in his eagerness to get the ladies on board as quickly as possible.
The bottom of the boat was strewn with willow leaves which had to be cleaned out; the rowlocks had to be fixed in their places, and the oars got out, and the seats cleaned. Aunt Jo, instead of joining Ethel, sat down on one of the rustic seats and watched operations. This exasperated M'Gurren, who was now very red in the face, and perspiring like a water-cart. He didn't speak, and Jo was too pre-occupied to make any comment. She wished to leave Mark and Ethel together till the last moment, and then to have a word with the young man before they started to row round to Fairymede. But when she turned round, intent upon that object, she found herself face to face with Ethel, and saw Mark, already out of earshot, hurrying homewards. Then M'Gurren, thinking they were yet in company, and before he had hardly completed his task, cried out sharply:
"Noo then, cam alang wi' ye, an' let's gang awa' hame. The nicht i' camin' on, an' we have a lang pull, I ken."
"Don't you think, Mr M'Gurren, that it would be better to leave the boat where it is and walk back?" Ethel protested. After her interview with Mark, she dreaded being shut up in that small boat under the eyes of Aunt Jo and M'Gurren. It would occupy the latter an hour to pull round, and that time now would seem a week to Ethel.
She was sorry for Mark. She was pale and excited, and waves of emotion swept through her at times choking her utterance. She wanted to get home, to be in her own room, where she could think it all over, and perhaps "have a good cry." But M'Gurren was not to be denied. He pulled the boat well up to the landing, and held it there so that they could step in safely. When they were seated, and the boat had been pushed off, M'Gurren, taking a precautionary look around him by way of preface, gave vent to his pent-up feelings in an abusive outburst against the "moon-calf," holding forth that it was ungentlemanly; illustrative of ill-breeding, in fact, "to rin awa' wi'oot e'en a word or a nod to a body. Heigh!" continued the irate M'Gurren, "nin buit the roughs o' Yeerong wad da sich a thing. Ta rin awa' wi'oot takin' leave o' a body! Weel, weel, that beats a'!" And he laughed, a low, gurgling laugh that had little of mirth in it.
Twice Ethel essayed to speak, and each time a lump seemed to rise in her throat. At last she broke down, and tears trickled silently through her fingers as she sat bowed in the stern of the boat.
For a moment M'Gurren stared, then swung his oars savagely. Unfortunately, he missed the water on each side, and fell on his neck over the seat. Jo laughed. She couldn't help it. M'Gurren, very red in the face, and breathing like a half-winded horse, scrambled up, and got into swing again with the energy of a bull-ant on a hot shovel.
CHAPTER X.
Aunt Jo monopolised M'Gurren as much as possible, to allow Ethel to regain her composure. She had never before been in such perplexity, and her heart was weighted with doubts and misgivings. She was certain of four things: That Ethel loved Mark Keaton; that they had quarrelled and parted; that M'Gurren loved or wanted Ethel; and that the course of her own true love thenceforth could not run smooth. She was angry with both. And M'Gurren was morose and taciturn. Consequently the conversation was difficult, and intervals of painful silence were frequent. He was uncertain and jerky in his rowing, and twice went near to capsizing the boat. The lagoon was not an easy course for an amateur to take a boat over patches of reeds and water-lilies frequently intervened, in which one or other of the oars would become entangled. Now the left would be dipped far down into the water, while the other would skim over the surface, and M'Gurren would nearly go on his neck again; then he would run her nose into a clump of reeds, and bring down a shower of furry blossoms that smothered their heads and stuck to their dresses. Nor was this all. At every second or third stroke a shower of water went flying over them; and the climax was reached when M'Gurren, by an awkward lurch, let one of his oars drop in the stream.
"Dear me," cried Aunt Jo, unable to restrain herself any longer, "what a treat you are giving us! Hadn't we belter pull ashore? We'll have an accident."
"Bide a wee," said M'Gurren irritably. "We're gettin' alang fine—considerin' I havna hondled a blade for twa months. We'll be hame in guid time, lassies. I maun be mair heedfu' o the weeds, that's a'."
He paddled back as one would paddle a canoe, and then Aunt Jo picked up the floating oar. M'Gurren held out his hand for it, but Aunt Jo had no intention of surrendering it.
"I am going to help navigate this craft," she announced, with decision.
"Dinna trooble, lass, dinna trooble yesel'," M'Gurren objected. "Ah can pull her hame mesel'."
