There are many times in this world when a healthy boy is happy. When heis put into knickerbockers, for instance, and 'comes a man to-day,' asmy little Jim used to say. When they're cooking something at home thathe likes. When the 'sandy-blight' or measles breaks out amongst thechildren, or the teacher or his wife falls dangerously ill--or dies, itdoesn't matter which--'and there ain't no school.' When a boy is nakedand in his natural state for a warm climate like Australia, with threeor four of his schoolmates, under the shade of the creek-oaks in thebend where there's a good clear pool with a sandy bottom. When hisfather buys him a gun, and he starts out after kangaroos or 'possums.When he gets a horse, saddle, and bridle, of his own. When he has hisarm in splints or a stitch in his head--he's proud then, the proudestboy in the district.
I wasn't a healthy-minded, average boy: I reckon I was born for a poetby mistake, and grew up to be a Bushman, and didn't know what was thematter with me--or the world--but that's got nothing to do with it.
There are times when a man is happy. When he finds out that the girlloves him. When he's just married. When he's a lawful father for thefirst time, and everything is going on all right: some men make foolsof themselves then--I know I did. I'm happy to-night because I'm out ofdebt and can see clear ahead, and because I haven't been easy for a longtime.
But I think that the happiest time in a man's life is when he's courtinga girl and finds out for sure that she loves him and hasn't a thoughtfor any one else. Make the most of your courting days, you young chaps,and keep them clean, for they're about the only days when there's achance of poetry and beauty coming into this life. Make the best of themand you'll never regret it the longest day you live. They're the daysthat the wife will look back to, anyway, in the brightest of times aswell as in the blackest, and there shouldn't be anything in those daysthat might hurt her when she looks back. Make the most of your courtingdays, you young chaps, for they will never come again.
A married man knows all about it--after a while: he sees the woman worldthrough the eyes of his wife; he knows what an extra moment's pressureof the hand means, and, if he has had a hard life, and is inclined to becynical, the knowledge does him no good. It leads him into awful messessometimes, for a married man, if he's inclined that way, has three timesthe chance with a woman that a single man has--because the married manknows. He is privileged; he can guess pretty closely what a woman meanswhen she says something else; he knows just how far he can go; he can gofarther in five minutes towards coming to the point with a woman than aninnocent young man dares go in three weeks. Above all, the married manis more decided with women; he takes them and things for granted. Inshort he is--well, he is a married man. And, when he knows all this, howmuch better or happier is he for it? Mark Twain says that he lost allthe beauty of the river when he saw it with a pilot's eye,--and thereyou have it.
But it's all new to a young chap, provided he hasn't been a youngblackguard. It's all wonderful, new, and strange to him. He's adifferent man. He finds that he never knew anything about women. He seesnone of woman's little ways and tricks in his girl. He is in heaven oneday and down near the other place the next; and that's the sort of thingthat makes life interesting. He takes his new world for granted. And,when she says she'll be his wife----!
Make the most of your courting days, you young chaps, for they've got alot of influence on your married life afterwards--a lot more than you'dthink. Make the best of them, for they'll never come any more, unlesswe do our courting over again in another world. If we do, I'll make themost of mine.
But, looking back, I didn't do so badly after all. I never told youabout the days I courted Mary. The more I look back the more I come tothink that I made the most of them, and if I had no more to regret inmarried life than I have in my courting days, I wouldn't walk to and froin the room, or up and down the yard in the dark sometimes, or lie awakesome nights thinking.... Ah well!
I was between twenty-one and thirty then: birthdays had never been anyuse to me, and I'd left off counting them. You don't take much stock inbirthdays in the Bush. I'd knocked about the country for a few years,shearing and fencing and droving a little, and wasting my life withoutgetting anything for it. I drank now and then, and made a fool ofmyself. I was reckoned 'wild'; but I only drank because I felt lesssensitive, and the world seemed a lot saner and better and kinder whenI had a few drinks: I loved my fellow-man then and felt nearer to him.It's better to be thought 'wild' than to be considered eccentricor ratty. Now, my old mate, Jack Barnes, drank--as far as I couldsee--first because he'd inherited the gambling habit from his fatheralong with his father's luck: he'd the habit of being cheated and losingvery bad, and when he lost he drank. Till drink got a hold on him. Jackwas sentimental too, but in a different way. I was sentimental aboutother people--more fool I!--whereas Jack was sentimental about himself.Before he was married, and when he was recovering from a spree, he'dwrite rhymes about 'Only a boy, drunk by the roadside', and that sort ofthing; and he'd call 'em poetry, and talk about signing them and sendingthem to the 'Town and Country Journal'. But he generally tore them upwhen he got better. The Bush is breeding a race of poets, and I don'tknow what the country will come to in the end.
Well. It was after Jack and I had been out shearing at Beenaway shed inthe Big Scrubs. Jack was living in the little farming town of Solong,and I was hanging round. Black, the squatter, wanted some fencing doneand a new stable built, or buggy and harness-house, at his placeat Haviland, a few miles out of Solong. Jack and I were good Bushcarpenters, so we took the job to keep us going till something elseturned up. 'Better than doing nothing,' said Jack.
'There's a nice little girl in service at Black's,' he said. 'She's morelike an adopted daughter, in fact, than a servant. She's a real goodlittle girl, and good-looking into the bargain. I hear that young Blackis sweet on her, but they say she won't have anything to do with him. Iknow a lot of chaps that have tried for her, but they've never had anyluck. She's a regular little dumpling, and I like dumplings. They callher 'Possum. You ought to try a bear up in that direction, Joe.'
I was always shy with women--except perhaps some that I should havefought shy of; but Jack wasn't--he was afraid of no woman, good, bad, orindifferent. I haven't time to explain why, but somehow, whenever a girltook any notice of me I took it for granted that she was only playingwith me, and felt nasty about it. I made one or two mistakes, but--ahwell!
'My wife knows little 'Possum,' said Jack. 'I'll get her to ask her outto our place and let you know.'
I reckoned that he wouldn't get me there then, and made a note to be onthe watch for tricks. I had a hopeless little love-story behind me, ofcourse. I suppose most married men can look back to their lost love; fewmarry the first flame. Many a married man looks back and thinks it wasdamned lucky that he didn't get the girl he couldn't have. Jack had beenmy successful rival, only he didn't know it--I don't think his wife knewit either. I used to think her the prettiest and sweetest little girl inthe district.
But Jack was mighty keen on fixing me up with the little girl atHaviland. He seemed to take it for granted that I was going to fall inlove with her at first sight. He took too many things for granted as faras I was concerned, and got me into awful tangles sometimes.
'You let me alone, and I'll fix you up, Joe,' he said, as we rode upto the station. 'I'll make it all right with the girl. You're rathera good-looking chap. You've got the sort of eyes that take with girls,only you don't know it; you haven't got the go. If I had your eyes alongwith my other attractions, I'd be in trouble on account of a woman aboutonce a-week.'
