I. A Lonely Track.
The time Mary and I shifted out into the Bush from Gulgong to 'settle onthe land' at Lahey's Creek.
I'd sold the two tip-drays that I used for tank-sinking and dam-making,and I took the traps out in the waggon on top of a small load of rationsand horse-feed that I was taking to a sheep-station out that way. Marydrove out in the spring-cart. You remember we left little Jim withhis aunt in Gulgong till we got settled down. I'd sent James (Mary'sbrother) out the day before, on horseback, with two or three cows andsome heifers and steers and calves we had, and I'd told him to clean upa bit, and make the hut as bright and cheerful as possible before Marycame.
We hadn't much in the way of furniture. There was the four-poster cedarbedstead that I bought before we were married, and Mary was rather proudof it: it had 'turned' posts and joints that bolted together. There wasa plain hardwood table, that Mary called her 'ironing-table', upsidedown on top of the load, with the bedding and blankets between thelegs; there were four of those common black kitchen-chairs--with applespainted on the hard board backs--that we used for the parlour; there wasa cheap batten sofa with arms at the ends and turned rails between theuprights of the arms (we were a little proud of the turned rails); andthere was the camp-oven, and the three-legged pot, and pans and buckets,stuck about the load and hanging under the tail-board of the waggon.
There was the little Wilcox & Gibb's sewing-machine--my present to Marywhen we were married (and what a present, looking back to it!). Therewas a cheap little rocking-chair, and a looking-glass and somepictures that were presents from Mary's friends and sister. She had hermantel-shelf ornaments and crockery and nick-nacks packed away, in thelinen and old clothes, in a big tub made of half a cask, and a boxthat had been Jim's cradle. The live stock was a cat in one box, and inanother an old rooster, and three hens that formed cliques, two againstone, turn about, as three of the same sex will do all over the world. Ihad my old cattle-dog, and of course a pup on the load--I always had apup that I gave away, or sold and didn't get paid for, or had 'touched'(stolen) as soon as it was old enough. James had his three spidery,sneaking, thieving, cold-blooded kangaroo-dogs with him. I was takingout three months' provisions in the way of ration-sugar, tea, flour, andpotatoes, &c.
I started early, and Mary caught up to me at Ryan's Crossing on SandyCreek, where we boiled the billy and had some dinner.
Mary bustled about the camp and admired the scenery and talked too much,for her, and was extra cheerful, and kept her face turned from me asmuch as possible. I soon saw what was the matter. She'd been cryingto herself coming along the road. I thought it was all on account ofleaving little Jim behind for the first time. She told me that shecouldn't make up her mind till the last moment to leave him, and that,a mile or two along the road, she'd have turned back for him, only thatshe knew her sister would laugh at her. She was always terribly anxiousabout the children.
We cheered each other up, and Mary drove with me the rest of the wayto the creek, along the lonely branch track, across native-apple-treeflats. It was a dreary, hopeless track. There was no horizon, nothingbut the rough ashen trunks of the gnarled and stunted trees in alldirections, little or no undergrowth, and the ground, save for thecoarse, brownish tufts of dead grass, as bare as the road, for it wasa dry season: there had been no rain for months, and I wondered what Ishould do with the cattle if there wasn't more grass on the creek.
In this sort of country a stranger might travel for miles withoutseeming to have moved, for all the difference there is in the scenery.The new tracks were 'blazed'--that is, slices of bark cut off from bothsides of trees, within sight of each other, in a line, to mark the trackuntil the horses and wheel-marks made it plain. A smart Bushman, witha sharp tomahawk, can blaze a track as he rides. But a Bushman a littleused to the country soon picks out differences amongst the trees, halfunconsciously as it were, and so finds his way about.
Mary and I didn't talk much along this track--we couldn't have heardeach other very well, anyway, for the 'clock-clock' of the waggon andthe rattle of the cart over the hard lumpy ground. And I suppose weboth began to feel pretty dismal as the shadows lengthened. I'd noticedlately that Mary and I had got out of the habit of talking to eachother--noticed it in a vague sort of way that irritated me (as vaguethings will irritate one) when I thought of it. But then I thought, 'Itwon't last long--I'll make life brighter for her by-and-by.'