"No, you can't. "It's sundown—or very near it and this is a dangerous place to be benighted in. We are wet too. We'll catch our death of cold if we don't hurry."
It was a cruel little speech, and M'Gurren looked pained.
"I'm sorry, lass, ta have wet ye," he said, with genuine contriteness. " 'Twa on accoont o' the weeds. But there's a clear stretch ahud noo, an' I'll pull her hame wi'oot a splash."
"No, you wont," said Aunt Jo stoutly. "The exercise is good for me, and I'm going to pull an oar."
She sat down beside the disconcerted Scotchman, and commenced to use the oar with more dexterity and vigour than he was able to show. Ethel, alone in the stern, and finding it trying to her nerves to remain inertly facing the rowers, took up a short plank that lay at her feet, and with this improvised rudder steered the craft safely through the intricacies of the winding, reed-grown lagoon.
M'Gurren was ill-pleased at the change. He showed it in his face, and in the manner of his rowing. To be deprived of an oar was a slur against his ability as a waterman, and to he ousted from his position of a leader by a woman was, before Ethel, a degradation not to be permitted to pass unavenged. He watched his opportunities, and when a huge clump of rushes loomed up before them, or a snag appeared dangerously near, he threw all his strength into his stroke to slew the boat round so that she would strike. He didn't care if he perished himself, as long as he succeeded in wrecking "that pree-posterous woman." But, to his chagrin, he saw them passed untouched. Aunt Jo appeared to be pulling with the greatest ease; he was exerting himself to the utmost. He grew redder in the face, and breathed hard and short. Yet her simple, easy stroke counterbalanced his, and try as he would to force her round, the boat sped serenely on. At last he paused from sheer exhaustion.
"Losh, wuman, I maun sey ye pull a fine strook," he panted, looking in a dazed and wondering manner at his companion's slender arms. "I dinna ken hoo it is," he continued, with a mystified air. "Ye dinna seem ta put muckle power int' ye strook, an' yet I canna mak ony mair impression on her thon yesel', an' I maun sey I pull unco hard. I canna mak it oot at a."
"Have you been trying to force her round to show that your strength is greater than mine?" Jo asked indignantly.
"Well, I'll telt the truth, I have. I cudna stund bein' beaten by a wuman," M'Gurren confessed, wiping the teeming perspiration from his heated face.
"You've knocked yourself up," said Jo, placidly. "I thought you were getting rather short in your strokes."
"I kepit time." M'Gurren returned. "Buit I cudna get her roond."
"You were silly to try. You know, M'Gurren," pursued Aunt Jo in her most affable manner, "brute strength is little use when pitted against science. I've had an opportunity of judging."
M'Gurren had forgotten that Ethel was steering the boat, otherwise he might have been tempted to try his brute strength against the spinster's science. She was glad when a diversion occurred. Round a sharp point they came abreast of an old man fishing on the bank. This was Myles Lethcote, seated under a broad straw hat, his rod across his knee, complacently smoking a short pipe and waiting with his accustomed patience for a bite. Fishing and reading absorbed most of his time when Biddy wasn't in her tantrums and giving him the rounds of the kitchen.
"Weel, mon, have ye cochit ony fush the day?" asked M'Gurren, grasping the excuse for a rest with enthusiasm.
"Five on 'em," Myles answered.
"Guid, varra guid!"
Myles had four very little ones behind a tussock, and one big one. He held up the big one as a sample put it down and held it up again, repeating the performance until he had apparently shown five different fish.
"Losh, they're fine specimens," said M'Gurren. "What i' aboon the weicht o' them?"
"Purty near three pun, I'll warrant," said Myles. "Nowt t'what unhooked while ago. Fetched un all but top an' lost un. Didn't let'n take un far 'nough 'fore I gin haul un in. Been chuckin' round for hour or more, spectin' he'd come back. Baint seen nowt on him since, though."
"He wont coom bock, mon," said M'Gurren, with the air of a man who knew all about the ways of fish. "Get aboord here, an' we'll tak' ye alang hame wi' us. Ye cochit enough the day."
Myles shook his head, and shifted the pipe to the other side of his mouth. "E'll come back," he said. " 'N' if I get half a chance at un, I'll nab un next shot."
"Why, pa, it may be a bunyip," Ethel suggested, laughing for the first time since they had started.
"Shugh!" said Myles, and shifted his pipe again.
"He dinna b'lieve in the bunyip," said M'Gurren, chuckling.
The fisherman's back seemed to straighten. "Didna ever see bunyip, Mac?" he asked.