'For God's sake shut up, Jack,' I said.
Do you remember the first glimpse you got of your wife? Perhaps not inEngland, where so many couples grow up together from childhood; but it'sdifferent in Australia, where you may hail from two thousand miles awayfrom where your wife was born, and yet she may be a countrywoman ofyours, and a countrywoman in ideas and politics too. I remember thefirst glimpse I got of Mary.
It was a two-store
y brick house with wide balconies and verandahs allround, and a double row of pines down to the front gate. Parallel at theback was an old slab-and-shingle place, one room deep and about eightrooms long, with a row of skillions at the back: the place was used forkitchen, laundry, servants' rooms, &c. This was the old homestead beforethe new house was built. There was a wide, old-fashioned, brick-flooredverandah in front, with an open end; there was ivy climbing up theverandah post on one side and a baby-rose on the other, and a grape-vinenear the chimney. We rode up to the end of the verandah, and Jack calledto see if there was any one at home, and Mary came trotting out; so itwas in the frame of vines that I first saw her.
More than once since then I've had a fancy to wonder whether therose-bush killed the grape-vine or the ivy smothered 'em both in theend. I used to have a vague idea of riding that way some day to see. Youdo get strange fancies at odd times.
Jack asked her if the boss was in. He did all the talking. I saw alittle girl, rather plump, with a complexion like a New England or BlueMountain girl, or a girl from Tasmania or from Gippsland in Victoria.Red and white girls were very scarce in the Solong district. She had thebiggest and brightest eyes I'd seen round there, dark hazel eyes, as Ifound out afterwards, and bright as a 'possum's. No wonder they calledher ''Possum'. I forgot at once that Mrs Jack Barnes was the prettiestgirl in the district. I felt a sort of comfortable satisfaction in thefact that I was on horseback: most Bushmen look better on horseback. Itwas a black filly, a fresh young thing, and she seemed as shy of girlsas I was myself. I noticed Mary glanced in my direction once or twiceto see if she knew me; but, when she looked, the filly took all myattention. Mary trotted in to tell old Black he was wanted, and afterJack had seen him, and arranged to start work next day, we started backto Solong.
I expected Jack to ask me what I thought of Mary--but he didn't. Hesquinted at me sideways once or twice and didn't say anything for a longtime, and then he started talking of other things. I began to feel wildat him. He seemed so damnably satisfied with the way things were going.He seemed to reckon that I was a gone case now; but, as he didn't sayso, I had no way of getting at him. I felt sure he'd go home andtell his wife that Joe Wilson was properly gone on little 'Possum atHaviland. That was all Jack's way.
Next morning we started to work. We were to build the buggy-house atthe back near the end of the old house, but first we had to take downa rotten old place that might have been the original hut in the Bushbefore the old house was built. There was a window in it, opposite thelaundry window in the old place, and the first thing I did was to takeout the sash. I'd noticed Jack yarning with 'Possum before he startedwork. While I was at work at the window he called me round to the otherend of the hut to help him lift a grindstone out of the way; and whenwe'd done it, he took the tips of my ear between his fingers and thumband stretched it and whispered into it--
'Don't hurry with that window, Joe; the strips are hardwood and hard toget off--you'll have to take the sash out very carefully so as not tobreak the glass.' Then he stretched my ear a little more and put hismouth closer--
'Make a looking-glass of that window, Joe,' he said.
I was used to Jack, and when I went back to the window I started topuzzle out what he meant, and presently I saw it by chance.
That window reflected the laundry window: the room was dark inside andthere was a good clear reflection; and presently I saw Mary come to thelaundry window and stand with her hands behind her back, thoughtfullywatching me. The laundry window had an old-fashioned hinged sash, and Ilike that sort of window--there's more romance about it, I think. Therewas thick dark-green ivy all round the window, and Mary looked prettierthan a picture. I squared up my shoulders and put my heels together andput as much style as I could into the work. I couldn't have turned roundto save my life.
Presently Jack came round, and Mary disappeared.
'Well?' he whispered.
'You're a fool, Jack,' I said. 'She's only interested in the old housebeing pulled down.'
'That's all right,' he said. 'I've been keeping an eye on the businessround the corner, and she ain't interested when I'M round this end.'
'You seem mighty interested in the business,' I said.
'Yes,' said Jack. 'This sort of thing just suits a man of my rank intimes of peace.'
'What made you think of the window?' I asked.
'Oh, that's as simple as striking matches. I'm up to all those dodges.Why, where there wasn't a window, I've fixed up a piece of looking-glassto see if a girl was taking any notice of me when she thought I wasn'tlooking.'
He went away, and presently Mary was at the window again, and thistime she had a tray with cups of tea and a plate of cake andbread-and-butter. I was prizing off the strips that held the sash,very carefully, and my heart suddenly commenced to gallop, without anyreference to me. I'd never felt like that before, except once ortwice. It was just as if I'd swallowed some clockwork arrangement,unconsciously, and it had started to go, without warning. I reckon itwas all on account of that blarsted Jack working me up. He had aquiet way of working you up to a thing, that made you want to hit himsometimes--after you'd made an ass of yourself.
I didn't hear Mary at first. I hoped Jack would come round and help meout of the fix, but he didn't.
'Mr--Mr Wilson!' said Mary. She had a sweet voice.
I turned round.
'I thought you and Mr Barnes might like a cup of tea.'
'Oh, thank you!' I said, and I made a dive for the window, as if hurrywould help it. I trod on an old cask-hoop; it sprang up and dinted myshin and I stumbled--and that didn't help matters much.
'Oh! did you hurt yourself, Mr Wilson?' cried Mary.
'Hurt myself! Oh no, not at all, thank you,' I blurted out. 'It takesmore than that to hurt me.'
I was about the reddest shy lanky fool of a Bushman that was ever takenat a disadvantage on foot, and when I took the tray my hands shook sothat a lot of the tea was spilt into the saucers. I embarrassed her too,like the damned fool I was, till she must have been as red as I was, andit's a wonder we didn't spill the whole lot between us. I got awayfrom the window in as much of a hurry as if Jack had cut his leg with achisel and fainted, and I was running with whisky for him. I blunderedround to where he was, feeling like a man feels when he's just made anass of himself in public. The memory of that sort of thing hurts youworse and makes you jerk your head more impatiently than the thought ofa past crime would, I think.
I pulled myself together when I got to where Jack was.
'Here, Jack!' I said. 'I've struck something all right; here's some teaand brownie--we'll hang out here all right.'
Jack took a cup of tea and a piece of cake and sat down to enjoy it,just as if he'd paid for it and ordered it to be sent out about thattime.