As we went along--and the track seemed endless--I got brooding, ofcourse, back into the past. And I feel now, when it's too late, thatMary must have been thinking that way too. I thought of my earlyboyhood, of the hard life of 'grubbin'' and 'milkin'' and 'fencin'' and'ploughin'' and 'ring-barkin'', &c., and all for nothing. The few monthsat the little bark-school, with a teacher who couldn't spell. The cursedambition or craving that tortured my soul as a boy--ambition or cravingfor--I didn't know what for! For something better and brighter, anyhow.And I made the life harder by reading at night.
It all passed before me as I followed on in the waggon, behind Mary inthe spring-cart. I thought of these old things more than I thought ofher. She had tried to help me to better things. And I tried too--I hadthe energy of half-a-dozen men when I saw a road clear before me,but shied at the first check. Then I brooded, or dreamed of making ahome--that one might call a home--for Mary--some day. Ah, well!----
And what was Mary thinking about, along the lonely, changeless miles? Inever thought of that. Of her kind, careless, gentleman father, perhaps.Of her girlhood. Of her homes--not the huts and camps she lived in withme. Of our future?--she used to plan a lot, and talk a good deal of ourfuture--but not lately. These things didn't strike me at the time--I wasso deep in my own brooding. Did she think now--did she begin to feelnow that she had made a great mistake and thrown away her life, but mustmake the best of it? This might have roused me, had I thought of it. Butwhenever I thought Mary was getting indifferent towards me, I'd think,'I'll soon win her back. We'll be sweethearts again--when thingsbrighten up a bit.'
It's an awful thing to me, now I look back to it, to think how far apartwe had grown, what strangers we were to each other. It seems, now, asthough we had been sweethearts long years before, and had parted, andhad never really met since.
The sun was going down when Mary called out--
'There's our place, Joe!'
She hadn't seen it before, and somehow it came new and with a shock tome, who had been out here several times. Ahead, through the trees tothe right, was a dark green clump of the oaks standing out of the creek,darker for the dead grey grass and blue-grey bush on the barren ridge inthe background. Across the creek (it was only a deep, narrow gutter--awater-course with a chain of water-holes after rain), across on theother bank, stood the hut, on a narrow flat between the spur and thecreek, and a little higher than this side. The land was much better thanon our old selection, and there was good soil along the creek on bothsides: I expected a rush of selectors out here soon. A few acres roundthe hut was cleared and fenced in by a light two-rail fence of timbersplit from logs and saplings. The man who took up this selection left itbecause his wife died here.
It was a small oblong hut built of split slabs, and he had roofed itwith shingles which he split in spare times. There was no verandah, butI built one later on. At the end of the house was a big slab-and-barkshed, bigger than the hut itself, with a kitchen, a skillion for tools,harness, and horse-feed, and a spare bedroom partitioned off with sheetsof bark and old chaff-bags. The house itself was floored roughly, withcracks between the boards; there were cracks between the slabs allround--though he'd nailed strips of tin, from old kerosene-tins, oversome of them; the partitioned-off bedroom was lined with old chaff-bagswith newspapers pasted over them for wall-paper. There was no ceiling,calico or otherwise, and we could see the round pine rafters andbattens, and the under ends of the shingles. But ceilings make a hut hotand harbour insects and reptiles--snakes sometimes. There was onesmall glass window in the 'dining-room' with three panes and a sheetof greased paper
, and the rest were rough wooden shutters. There was apretty good cow-yard and calf-pen, and--that was about all. There wasno dam or tank (I made one later on); there was a water-cask, with thehoops falling off and the staves gaping, at the corner of the house, andspouting, made of lengths of bent tin, ran round under the eaves. Waterfrom a new shingle roof is wine-red for a year or two, and water froma stringy-bark roof is like tan-water for years. In dry weather theselector had got his house water from a cask sunk in the gravel atthe bottom of the deepest water-hole in the creek. And the longer thedrought lasted, the farther he had to go down the creek for his water,with a cask on a cart, and take his cows to drink, if he had any. Four,five, six, or seven miles--even ten miles to water is nothing in someplaces.