"Na, I canna sey I've seen one; buit I've heard tellit o' 'whops of 'em. I ken th' bunyip i' the big fush that awa's gets awa, mon."
Aunt Jo saved the situation for Myles. "There's some awfully big eels in this lagoon, though, and they come up from the bottom after sundown. Let's be getting home."
"Oots, wuman!" said M'Gurren. "Are ye afrud of an eel? They winna da ye the bit o' harm."
Aunt Jo shrugged her shoulders. "I shouldn't like to try them," she said. "They're horrid things."
They lay to their oars again and left the old man fishing, a satisfied smile making curves round the stem of his pipe. At the boatshed they disembarked. M'Gurren and Ethel went homewards together! They dawdled along, at the former's request, to allow Aunt Jo to draw away from them. This she did with more readiness than might have been expected but Aunt Jo had "good reasons." When she had got beyond earshot, M'Gurren took Ethel's arm in a fatherly fashion and said:
"Ye didna seem varra hoppy this afternoon, lassie. Did ye fa' oot wi' the lad frae Gimbo?"
"No, Mr M'Gurren," Ethel answered simply.
"Ye creed i' the boat, lassie!"
"Yes."
"Have ye ony trouble?"
"No."
Ethel refused to be drawn out. M'Gurren was at a loss for an explanation. She kept her face persistently from him, and he was obliged to stoop his broad shoulders when speaking to her. Mrs Lethcote, bubbling over with excitement and expectancy, at this interesting juncture was standing on tip-toe at the lattice window, which commanded a full view of the long straight path, and watching every movement of the approaching twain. Aunt Jo, somewhat flurried, and panting from the prodigious exertion of walking up the incline, came in and joined her.
"The Lord bless ye, Jo! Ye did fine to come away an' lave thim together," Mrs Lethcote ejaculated. "He's proposin', Jo! D'ye see how he's bindin' over her. That's how y'r brother Pat—God rist his bones—bint over me whin he popped the question—his hand just so, his head a bit av a skew. Ah! now she's squintin' at him. Lord bless us, say yis, darlint! Ye've got your chancer now. Pon me sowl, she'll be Mrs M'Gurren afore the year's out. Ah, they've shtopt! Didn't I tell you so? They're havin' the usual bit av a blarney, d'ye mind. Ah—good! Ooh drat him, he's put his hands behind him—no! Well done, me boy—he's comin' agin! Be jabers, he's too slow for a funeral. Why th' divil don't he hug the colleen!"
Aunt Jo's heart was going pit-a-pat, and she observed the movements of the loiterers with envious eyes. If he would only bend over her like that; if her ears could catch the tender words meant only for Ethel; How slowly the time seemed, to drag away. Each moment seemed an hour, and it appeared that the time when she would be alone with Ethel would never come. But she heard it all at last, and it gave her a problem to solve.
At the moment when she had seen them stop, M'Gurren was saying;—
"It's na use talkin', lassie, I ken ye na hoppy wi ye mither. She's varra poor, an' I wad like ta help her. I have a fine hoose owre the loch, buit it's unco lonely by mesel'. I want a wife o' my ain, d'ye ken. Wul ye coom, lassie, an' share it wi' me?"
"Oh, Mr M'Gurren, please don't ask me!" Ethel cried affrightedly. "I can't leave my father yet. He's very good to me."
"Then let's get marrit, an' ye can be guid ta him. I am a wee bit auld, lassie, buit I am rich, an' I'll gi' ye enough for a'. He'll live in coomfort an' peace wi' ye mither then, an' Aunt Jo wul bide wi' us at Tillalee. They telt me yestreen that onless ye marrit money ye'd have ta gang ta service, an' ye faither maun wuk like Kilfloggin an' Abe Watts."
"Who told you that?" Ethel cried, almost fiercely.
"Ye mither tauld me," M'Gurren answered her. "I'd be laith ta see ye baith wukin' awa' like flunkies whun there's na need ta. An' ye can dreeve aboot yesel' in fine frocks instud. I spuk ta ye mither yestreen, an she consentit. Sa ye have only ta sey th' wad, lassie, an' ye troubles wul be owre."
"My troubles are only just beginning," said Ethel, in a low voice.