He was silent for a while, with the sort of silence that always made mewild at him. Presently he said, as if he'd just thought of it--
'That's a very pretty little girl, 'Possum, isn't she, Joe? Do younotice how she dresses?--always fresh and trim. But she's got on herbest bib-and-tucker to-day, and a pinafore with frills to it. And it'sironing-day, too. It can't be on your account. If it was Saturday orSunday afternoon, or some holiday, I could understand it. But perhapsone of her admirers is going to take her to the church bazaar in Solongto-night. That's what it is.'
He gave me time to think over that.
'But yet she seems interested in you, Joe,' he said. 'Why didn't youoffer to take her to the bazaar instead of letting another chap get inahead of you? You miss all your chances, Joe.'
Then a thought struck me. I ought to have known Jack well enough to havethought of it before.
'Look here, Jack,' I said. 'What have you been saying to that girl aboutme?'
'Oh, not much,' said Jack. 'There isn't much to say about you.'
'What did you tell her?'
'Oh, nothing in particular. She'd heard all about you before.'
'She hadn't heard much good, I suppose,' I said.
'We
ll, that's true, as far as I could make out. But you've only gotyourself to blame. I didn't have the breeding and rearing of you. Ismoothed over matters with her as much as I could.'
'What did you tell her?' I said. 'That's what I want to know.'
'Well, to tell the truth, I didn't tell her anything much. I onlyanswered questions.'
'And what questions did she ask?'
'Well, in the first place, she asked if your name wasn't Joe Wilson; andI said it was, as far as I knew. Then she said she heard that you wrotepoetry, and I had to admit that that was true.'
'Look here, Jack,' I said, 'I've two minds to punch your head.'
'And she asked me if it was true that you were wild,' said Jack, 'and Isaid you was, a bit. She said it seemed a pity. She asked me if it wastrue that you drank, and I drew a long face and said that I was sorryto say it was true. She asked me if you had any friends, and I said nonethat I knew of, except me. I said that you'd lost all your friends; theystuck to you as long as they could, but they had to give you best, oneafter the other.'
'What next?'
'She asked me if you were delicate, and I said no, you were as tough asfencing-wire. She said you looked rather pale and thin, and asked me ifyou'd had an illness lately. And I said no--it was all on account ofthe wild, dissipated life you'd led. She said it was a pity you hadn'ta mother or a sister to look after you--it was a pity that somethingcouldn't be done for you, and I said it was, but I was afraid thatnothing could be done. I told her that I was doing all I could to keepyou straight.'
I knew enough of Jack to know that most of this was true. And so sheonly pitied me after all. I felt as if I'd been courting her for sixmonths and she'd thrown me over--but I didn't know anything about womenyet.
'Did you tell her I was in jail?' I growled.
'No, by Gum! I forgot that. But never mind I'll fix that up all right.I'll tell her that you got two years' hard for horse-stealing. Thatought to make her interested in you, if she isn't already.'
We smoked a while.
'And was that all she said?' I asked.
'Who?--Oh! 'Possum,' said Jack rousing himself. 'Well--no; let methink---- We got chatting of other things--you know a married man'sprivileged, and can say a lot more to a girl than a single man can. Igot talking nonsense about sweethearts, and one thing led to anothertill at last she said, "I suppose Mr Wilson's got a sweetheart, MrBarnes?"'
'And what did you say?' I growled.
'Oh, I told her that you were a holy terror amongst the girls,' saidJack. 'You'd better take back that tray, Joe, and let us get to work.'
I wouldn't take back the tray--but that didn't mend matters, for Jacktook it back himself.
I didn't see Mary's reflection in the window again, so I took the windowout. I reckoned that she was just a big-hearted, impulsive little thing,as many Australian girls are, and I reckoned that I was a fool forthinking for a moment that she might give me a second thought, exceptby way of kindness. Why! young Black and half a dozen better men than mewere sweet on her, and young Black was to get his father's station andthe money--or rather his mother's money, for she held the stuff (shekept it close too, by all accounts). Young Black was away at the time,and his mother was dead against him about Mary, but that didn't makeany difference, as far as I could see. I reckoned that it was onlyjust going to be a hopeless, heart-breaking, stand-far-off-and-worshipaffair, as far as I was concerned--like my first love affair, that Ihaven't told you about yet. I was tired of being pitied by good girls.You see, I didn't know women then. If I had known, I think I might havemade more than one mess of my life.
Jack rode home to Solong every night. I was staying at a pub somedistance out of town, between Solong and Haviland. There were three orfour wet days, and we didn't get on with the work. I fought shy of Marytill one day she was hanging out clothes and the line broke. It was theold-style sixpenny clothes-line. The clothes were all down, but it wasclean grass, so it didn't matter much. I looked at Jack.
'Go and help her, you capital Idiot!' he said, and I made the plunge.
'Oh, thank you, Mr Wilson!' said Mary, when I came to help. She had thebroken end of the line and was trying to hold some of the clothes offthe ground, as if she could pull it an inch with the heavy wet sheetsand table-cloths and things on it, or as if it would do any good if shedid. But that's the way with women--especially little women--some of 'emwould try to pull a store bullock if they got the end of the rope onthe right side of the fence. I took the line from Mary, and accidentallytouched her soft, plump little hand as I did so: it sent a thrill rightthrough me. She seemed a lot cooler than I was.
Now, in cases like this, especially if you lose your head a bit, you gethold of the loose end of the rope that's hanging from the post with onehand, and the end of the line with the clothes on with the other, andtry to pull 'em far enough together to make a knot. And that's aboutall you do for the present, except look like a fool. Then I took offthe post end, spliced the line, took it over the fork, and pulled, whileMary helped me with the prop. I thought Jack might have come and takenthe prop from her, but he didn't; he just went on with his work as ifnothing was happening inside the horizon.
She'd got the line about two-thirds full of clothes, it was a bit shortnow, so she had to jump and catch it with one hand and hold it downwhile she pegged a sheet she'd thrown over. I'd made the plunge now,so I volunteered to help her. I held down the line while she threwthe things over and pegged out. As we got near the post and higher Istraightened out some ends and pegged myself. Bushmen are handy at mostthings. We laughed, and now and again Mary would say, 'No, that's notthe way, Mr Wilson; that's not right; the sheet isn't far enough over;wait till I fix it,' &c. I'd a reckless idea once of holding her upwhile she pegged, and I was glad afterwards that I hadn't made such afool of myself.
'There's only a few more things in the basket, Miss Brand,' I said. 'Youcan't reach--I'll fix 'em up.'
She seemed to give a little gasp.
'Oh, those things are not ready yet,' she said, 'they're not rinsed,'and she grabbed the basket and held it away from me. The things lookedthe same to me as the rest on the line; they looked rinsed enough andblued too. I reckoned that she didn't want me to take the trouble, orthought that I mightn't like to be seen hanging out clothes, and wasonly doing it out of kindness.
