CHAPTER XL
It was early next morning that Cameron's cart with its slowly moving,heavy grey horse drew up before Steve's, and Mrs. Cameron herself gotdown from it.
The Schoolmaster was pacing the long kitchen. He had not been still amoment since Pete M'Coll brought his news. Pete had gone back to theWirree to see if anything more had been heard of Davey, whether he wasto be brought back to the district for trial, or was being held inMelbourne. The story of his arrest had come through on the vessel thatbrought stores to Port Southern, but it was very vague. A rumour hadreached the _Albatross_ an hour or two before she was sailing that ayoung man saying he was David Cameron--Young Davey--Cameron of Ayrmuir'sson, had been arrested for cattle-stealing, and that he and a niggerwere being detained on the charge. Pete had not returned, but theSchoolmaster set about making preparations for a journey. Deirdre hadpacked his tucker bag; his blanket was rolled up to strap on his saddle.
"Which way are you going?" Deirdre asked.
She knew that the schooner would probably be gone before he could reachthe Port, and that it would continue its passage along the coast to Ranebefore turning back and making for Port Phillip. He had thought of allthat too.
"I'll ride," he said.
"What are you going to do," she asked anxiously.
"I don't know!"
Out of the chaos of his thoughts no plan of action had yet formed.
Then Mrs. Cameron came. Deirdre brought her into the kitchen.
"It's Mrs. Cameron, father," she said, and left them.
Farrel turned in the direction of her voice. He made a movement towardsMrs. Cameron, who was standing just within the doorway. His hand wentout with a seeking motion.
"I ... I can't see you," he said, a little querulously.
Her hand met his.
She knew from his face the desperate and troubled state of mind he wasin, and he, hers, from her fluttered breath and the sob that went withit.
"I've come to ask you to keep a promise," she said.
"Yes?"
"You remember the promise?"
For a moment he did not remember any words--any formal undertaking; buthe knew to what she referred.
"You said ... long ago," her voice was scarcely audible, "that if everyou could do anything for me or mine--"
"Yes," he said. "If ever I can do anything, I want to."
She sank into a chair. Her hands flew to her bonnet strings. She untiedthem.
"You know what it is I want you to do?" she asked.
"Yes."
He felt for his chair. It was near the one she had taken. He sat downand turned his face towards her. He could just see a dim outline of heragainst the morning brightness. To him she was a grey figure with aheavy black shadow about her. He strained to meet her eyes again. Thevery magic of them seemed to illumine her face for him, show him itsbeautiful outlines. And yet perhaps, he did not see them at all. It wasall memory and vivid imagining that gave him the illusion. He did notsee her face, thin and lined with pain and loneliness, the patience andvague disappointment that had come to dwell in her eyes.
"I want you to get the boy off for me ... to have this charge removed,"she said, tremulously.
The Schoolmaster knew that this was what he had meant to try to do; butnow that she had asked him, he told himself that it must be done. Themeans employed to lift the burden of blame from Davey's shoulders heknew--would have to be very sure ones. Davey, himself, would not sayanything to implicate Conal or anyone else. Evidently the story of hisdroving for Donald Cameron had not carried much weight.
"Yes," the Schoolmaster said, "I will."
He had no doubt of himself now that she had appealed to him.
"Oh," she cried, after a few moments. "I knew that it was some mischiefto us McNab was planning. I can see it all now. I thought it was you, orConal, he was trying to get at. McNab told Donald that cattle were beingmoonlighted--most of them Ayrmuir breakaways and wild cattle--at theback of our hills. But he did not know that Davey was droving for Conal,not till he asked me this morning, and I told him. I didn't know myselftill a few days ago, when Davey came to me after church. Then he saidhe'd been working with Conal, and I begged him not to any more, and toldhim what his father and McNab were trying to do. He promised to comehome, but he never came. I was afraid to tell his father for fear he'dnever forgive him, and every day I thought Davey'd be coming in thegate. McNab knew, of course. Everybody else in the Wirree seems to haveknown, but us, that Davey was with Conal. It was to bring our pride inthe dust, to make Davey's father the shamed and disgraced man he is, hedid it. But Where's Conal? How is it he's not there with Davey? Why didDavey ever go in for this business? Why are you in it? I thought thatyou would never be doing anything again that would bring you under thelaw."
The distress and reproach in her voice hurt him.
"I thought so too," he said bitterly.
He did not attempt to excuse himself; and the sightless eyes that gazedat her did not accuse.
His mind was back to the subject between them.
"This is the concern of two men, I and another," he said. "Davey was nomore than a hired drover. Besides--"
"Where is Conal?" Mrs. Cameron asked.
"Away."
His tone forbade further inquiry.
There was silence a moment.
"How does Mr. Cameron take it?"
"He's broken altogether."
"Would he"--the Schoolmaster hesitated--"would he consent to say thatDavey was droving for him. There were D.C. cows in the mob."
Mrs. Cameron hesitated.
"I think he would do anything--anything in the world to get the boyoff," she said.