James hadn't found himself called upon to do more than milk old 'Spot'(the grandmother cow of our mob), pen the calf at night, make a firein the kitchen, and sweep out the house with a bough. He helped meunharness and water and feed the horses, and then started to get thefurniture off the waggon and into the house. James wasn't lazy--solong as one thing didn't last too long; but he was too uncomfortablypractical and matter-of-fact for me. Mary and I had some tea in thekitchen. The kitchen was permanently furnished with a table of splitslabs, adzed smooth on top, and supported by four stakes driven into theground, a three-legged stool and a block of wood, and two longstools made of half-round slabs (sapling trunks split in halves) withauger-holes bored in the round side and sticks stuck into them for legs.The floor was of clay; the chimney of slabs and tin; the fireplacewas about eight feet wide, lined with clay, and with a blackened poleacross, with sooty chains and wire hooks on it for the pots.
Mary didn't seem able to eat. She sat on the three-legged stool near thefire, though it was warm weather, and kept her face turned from me.Mary was still pretty, but not the little dumpling she had been: she wasthinner now. She had big dark hazel eyes that shone a little too muchwhen she was pleased or excited. I thought at times that there wassomething very German about her expression; also something aristocraticabout the turn of her nose, which nipped in at the nostrils when shespoke. There was nothing aristocratic about me. Mary was German infigure and walk. I used sometimes to call her 'Little Duchy' and 'PigeonToes'. She had a will of her own, as shown sometimes by the obstinateknit in her forehead between the eyes.
Mary sat still by the fire, and presently I saw her chin tremble.
'What is it, Mary?'
She turned her face farther from me. I felt tired, disappointed, andirritated--suffering from a reaction.
'Now, what is it, Mary?' I asked; 'I'm sick of this sort of thing.Haven't you got everything you wanted? You've had your own way. What'sthe matter with you now?'
'You know very well, Joe.'
'But I DON'T know,' I said. I knew too well.
She said nothing.
'Look here, Mary,' I said, putting my hand on her shoulder, 'don't go onlike that; tell me what's the matter?'
'It's only this,' she said suddenly, 'I can't stand this life here; itwill kill me!'
I had a pannikin of tea in my hand, and I banged it down on the table.
'This is more than a man can stand!' I shouted. 'You know very well thatit was you that dragged me out here. You run me on to this! Why weren'tyou content to stay in Gulgong?'
'And what sort of a place was Gulgong, Joe?' asked Mary quietly.
(I thought even then in a flash what sort of a place Gulgong was. Awretched remnant of a town on an abandoned goldfield. One street, eachside of the dusty main road; three or four one-storey square brickcottages with hip roofs of galvanised iron that glared in the heat--fourrooms and a passage--the police-station, bank-manager and schoolmaster'scottages, &c. Half-a-dozen tumble-down weather-board shanties--the threepubs., the two stores, and the post-office. The town tailing off intoweather-board boxes with tin tops, and old bark huts--relics of thedigging days--propped up by many rotting poles. The men, when at home,mostly asleep or droning over their pipes or hanging about the verandahposts of the pubs., saying, ''Ullo, Bill!' or ''Ullo, Jim!'--orsometimes drunk. The women, mostly hags, who blackened each other's andgirls' characters with their tongues, and criticised the aristocracy'swashing hung out on the line: 'And the colour of the clothes! Does thatwoman wash her clothes at all? or only soak 'em and hang 'em out?'--thatwas Gulgong.)
'Well, why didn't you come to Sydney, as I wanted you to?' I asked Mary.
'You know very well, Joe,' said Mary quietly.
(I knew very well, but the knowledge only maddened me. I had had an ideaof getting a billet in one of the big wool-stores--I was a fair woolexpert--but Mary was afraid of the drink. I could keep well away from itso long as I worked hard in the Bush. I had gone to Sydney twice sinceI met Mary, once before we were married, and she forgave me when I cameback; and once afterwards. I got a billet there then, and was going tosend for her in a month. After eight weeks she raised the money somehowand came to Sydney and brought me home. I got pretty low down thattime.)
'But, Mary,' I said, 'it would have been different this time. You wouldhave been with me. I can take a glass now or leave it alone.'
'As long as you take a glass there is danger,' she said.
'Well, what did you want to advise me to come out here for, if you can'tstand it? Why didn't you stay where you were?' I asked.
'Well,' she said, 'why weren't you more decided?'
I'd sat down, but I jumped to my feet then.
'Good God!' I shouted, 'this is more than any man can stand. I'll chuckit all up! I'm damned well sick and tired of the whole thing.'
'So am I, Joe,' said Mary wearily.