'Oh, it's no trouble,' I said, 'let me hang 'em out. I like it. I'vehung out clothes at home on a windy day,' and I made a reach into thebasket. But she flushed red, with temper I thought, and snatched thebasket away.
'Excuse me, Mr Wilson,' she said, 'but those things are not ready yet!'and she marched into the wash-house.
'Ah well! you've got a little temper of your own,' I thought to myself.
When I told Jack, he said that I'd made another fool of myself. He saidI'd both disappointed and offended her. He said that my line was tostand off a bit and be serious and melancholy in the background.
That evening when we'd started home, we stopped some time yarning witha chap we met at the gate; and I happened to look back, and saw Maryhanging out the rest of the things--she thought that we were out ofsight. Then I understood why those things weren't ready while we wereround.
For the next day or two Mary didn't take the slightest notice of me,and I kept out of her way. Jack said I'd disillusioned her--and hurt herdignity--which was a thousand times worse. He said I'd spoilt the thingaltogether. He said that she'd got an idea that I was shy and poetic,and I'd only shown myself the usual sort of Bush-whacker.
I noticed her talking and chatting with other fellows once or twice, andit made me miserable. I got drunk two evenings running, and then, as itappeared afterwards, Mary consulted Jack, and at last she said to him,when we were together--
'Do you play draughts, Mr Barnes?'
'No,' said Jack.
'Do you, Mr Wilson?' she asked, suddenly turning her big, bright eyes onme, and speaking to me for the first time since last washing-day.
'Yes,' I said, 'I do a little.' Then there wa
s a silence, and I had tosay something else.
'Do you play draughts, Miss Brand?' I asked.
'Yes,' she said, 'but I can't get any one to play with me here of anevening, the men are generally playing cards or reading.' Then she said,'It's very dull these long winter evenings when you've got nothing todo. Young Mr Black used to play draughts, but he's away.'
I saw Jack winking at me urgently.
'I'll play a game with you, if you like,' I said, 'but I ain't much of aplayer.'
'Oh, thank you, Mr Wilson! When shall you have an evening to spare?'
We fixed it for that same evening. We got chummy over the draughts. Ihad a suspicion even then that it was a put-up job to keep me away fromthe pub.
Perhaps she found a way of giving a hint to old Black without committingherself. Women have ways--or perhaps Jack did it. Anyway, next day theBoss came round and said to me--
'Look here, Joe, you've got no occasion to stay at the pub. Bring alongyour blankets and camp in one of the spare rooms of the old house. Youcan have your tucker here.'
He was a good sort, was Black the squatter: a squatter of the oldschool, who'd shared the early hardships with his men, and couldn't seewhy he should not shake hands and have a smoke and a yarn over old timeswith any of his old station hands that happened to come along. But he'dmarried an Englishwoman after the hardships were over, and she'd nevergot any Australian notions.
Next day I found one of the skillion rooms scrubbed out and a bed fixedup for me. I'm not sure to this day who did it, but I supposed thatgood-natured old Black had given one of the women a hint. After teaI had a yarn with Mary, sitting on a log of the wood-heap. I don'tremember exactly how we both came to be there, or who sat downfirst. There was about two feet between us. We got very chummy andconfidential. She told me about her childhood and her father.
He'd been an old mate of Black's, a younger son of a well-to-do Englishfamily (with blue blood in it, I believe), and sent out to Australiawith a thousand pounds to make his way, as many younger sons are, withmore or less. They think they're hard done by; they blue their thousandpounds in Melbourne or Sydney, and they don't make any more nowadays,for the Roarin' Days have been dead these thirty years. I wish I'd had athousand pounds to start on!
Mary's mother was the daughter of a German immigrant, who selectedup there in the old days. She had a will of her own as far as I couldunderstand, and bossed the home till the day of her death. Mary'sfather made money, and lost it, and drank--and died. Mary rememberedhim sitting on the verandah one evening with his hand on her head, andsinging a German song (the 'Lorelei', I think it was) softly, as if tohimself. Next day he stayed in bed, and the children were kept out ofthe room; and, when he died, the children were adopted round (there wasa little money coming from England).
Mary told me all about her girlhood. She went first to live with a sortof cousin in town, in a house where they took in cards on a tray, andthen she came to live with Mrs Black, who took a fancy to her at first.I'd had no boyhood to speak of, so I gave her some of my ideas of whatthe world ought to be, and she seemed interested.
Next day there were sheets on my bed, and I felt pretty cocky untilI remembered that I'd told her I had no one to care for me; then Isuspected pity again.
But next evening we remembered that both our fathers and mothers weredead, and discovered that we had no friends except Jack and old Black,and things went on very satisfactorily.
And next day there was a little table in my room with a crocheted coverand a looking-glass.
I noticed the other girls began to act mysterious and giggle when I wasround, but Mary didn't seem aware of it.
We got very chummy. Mary wasn't comfortable at Haviland. Old Blackwas very fond of her and always took her part, but she wanted to beindependent. She had a great idea of going to Sydney and getting intothe hospital as a nurse. She had friends in Sydney, but she had nomoney. There was a little money coming to her when she was twenty-one--afew pounds--and she was going to try and get it before that time.
'Look here, Miss Brand,' I said, after we'd watched the moon rise. 'I'lllend you the money. I've got plenty--more than I know what to do with.'
But I saw I'd hurt her. She sat up very straight for a while, lookingbefore her; then she said it was time to go in, and said 'Good-night, MrWilson.'
I reckoned I'd done it that time; but Mary told me afterwards that shewas only hurt because it struck her that what she said about money mighthave been taken for a hint. She didn't understand me yet, and I didn'tknow human nature. I didn't say anything to Jack--in fact about thistime I left off telling him about things. He didn't seem hurt; he workedhard and seemed happy.
I really meant what I said to Mary about the money. It was pure goodnature. I'd be a happier man now, I think, and richer man perhaps, ifI'd never grown any more selfish than I was that night on the wood-heapwith Mary. I felt a great sympathy for her--but I got to love her. Iwent through all the ups and downs of it. One day I was having tea inthe kitchen, and Mary and another girl, named Sarah, reached me a cleanplate at the same time: I took Sarah's plate because she was first, andMary seemed very nasty about it, and that gave me great hopes. But allnext evening she played draughts with a drover that she'd chummed upwith. I pretended to be interested in Sarah's talk, but it didn't seemto work.
A few days later a Sydney Jackaroo visited the station. He had a goodpea-rifle, and one afternoon he started to teach Mary to shoot at atarget. They seemed to get very chummy. I had a nice time for three orfour days, I can tell you. I was worse than a wall-eyed bullock withthe pleuro. The other chaps had a shot out of the rifle. Mary called 'MrWilson' to have a shot, and I made a worse fool of myself by sulking. Ifit hadn't been a blooming Jackaroo I wouldn't have minded so much.