She was agitated. The crisis she had long dreaded was upon her. Various pictures of the future, resultant upon this or that decision, flashed through her mind. Poor Ethel! She recognised the impossibility of remaining longer with her step-mother if she refused to marry money now that it was offered her. The thought that poor old pater should have to give up angling for "big uns," and go scrub-cutting or something, was the sorest point. For him she had rejected Mark Keaton. But Myles would sooner be shot than see her married to M'Gurren. He wanted her near him; but her presence could not save him from the threatened cropper if she did not respect the wishes of his better-half. She felt weak.
"Dinna fash aboon troubles, lassie," M'Gurren rejoined. "Gi' me ye bond, an' I'll mak ye my bonny bride. I'll dreeve ye owre the hielans in the gig, an' row ye owre the loch; an' evra nicht I'll singit ye auld favourite sangs—'My Lav She's Buit a Lassie Yet,' an' 'Auld Robin Gray.' "
"I know you mean well, Mr M'Gurren, and—if you really love me—"
"Dinna doobt it, lassie," M'Gurren broke in gleefully. "I canna spak as I ought ta, buit—I luv ye. I luv ye!"
"Then have pity—spare me. Oh, spare me!" Ethel cried, breaking down.
M'Gurren's jaw dropped as though someone had hit him. "Oots, lassie," he said, roughly, "ye canna ask for mair'n I wad give ye."
"I am too young to marry," she went on, piteously. "Don't ask me till I'm twenty. I'll give you my answer then. Grant me that—if only that,"
M'Gurren did not respond. He was looking down, and tapping his foot on the ground. Ethel sighed, and continued:
"My step-mother would force me to marry for money. She doesn't like me. She wants to get rid of me—wants to sell me. She's cruel and selfish. If you love me, don't be her cat's paw—don't buy me."
M'Gurren stared at the landscape, looking stunned.
"Tell her nothing of what's passed between us," Ethel went on, "or she'll pay me out somehow. I didn't mean to tell you this—I don't know what I'm saying. Let it end here—till—till I'm twenty."
"Bide a wee. Gin I promise ta mention it na mair tul ye twenty, wul ye promise ta drap a' intercourse wi' the lad frae Gimbo?"
"All intercourse between us has already ceased."
"Varra quid. Ye ha' my promise."
"And you won't tell my step-mother what took place here this evening?" asked Ethel, speaking with a little more calmness, though there was still a frightened look in her eyes. M'Gurren pitied her. She looked such a helpless little thing standing there, timid and trembling. He took her hand and fondled it between his own.
"Na, lassie," he answered, more tenderly. "I wad like ye ta be my ain, buit I dinna want ye ta be onhoppy. Sa have ye way, lassie, have ye way."
"Thank you," said Ethel. As soon as she reached her room Mrs Lethcote rushed after her.
"Phwat did he say?" she whispered excitedly. "Phwat was he sayin?"
"He was telling me about the beautiful house he has at Tillalee."
"Aye?"
"And he asked me would I like to live there."
"Good! An', you towld him—"
"I thought I would like it."
"Good agin! Phwat did he say to that?"
"Some day I might. I was too young yet."
The lightning change in Biddy's face was almost pathetic.
"Too young yet!" she shrieked. "God sake, does the blitherin' old fool think ye'r a grane sugar plum or something that 'ill spile be pluckin'! Too young at aighteen! 'Tis precious little he knows about wimmen. The owld shrimp!"
"When I was twenty he would ask me to share it with him," Ethel hurried on.
"Share phwat?" asked Biddy.
"His beautiful house," said Ethel.
"His beautiful fiddleshticks!" Biddy snorted. "Whin ye're twinty indade!"
"Yes, mamma," Ethel answered.
"The loggerjowl! Phwat's he thinkin' about at all, at all?"
She stood frowning at the wall, her hands on her hips. Ethel, timid and anxious, toyed with her bangle. She feared, not so much her step-mother's imperiousness now that a compromise had been arranged with Mr M'Gurren, but that her duplicity would be discovered if she were subjected to much cross-questioning.
Presently Biddy inquired: "Phwat did you say to him thin?"
"I didn't say anything," Ethel answered.
"Ye couldn't 'ave sed much less, indade," Biddy retorted. "Bedad, ye deserve to go to th' washtub, ye do. Whin an illigant squireen comes a-courtin' ye, an' ye shtand like a booby an' let him think ye're a bit av a chicken. Did I ever hear th' like of it!" And the old lady swung sharply, and stamped away with fireworks in her heels.
Ethel heaved a sigh of relief, and flew to the motherly arms of Aunt Jo.
Originally published in the Northern Star - Lismore, NSW
June 6, 1906 through October 24, 1906
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