We quarrelled badly then--that first hour in our new home. I know nowwhose fault it was.
I got my hat and went out and started to walk down the creek. I didn'tfeel bitter against Mary--I had spoken too cruelly to her to feel thatway. Looking back, I could see plainly that if I had taken her adviceall through, instead of now and again, things would have been all rightwith me. I had come away and left her crying in the hut, and Jamestelling her, in a brotherly way, that it was all her fault. The troublewas that I never liked to 'give in' or go half-way to make it up--nothalf-way--it was all the way or nothing with our natures.
'If I don't make a stand now,' I'd say, 'I'll never be master. I gave upthe reins when I got married, and I'll have to get them back again.'
What women some men are! But the time came, and not many years after,when I stood by the bed where Mary lay, white and still; and, amongstother things, I kept saying, 'I'll give in, Mary--I'll give in,' andthen I'd laugh. They thought that I was raving mad, and took me from theroom. But that time was to come.
As I walked down the creek track in the moonlight the question rang inmy ears again, as it had done when I first caught sight of the housethat evening--
'Why did I bring her here?'
I was not fit to 'go on the land'. The place was only fit for somestolid German, or Scotsman, or even Englishman and his wife, who had noambition but to bullock and make a farm of the place. I had only driftedhere through carelessness, brooding, and discontent.
I walked on and on till I was more than half-way to the onlyneighbours--a wretched selector's family, about four miles down thecreek,--and I thought I'd go on to the house and see if they had anyfresh meat.
A mile or two farther I saw the loom of the bark hut they lived in, ona patchy clearing in the scrub, and heard the voice of the selector'swife--I had seen her several times: she was a gaunt, haggard Bushwoman,and, I supposed, the reason why she hadn't gone mad through hardshipand loneliness was that she hadn't either the brains or the memory to gofarther than she could see through the trunks of the 'apple-trees'.
'You, An-nay!' (Annie.)
'Ye-es' (from somewhere in the gloom).
'Didn't I tell yer to water them geraniums!'
'Well, didn't I?'
'Don't tell lies or I'll break yer young back!'
'I did, I tell yer--the water won't soak inter the ashes.'
> Geraniums were the only flowers I saw grow in the drought out there.I remembered this woman had a few dirty grey-green leaves behind somesticks against the bark wall near the door; and in spite of the sticksthe fowls used to get in and scratch beds under the geraniums, andscratch dust over them, and ashes were thrown there--with an idea ofhelping the flower, I suppose; and greasy dish-water, when fresh waterwas scarce--till you might as well try to water a dish of fat.
Then the woman's voice again--
'You, Tom-may!' (Tommy.)
Silence, save for an echo on the ridge.
'Y-o-u, T-o-m-MAY!'
'Ye-e-s!' shrill shriek from across the creek.
'Didn't I tell you to ride up to them new people and see if they wantany meat or any think?' in one long screech.
'Well--I karnt find the horse.'
'Well-find-it-first-think-in-the-morning and.And-don't-forgit-to-tell-Mrs-Wi'son-that-mother'll-be-up-as-soon-as-she-can.'
I didn't feel like going to the woman's house that night. I felt--andthe thought came like a whip-stroke on my heart--that this was what Marywould come to if I left her here.
I turned and started to walk home, fast. I'd made up my mind. I'd takeMary straight back to Gulgong in the morning--I forgot about the load Ihad to take to the sheep station. I'd say, 'Look here, Girlie' (that'swhat I used to call her), 'we'll leave this wretched life; we'll leavethe Bush for ever! We'll go to Sydney, and I'll be a man! and work myway up.' And I'd sell waggon, horses, and all, and go.
When I got to the hut it was lighted up. Mary had the only kerosenelamp, a slush lamp, and two tallow candles going. She had got both roomswashed out--to James's disgust, for he had to move the furniture andboxes about. She had a lot of things unpacked on the table; she hadlaid clean newspapers on the mantel-shelf--a slab on two pegs over thefireplace--and put the little wooden clock in the centre and some ofthe ornaments on each side, and was tacking a strip of vandyked Americanoil-cloth round the rough edge of the slab.
'How does that look, Joe? We'll soon get things ship-shape.'
I kissed her, but she had her mouth full of tacks. I went out in thekitchen, drank a pint of cold tea, and sat down.
Somehow I didn't feel satisfied with the way things had gone.