Next evening the Jackaroo and one or two other chaps and the girls wentout 'possum-shooting. Mary went. I could have gone, but I didn't. Imooched round all the evening like an orphan bandicoot on a burnt ridge,and then I went up to the pub and filled myself with beer, and damnedthe world, and came home and went to bed. I think that evening wasthe only time I ever wrote poetry down on a piece of paper. I got somiserable that I enjoyed it.
I felt better next morning, and reckoned I was cured. I ran against Maryaccidentally and had to say something.
'How did you enjoy yourself yesterday evening, Miss Brand?' I asked.
'Oh, very well, thank you, Mr Wilson,' she said. Then she asked, 'Howdid you enjoy yourself, Mr Wilson?'
I puzzled over that afterwards, but couldn't make anything out of it.Perhaps she only said it for the sake of saying something. But aboutthis time my handkerchiefs and collars disappeared from the room andturned up washed and ironed and laid tidily on my table. I used to keepan eye out, but could never catch anybody near my room. I straightenedup, and kept my room a bit tidy, and when my handkerchief got too dirty,and I was ashamed of letting it go to the wash, I'd slip down to theriver after dark and wash it out, and dry it next day, and rub it up tolook as if it hadn't been washed, and leave it on my table. I feltso full of hope and joy that I worked twice as hard as Jack, till onemorning he remarked casually--
'I see you've made a new mash, Joe. I saw the half-caste cook tidyingup your room this morning and taking your collars and things to thewash-house.'
I felt very much off colour all the rest of the day, and I had sucha bad night of it that I made up my mind next morning to look thehopelessness square in the face and live the thing down.
It was the evening before Anniversary Day. Jack and I had put in a goodday's work to get the job finished, and Jack was having a smoke and ayarn with the chaps before he started home. We sat on an old log alongby the fence at the back of the house. There was Jimmy Nowlett thebullock-driver, and long Dave Regan the drover, and big Jim Bullock thefencer, and one or two others. Mary and the station girls and one ortwo visitors were sitting under the old verandah. The Jackaroo wasthere too, so I felt happy. It was the girls who used to bring the chapshanging round. They were gett
ing up a dance party for Anniversary night.Along in the evening another chap came riding up to the station: he wasa big shearer, a dark, handsome fellow, who looked like a gipsy: it wasreckoned that there was foreign blood in him. He went by the name ofRomany. He was supposed to be shook after Mary too. He had the nastiesttemper and the best violin in the district, and the chaps put up withhim a lot because they wanted him to play at Bush dances. The moon hadrisen over Pine Ridge, but it was dusky where we were. We saw Romanyloom up, riding in from the gate; he rode round the end of thecoach-house and across towards where we were--I suppose he was going totie up his horse at the fence; but about half-way across the grass hedisappeared. It struck me that there was something peculiar about theway he got down, and I heard a sound like a horse stumbling.
'What the hell's Romany trying to do?' said Jimmy Nowlett. 'He couldn'thave fell off his horse--or else he's drunk.'
A couple of chaps got up and went to see. Then there was that waiting,mysterious silence that comes when something happens in the dark andnobody knows what it is. I went over, and the thing dawned on me. I'dstretched a wire clothes-line across there during the day, and hadforgotten all about it for the moment. Romany had no idea of the line,and, as he rode up, it caught him on a level with his elbows and scrapedhim off his horse. He was sitting on the grass, swearing in a surprisedvoice, and the horse looked surprised too. Romany wasn't hurt, but thesudden shock had spoilt his temper. He wanted to know who'd put up thatbloody line. He came over and sat on the log. The chaps smoked a while.
'What did you git down so sudden for, Romany?' asked Jim Bullockpresently. 'Did you hurt yerself on the pommel?'
'Why didn't you ask the horse to go round?' asked Dave Regan.
'I'd only like to know who put up that bleeding wire!' growled Romany.
'Well,' said Jimmy Nowlett, 'if we'd put up a sign to beware of the lineyou couldn't have seen it in the dark.'
'Unless it was a transparency with a candle behind it,' said Dave Regan.'But why didn't you get down on one end, Romany, instead of all along?It wouldn't have jolted yer so much.'
All this with the Bush drawl, and between the puffs of their pipes.But I didn't take any interest in it. I was brooding over Mary and theJackaroo.
'I've heard of men getting down over their horse's head,' saidDave presently, in a reflective sort of way--'in fact I've done itmyself--but I never saw a man get off backwards over his horse's rump.'
But they saw that Romany was getting nasty, and they wanted him to playthe fiddle next night, so they dropped it.
Mary was singing an old song. I always thought she had a sweet voice,and I'd have enjoyed it if that damned Jackaroo hadn't been listeningtoo. We listened in silence until she'd finished.
'That gal's got a nice voice,' said Jimmy Nowlett.
'Nice voice!' snarled Romany, who'd been waiting for a chance to benasty. 'Why, I've heard a tom-cat sing better.'
I moved, and Jack, he was sitting next me, nudged me to keep quiet. Thechaps didn't like Romany's talk about 'Possum at all. They were all fondof her: she wasn't a pet or a tomboy, for she wasn't built that way,but they were fond of her in such a way that they didn't like to hearanything said about her. They said nothing for a while, but it meant alot. Perhaps the single men didn't care to speak for fear that it wouldbe said that they were gone on Mary. But presently Jimmy Nowlett gave abig puff at his pipe and spoke--
'I suppose you got bit too in that quarter, Romany?'
'Oh, she tried it on, but it didn't go,' said Romany. 'I've met her sortbefore. She's setting her cap at that Jackaroo now. Some girls will runafter anything with trousers on,' and he stood up.
Jack Barnes must have felt what was coming, for he grabbed my arm, andwhispered, 'Sit still, Joe, damn you! He's too good for you!' but I wason my feet and facing Romany as if a giant hand had reached down andwrenched me off the log and set me there.
'You're a damned crawler, Romany!' I said.
Little Jimmy Nowlett was between us and the other fellows round usbefore a blow got home. 'Hold on, you damned fools!' they said. 'Keepquiet till we get away from the house!' There was a little clear flatdown by the river and plenty of light there, so we decided to go downthere and have it out.
Now I never was a fighting man; I'd never learnt to use my hands. Iscarcely knew how to put them up. Jack often wanted to teach me, but Iwouldn't bother about it. He'd say, 'You'll get into a fight some day,Joe, or out of one, and shame me;' but I hadn't the patience to learn.He'd wanted me to take lessons at the station after work, but he used toget excited, and I didn't want Mary to see him knocking me about. Beforehe was married Jack was always getting into fights--he generally tackleda better man and got a hiding; but he didn't seem to care so long ashe made a good show--though he used to explain the thing away from ascientific point of view for weeks after. To tell the truth, I had ahorror of fighting; I had a horror of being marked about the face; Ithink I'd sooner stand off and fight a man with revolvers than fight himwith fists; and then I think I would say, last thing, 'Don't shoot mein the face!' Then again I hated the idea of hitting a man. It seemedbrutal to me. I was too sensitive and sentimental, and that was whatthe matter was. Jack seemed very serious on it as we walked down to theriver, and he couldn't help hanging out blue lights.