"I don't know that it would do ... whether it would work," theSchoolmaster said a little wearily. "Probably Davey has said that he wasputting the mob through for his father. He said he would if anythinghappened. If inquiries are made, will you tell Mr. Cameron to back upthe story ... it's the only chance. Davey may have been only detaineduntil it could be ascertained whether he is Donald Cameron's son andwhether Cameron authorised him to sell the cattle. It would be asplendid opportunity to spoil McNab's game, if it could be done.... Butif, for some reason I don't know of yet, it can't be worked, there'sanother way."
"You mean you'll say you were responsible. Davey was only a drover withyou," Mrs. Cameron asked.
"Yes."
She uttered a little cry.
"It was what I meant you to do, but I can't bear to think of it," shesaid.
She covered her face with her hands.
The Schoolmaster was thinking deeply too; the iron of despair hadentered his soul.
"What will it mean?" she asked, looking up at him.
"Three years hard labour on the roads of the Colony or other place asthe judge may direct," he quoted, his voice a little uncertain.
"Tell me," she said, rising, a tide of feeling carrying fire to hereyes, dignity to her figure and a subtle timbre to her voice, "would yourather I had not come? Would you rather I had let Davey take hispunishment? I'm not sure that he does not deserve it in spite of whatyou say."
"No!" Farrel cried, passionately.
He grasped her hand. His face fell over it.
"It is the best thing in the world ... for me ... to do something foryou," he said.
Mrs. Cameron caught her breath when for a moment he carried her fingersto his lips.
"You'll look after Deirdre," he said, "if--"
"Yes."
She stood uncertainly looking at him, a pitiful, quivering emotion inher eyes; then she moved away.
"Good-bye," he said, mechanically, hearing the brush of her garments asshe left the room.
"Good-bye," she said.
Deirdre saw that Mrs. Cameron's cheeks were wet with tears when sheclimbed into the buggy again. She did not speak, but drove silentlyaway.
Deirdre had been rubbing Bess's nose and feeding her with handfuls ofgrass. When she went back to the kitchen her father was sitting with hisarms over t
he side of his chair, his head on them. She flew to him; herarms entwined him. But he pushed her away, with unconscious roughness.
"Go away!" he whispered.
An angry pain at his grief, at Mrs. Cameron who in some way had been thecause of it, surged through Deirdre.
Pete M'Coll rode into the yard. He threw his bridle over the hitchingpost.
"Any news?" Deirdre asked.
He shook his head and went into the kitchen.
Later the Schoolmaster called Steve in. She heard Steve's voice raisedcomplainingly, her father's, with settled determination, against it. Herheart was sore. Why was he not telling her his plans as he was tellingSteve?
She heard him arranging to take Pete with him to Melbourne.
"I'm going too, father," she cried, flashing into the kitchen. "Whathave I done that you shouldn't tell me what you are going to do. You'retalking to every one else, and my heart's breaking."
The Schoolmaster drew her into his arms. "You're not coming, dear," hesaid. "You're best out of this. I want you to wait here with Steve tillDavey comes back."
"And you too, father?"
He held her close in his arms.
"Yes, me too, of course, darling."
He crushed her face against his.
"It's great times we've had together, my darling, isn't it?" he asked."I don't like going without you, but it's better. It's great times we'vehad together ... and now I'm an old blind devil that wouldn't be able tolook after you properly in the town. It's not a nice place for a girl tobe going about in, and I'd be no good to look after you--no more than aburden. Pete here'll be my guide and take me by the track round theswamp to Melbourne. He says he couldn't do the short cut across theswamp, but he knows the roundabout track all right. We'll have to bebusy on Davey's account then. You'll be a good wife to Davey, won't you,darling? And happy as the day's long when he gets back. But you do loveme, too, don't you, darling black head? For God's sake say you love me."
His voice broke.
Deirdre flung her arms about him, reckless of all but that some troublewithin had forced that cry. There was a bitter undertone in his wordsthat she did not understand, although she associated them in some waywith Davey's mother and the disturbance and mental turmoil into whichDavey's arrest had put him.
"I love you," she cried, "more than all the world--more than Davey, morethan anyone or anything in it!"
He stooped and kissed her.
"What a jealous brute I am," he murmured, "to have taken that from you."
"There's nothing you haven't told me?" she asked, searching his face.
"No," he replied, turning his face from her and burying it in her hair.
"You haven't told me anything at all of what you're going to do to getDavey off," she said sharply.
"Oh, well," he parried. "I don't know ...I haven't decided ... it willdepend upon circumstances."
He recognised the anxiety of her voice.
"You aren't going to try and get him off by putting yourself in hisplace, are you?" she asked, doubtfully. "You've really been less in thething than he has, and he's young and strong and--"
"Oh no," the Schoolmaster laughed lightly. "I wouldn't try to do that!"
He went out to the stable-yard. When the Kangaroo was saddled, he tookDeirdre in his arms again.
She watched him cantering down the road on the great raking grey,towards the inland plains, Pete M'Coll, on one of Steve's horses, a fewyards behind him. The thought of that cry of his troubled her. Why hadhe said: "For God's sake, say you love me!"
The flood of her love for him rose and filled her, the love of all thoseearly years, when he had been mother, brother and playfellow. Littlepictures of his tenderness, of his gay good-fellowship, of his care,flitted before her. Because for years it had moved so tranquilly, shehad scarcely realised the depth and power of that passionate affection,but now that he had called for it, showed his need of it, as he hadnever done even in the old days, it surged tempestuously.
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