'Why didn't you let me teach you to use your hands?' he said. 'Theonly chance now is that Romany can't fight after all. If you'd waiteda minute I'd have been at him.' We were a bit behind the rest, and Jackstarted giving me points about lefts and rights, and 'half-arms', andthat sort of thing. 'He's left-handed, and that's the worst of it,' saidJack. 'You must only make as good a show as you can, and one of us willtake him on afterwards.'
But I just heard him and that was all. It was to be my first fight sinceI was a boy, but, somehow, I felt cool about it--sort of dulled. If thechaps had known all they would have set me down as a cur. I thought ofthat, but it didn't make any difference with me then; I knew it was athing they couldn't understand. I knew I was reckoned pretty soft. ButI knew one thing that they didn't know. I knew that it was going to bea fight to a finish, one way or the other. I had more brains andimagination than the rest put together, and I suppose that that was thereal cause of most of my trouble. I kept saying to myself, 'You'll haveto go through with it now, Joe, old man! It's the turning-point of yourlife.' If I won the fight, I'd set to work and win Mary; if I lost, I'dleave the district for ever. A man thinks a lot in a flash sometimes; Iused to get excited over little things, because of the very paltrinessof them, but I was mostly cool in a crisis--Jack was the reverse. Ilooked ahead: I wouldn't be able to marry a girl who could look back andremember when her husband was beaten by another man--no matter what sortof brute the other man was.
I never in my life felt so cool about a thing. Jack kept whisperinginstructions, and showing with his hands, up to the last moment, but itwas all lost on me.
Looking back, I think there was a bit of romance about it: Mary singingunder the vines to amuse a Jackaroo dude, and a coward going down to theriver in the moonlight to fight for her.
It was very quiet in the little moonlit flat by the river. We took offour coats and were ready. There was no swearing or barracking. It seemedan understood thing with the men that if I went out first round Jackwould fight Romany; and if Jack knocked him out somebody else wouldfight Jack to square matters. Jim Bullock wouldn't mind obliging forone; he was a mate of Jack's, but he didn't mind who he fought so longas it was for the sake of fair play--or 'peace and quietness', as hesaid. Jim was very good-natured. He backed Romany, and of course Jackbacked me.
As far as I could see, all Romany knew about fighting was to jerk onearm up in front of his face and duck his head by way of a feint, andthen rush and lunge out. But he had the weight and strength and lengthof reach, and my first lesson was a very short one. I went down earlyin the round. But it did me good; the blow and the look I'd seenin Romany's eyes knocked all the sentiment out of me. Jack saidnothing,--he seemed to regard it as a hopele
ss job from the first.Next round I tried to remember some things Jack had told me, and made abetter show, but I went down in the end.
I felt Jack breathing quick and trembling as he lifted me up.
'How are you, Joe?' he whispered.
'I'm all right,' I said.
'It's all right,' whispered Jack in a voice as if I was going to behanged, but it would soon be all over. 'He can't use his hands much morethan you can--take your time, Joe--try to remember something I told you,for God's sake!'
When two men fight who don't know how to use their hands, they stand ashow of knocking each other about a lot. I got some awful thumps,but mostly on the body. Jimmy Nowlett began to get excited and jumpround--he was an excitable little fellow.
'Fight! you----!' he yelled. 'Why don't you fight? That ain't fightin'.Fight, and don't try to murder each other. Use your crimson hands or, byGod, I'll chip you! Fight, or I'll blanky well bullock-whip the pair ofyou;' then his language got awful. They said we went like windmills, andthat nearly every one of the blows we made was enough to kill a bullockif it had got home. Jimmy stopped us once, but they held him back.
Presently I went down pretty flat, but the blow was well up on the headand didn't matter much--I had a good thick skull. And I had one good eyeyet.
'For God's sake, hit him!' whispered Jack--he was trembling like a leaf.'Don't mind what I told you. I wish I was fighting him myself! Get ablow home, for God's sake! Make a good show this round and I'll stop thefight.'
That showed how little even Jack, my old mate, understood me.
I had the Bushman up in me now, and wasn't going to be beaten whileI could think. I was wonderfully cool, and learning to fight. There'snothing like a fight to teach a man. I was thinking fast, and learningmore in three seconds than Jack's sparring could have taught me in threeweeks. People think that blows hurt in a fight, but they don't--nottill afterwards. I fancy that a fighting man, if he isn't altogether ananimal, suffers more mentally than he does physically.
While I was getting my wind I could hear through the moonlight and stillair the sound of Mary's voice singing up at the house. I thought hardinto the future, even as I fought. The fight only seemed something thatwas passing.
I was on my feet again and at it, and presently I lunged out and feltsuch a jar in my arm that I thought it was telescoped. I thought I'd putout my wrist and elbow. And Romany was lying on the broad of his back.
I heard Jack draw three breaths of relief in one. He said nothing ashe straightened me up, but I could feel his heart beating. He saidafterwards that he didn't speak because he thought a word might spoilit.
I went down again, but Jack told me afterwards that he FELT I was allright when he lifted me.
Then Romany went down, then we fell together, and the chaps separatedus. I got another knock-down blow in, and was beginning to enjoy thenovelty of it, when Romany staggered and limped.
'I've done,' he said. 'I've twisted my ankle.' He'd caught his heelagainst a tuft of grass.
'Shake hands,' yelled Jimmy Nowlett.
I stepped forward, but Romany took his coat and limped to his horse.
'If yer don't shake hands with Wilson, I'll lamb yer!' howled Jimmy; butJack told him to let the man alone, and Romany got on his horse somehowand rode off.
I saw Jim Bullock stoop and pick up something from the grass, and heardhim swear in surprise. There was some whispering, and presently Jimsaid--
'If I thought that, I'd kill him.'
'What is it?' asked Jack.
Jim held up a butcher's knife. It was common for a man to carry abutcher's knife in a sheath fastened to his belt.
'Why did you let your man fight with a butcher's knife in his belt?'asked Jimmy Nowlett.
But the knife could easily have fallen out when Romany fell, and wedecided it that way.
'Any way,' said Jimmy Nowlett, 'if he'd stuck Joe in hot blood before usall it wouldn't be so bad as if he sneaked up and stuck him in the backin the dark. But you'd best keep an eye over yer shoulder for a year ortwo, Joe. That chap's got Eye-talian blood in him somewhere. And now thebest thing you chaps can do is to keep your mouth shut and keep all thisdark from the gals.'
Jack hurried me on ahead. He seemed to act queer, and when I glancedat him I could have sworn that there was water in his eyes. I said thatJack had no sentiment except for himself, but I forgot, and I'm sorry Isaid it.
'What's up, Jack?' I asked.
'Nothing,' said Jack.
'What's up, you old fool?' I said.
'Nothing,' said Jack, 'except that I'm damned proud of you, Joe, youold ass!' and he put his arm round my shoulders and gave me a shake.'I didn't know it was in you, Joe--I wouldn't have said it before,or listened to any other man say it, but I didn't think you had thepluck--God's truth, I didn't. Come along and get your face fixed up.'
We got into my room quietly, and Jack got a dish of water, and told oneof the chaps to sneak a piece of fresh beef from somewhere.
Jack was as proud as a dog with a tin tail as he fussed round me.He fixed up my face in the best style he knew, and he knew a goodmany--he'd been mended himself so often.
While he was at work we heard a sudden hush and a scraping of feetamongst the chaps that Jack had kicked out of the room, and a girl'svoice whispered, 'Is he hurt? Tell me. I want to know,--I might be ableto help.'
It made my heart jump, I can tell you. Jack went out at once, and therewas some whispering. When he came back he seemed wild.
'What is it, Jack?' I asked.
'Oh, nothing,' he said, 'only that damned slut of a half-caste cookoverheard some of those blanky fools arguing as to how Romany's knifegot out of the sheath, and she's put a nice yarn round amongst thegirls. There's a regular bobbery, but it's all right now. JimmyNowlett's telling 'em lies at a great rate.'
Presently there was another hush outside, and a saucer with vinegar andbrown paper was handed in.
One of the chaps brought some beer and whisky from the pub, and we hada quiet little time in my room. Jack wanted to stay all night, but Ireminded him that his little wife was waiting for him in Solong, so hesaid he'd be round early in the morning, and went home.
I felt the reaction pretty bad. I didn't feel proud of the affair atall. I thought it was a low, brutal business all round. Romany was aquiet chap after all, and the chaps had no right to chyack him. Perhapshe'd had a hard life, and carried a big swag of trouble that we didn'tknow anything about. He seemed a lonely man. I'd gone through enoughmyself to teach me not to judge men. I made up my mind to tell him how Ifelt about the matter next time we met. Perhaps I made my usual mistakeof bothering about 'feelings' in another party that hadn't any feelingsat all--perhaps I didn't; but it's generally best to chance it on thekind side in a case like this. Altogether I felt as if I'd made anotherfool of myself and been a weak coward. I drank the rest of the beer andwent to sleep.
About daylight I woke and heard Jack's horse on the gravel. He cameround the back of the buggy-shed and up to my door, and then, suddenly,a girl screamed out. I pulled on my trousers and 'lastic-side boots andhurried out. It was Mary herself, dressed, and sitting on an old stonestep at the back of the kitchen with her face in her hands, and Jack wasoff his horse and stooping by her side with his hand on her shoulder.She kept saying, 'I thought you were----! I thought you were----!' Ididn't catch the name. An old single-barrel, muzzle-loader shot-gun waslying in the grass at her feet. It was the gun they used to keep loadedand hanging in straps in a room of the kitchen ready for a shot at acunning old hawk that they called ''Tarnal Death', and that used to bealways after the chickens.
When Mary lifted her face it was as white as note-paper, and her eyesseemed to grow wilder when she caught sight of me.
'Oh, you did frighten me, Mr Barnes,' she gasped. Then she gave a littleghost of a laugh and stood up, and some colour came back.
'Oh, I'm a little fool!' she said quickly. 'I thought I heard old'Tarnal Death at the chickens, and I thought it would be a great thingif I
got the gun and brought him down; so I got up and dressed quietlyso as not to wake Sarah. And then you came round the corner andfrightened me. I don't know what you must think of me, Mr Barnes.'
'Never mind,' said Jack. 'You go and have a sleep, or you won't beable to dance to-night. Never mind the gun--I'll put that away.' And hesteered her round to the door of her room off the brick verandah whereshe slept with one of the other girls.
'Well, that's a rum start!' I said.
'Yes, it is,' said Jack; 'it's very funny. Well, how's your face thismorning, Joe?'
He seemed a lot more serious than usual.
We were hard at work all the morning cleaning out the big wool-shed andgetting it ready for the dance, hanging hoops for the candles, makingseats, &c. I kept out of sight of the girls as much as I could. One sideof my face was a sight and the other wasn't too classical. I felt as ifI had been stung by a swarm of bees.
'You're a fresh, sweet-scented beauty now, and no mistake, Joe,' saidJimmy Nowlett--he was going to play the accordion that night. 'You oughtto fetch the girls now, Joe. But never mind, your face'll go downin about three weeks. My lower jaw is crooked yet; but that fightstraightened my nose, that had been knocked crooked when I was a boy--soI didn't lose much beauty by it.'
When we'd done in the shed, Jack took me aside and said--
'Look here, Joe! if you won't come to the dance to-night--and I can'tsay you'd ornament it--I tell you what you'll do. You get little Maryaway on the quiet and take her out for a stroll--and act like a man. Thejob's finished now, and you won't get another chance like this.'
'But how am I to get her out?' I said.
'Never you mind. You be mooching round down by the big peppermint-treenear the river-gate, say about half-past ten.'
'What good'll that do?'
'Never you mind. You just do as you're told, that's all you've got todo,' said Jack, and he went home to get dressed and bring his wife.
After the dancing started that night I had a peep in once or twice. Thefirst time I saw Mary dancing with Jack, and looking serious; and thesecond time she was dancing with the blarsted Jackaroo dude, and lookingexcited and happy. I noticed that some of the girls, that I could seesitting on a stool along the opposite wall, whispered, and gave Maryblack looks as the Jackaroo swung her past. It struck me pretty forciblythat I should have taken fighting lessons from him instead of from poorRomany. I went away and walked about four miles down the river road,getting out of the way into the Bush whenever I saw any chap ridingalong. I thought of poor Romany and wondered where he was, and thoughtthat there wasn't much to choose between us as far as happiness wasconcerned. Perhaps he was walking by himself in the Bush, and feelinglike I did. I wished I could shake hands with him.
But somehow, about half-past ten, I drifted back to the river slip-railsand leant over them, in the shadow of the peppermint-tree, looking atthe rows of river-willows in the moonlight. I didn't expect anything, inspite of what Jack said.
I didn't like the idea of hanging myself: I'd been with a party whofound a man hanging in the Bush, and it was no place for a woman roundwhere he was. And I'd helped drag two bodies out of the Cudgeegong riverin a flood, and they weren't sleeping beauties. I thought it was a pitythat a chap couldn't lie down on a grassy bank in a graceful position inthe moonlight and die just by thinking of it--and die with his eyesand mouth shut. But then I remembered that I wouldn't make a beautifulcorpse, anyway it went, with the face I had on me.
I was just getting comfortably miserable when I heard a step behind me,and my heart gave a jump. And I gave a start too.
'Oh, is that you, Mr Wilson?' said a timid little voice.
'Yes,' I said. 'Is that you, Mary?'
And she said yes. It was the first time I called her Mary, but she didnot seem to notice it.
'Did I frighten you?' I asked.
'No--yes--just a little,' she said. 'I didn't know there was anyone----' then she stopped.
'Why aren't you dancing?' I asked her.
'Oh, I'm tired,' she said. 'It was too hot in the wool-shed. I thoughtI'd like to come out and get my head cool and be quiet a little while.'
'Yes,' I said, 'it must be hot in the wool-shed.'
She stood looking out over the willows. Presently she said, 'It must bevery dull for you, Mr Wilson--you must feel lonely. Mr Barnes said----'Then she gave a little gasp and stopped--as if she was just going to puther foot in it.
'How beautiful the moonlight looks on the willows!' she said.
'Yes,' I said, 'doesn't it? Supposing we have a stroll by the river.'
'Oh, thank you, Mr Wilson. I'd like it very much.'
I didn't notice it then, but, now I come to think of it, it was abeautiful scene: there was a horseshoe of high blue hills round behindthe house, with the river running round under the slopes, and in frontwas a rounded hill covered with pines, and pine ridges, and a soft bluepeak away over the ridges ever so far in the distance.
I had a handkerchief over the worst of my face, and kept the best sideturned to her. We walked down by the river, and didn't say anything fora good while. I was thinking hard. We came to a white smooth log in aquiet place out of sight of the house.
'Suppose we sit down for a while, Mary,' I said.
'If you like, Mr Wilson,' she said.
There was about a foot of log between us.
'What a beautiful night!' she said.
'Yes,' I said, 'isn't it?'
Presently she said, 'I suppose you know I'm going away next month, MrWilson?'
I felt suddenly empty. 'No,' I said, 'I didn't know that.'
'Yes,' she said, 'I thought you knew. I'm going to try and get into thehospital to be trained for a nurse, and if that doesn't come off I'llget a place as assistant public-school teacher.'
We didn't say anything for a good while.
'I suppose you won't be sorry to go, Miss Brand?' I said.
'I--I don't know,' she said. 'Everybody's been so kind to me here.'
She sat looking straight before her, and I fancied her eyes glistened.I put my arm round her shoulders, but she didn't seem to notice it. Infact, I scarcely noticed it myself at the time.
'So you think you'll be sorry to go away?' I said.
'Yes, Mr Wilson. I suppose I'll fret for a while. It's been my home, youknow.'
I pressed my hand on her shoulder, just a little, so as she couldn'tpretend not to know it was there. But she didn't seem to notice.
'Ah, well,' I said, 'I suppose I'll be on the wallaby again next week.'
'Will you, Mr Wilson?' she said. Her voice seemed very soft.
I slipped my arm round her waist, under her arm. My heart was going likeclockwork now.
Presently she said--
'Don't you think it's time to go back now, Mr Wilson?'
'Oh, there's plenty of time!' I said. I shifted up, and put my armfarther round, and held her closer. She sat straight up, looking rightin front of her, but she began to breathe hard.
'Mary,' I said.
'Yes,' she said.
'Call me Joe,' I said.
'I--I don't like to,' she said. 'I don't think it would be right.'
So I just turned her face round and kissed her. She clung to me andcried.
'What is it, Mary?' I asked.
She only held me tighter and cried.
'What is it, Mary?' I said. 'Ain't you well? Ain't you happy?'
'Yes, Joe,' she said, 'I'm very happy.' Then she said, 'Oh, your poorface! Can't I do anything for it?'
'No,' I said. 'That's all right. My face doesn't hurt me a bit now.'
But she didn't seem right.
'What is it, Mary?' I said. 'Are you tired? You didn't sleep lastnight----' Then I got an inspiration.
'Mary,' I said, 'what were you doing out with the gun this morning?'
And after some coaxing it all came out, a bit hysterical.
'I couldn't sleep--I was frightened. Oh! I had such a terrible dreamabout you, Joe! I thought Romany came back a
nd got into your room andstabbed you with his knife. I got up and dressed, and about daybreakI heard a horse at the gate; then I got the gun down from thewall--and--and Mr Barnes came round the corner and frightened me. He'ssomething like Romany, you know.'
Then I got as much of her as I could into my arms.
And, oh, but wasn't I happy walking home with Mary that night! She wastoo little for me to put my arm round her waist, so I put it roundher shoulder, and that felt just as good. I remember I asked her who'dcleaned up my room and washed my things, but she wouldn't tell.
She wouldn't go back to the dance yet; she said she'd go into her roomand rest a while. There was no one near the old verandah; and when shestood on the end of the floor she was just on a level with my shoulder.
'Mary,' I whispered, 'put your arms round my neck and kiss me.'
She put her arms round my neck, but she didn't kiss me; she only hid herface.
'Kiss me, Mary!' I said.
'I--I don't like to,' she whispered.
'Why not, Mary?'
Then I felt her crying or laughing, or half crying and half laughing.I'm not sure to this day which it was.
'Why won't you kiss me, Mary? Don't you love me?'
'Because,' she said, 'because--because I--I don't--I don't think it'sright for--for a girl to--to kiss a man unless she's going to be hiswife.'
Then it dawned on me! I'd forgot all about proposing.
'Mary,' I said, 'would you marry a chap like me?'
And that was all right.
*****
Next morning Mary cleared out my room and sorted out my things, anddidn't take the slightest notice of the other girls' astonishment.
But she made me promise to speak to old Black, and I did the sameevening. I found him sitting on the log by the fence, having a yarn onthe quiet with an old Bushman; and when the old Bushman got up and wentaway, I sat down.
'Well, Joe,' said Black, 'I see somebody's been spoiling your face forthe dance.' And after a bit he said, 'Well, Joe, what is it? Do you wantanother job? If you do, you'll have to ask Mrs Black, or Bob' (Bob washis eldest son); 'they're managing the station for me now, you know.' Hecould be bitter sometimes in his quiet way.
'No,' I said; 'it's not that, Boss.'
'Well, what is it, Joe?'
'I--well the fact is, I want little Mary.'
He puffed at his pipe for a long time, then I thought he spoke.
'What did you say, Boss?' I said.
'Nothing, Joe,' he said. 'I was going to say a lot, but it wouldn't beany use. My father used to say a lot to me before I was married.'
I waited a good while for him to speak.
'Well, Boss,' I said, 'what about Mary?'
'Oh! I suppose that's all right, Joe,' he said. 'I--I beg your pardon. Igot thinking of the days when I was courting Mrs Black.'