“Now go,” she said to Missy, her scream dropping to a whisper, “and come back at your peril.”
Missy got her hat and jacket from the sofa, brushing the wall all the way, and never taking her eyes from that awful, menacing, death-smitten face. Then suddenly she plucked up courage, took one step forward, and stood in profound humility, mutely asking for that forgiveness which she was never to get. A strong hand, young Teesdale’s, had laid hold of her arm from behind and given her strength.
David, too, was putting in a quavering word for her.
“She is going,” said he. “She was going in any case. You are wrong about the money. She has earned it honestly, as a farm servant, like our Mary Jane. Can’t you see how brown her face and hands are? We have all forgiven her, as we hope to be forgiven. Cannot you also forgive her, my dear, and let her go her ways in peace?”
The sick woman wavered, and for a moment the terrible gaze, transfixing Missy, turned, by comparison, almost soft. Then it shifted and fell upon the bearded face of him who was supporting the unhappy girl, and moment, mood and chance were gone, all three, beyond redemption.
“John William,” said his mother, “leave her alone. Do you hear me? Let her go!”
Nothing happened.
“Let her go!” screamed Mrs. Teesdale. “Choose once and for all between us — your dying mother and — that — woman!”
At first nothing; then the man’s hand dropped clear of the girl.
“Now go,” said the woman to the girl.
The girl fled into the gun-room, and so out into the night, only pausing to shut the doors behind her, one after the other. With the shutting of the outer door — it was not slammed — they heard the last of Missy.
“Now follow her,” said the mother to the man.
But the man remained.
CHAPTER XXI.
“FOR THIS CAUSE.”
Now there was nothing but wet grass between the gun-room window and the river-timber; and that way lay the Dandenong Ranges; therefore it was clearly Missy’s way — until she stopped to think.
This was not until she had very nearly walked into the Yarra itself; it was only then that she came to know what she was doing, to consider what she must do next, and to recall coherently the circumstances of her last and final expulsion from the farmhouse of the Teesdales. Already it seemed to have happened hours ago, instead of minutes. The hat and jacket she had snatched up from the sofa were still upon her arm; she put them on now, because suddenly she had turned cold. Another moment and she could not have said on which arm she had carried them, she had carried them so short a time. Yet the deathly face and the deathlier voice of Mrs. Teesdale were as a horror of old standing; there was something so familiar about them; they seemed to have dwelt in her memory so long. But, indeed, her mind was in a mist, through which the remote and the immediate past loomed equally indistinct and far away.
The mist parted suddenly. One face shone through it with a baleful light. It was the dreadful face of Mrs. Teesdale.
“Dying!” exclaimed Missy, eyeing the face judicially in her mind. “Dying? Not she — not now! She may have been dying; but she won’t die now. No, I’ve saved her by dragging her off her deathbed to curse me and turn me out! I’ve heard of folks turning the corner like that. She was right enough, though. You can’t blame her and call her unkind. The others are more to blame for going on being kind to one of my sort. No, she’d better not die now, she’d much better leave that to me.”
Her mind was in a mist. She tried to see ahead. She must live somewhere, and she must do something for her living. But what — but where?
There was one matter about which she had not spoken the truth even now; neither to Arabella, nor to John William, nor to Mr. Teesdale himself. That was the matter of her new home in the Dandenong Ranges, where she said she had been so happy, they didn’t know! It was no home at all. She was particularly wretched there. She had stayed on with one object alone; now that this was accomplished there would be no object at all in going back. She had not intended ever to return, when leaving; but then her intentions had gone no further than the paying back to Mr. Teesdale of the twenty pounds obtained from him once upon a time by fraud. This had been the be-all and end-all of her existence for many months past. It was strange to be without it now; but to go back without it, to that farm in the ranges, would be terrible Yet go somewhere she must; and there was the work which she could do. They would give her that work again, and readily, as before; they would overwork her, bully her, speak hardly to her — but clothe her decently, feed her well, and pay her ten shillings a week, all as before. She must do some work somewhere. Then what and where else?
Her mind was in a mist.
She saw no future for herself at all, or none that would be tolerable now. If she had dreamt once of unanimous forgiveness at the farm — of getting work there, in the kitchen, in the cow-shed — that dream had come to such utter annihilation that even the memory of it entered her head no more. And she wanted no work elsewhere. So why work at all? She had done enough. Rest was all she wanted now. It was the newborn desire of her heart; rest, and nothing more.
And here was the river at her feet; but that thought did not stay or crystallise just yet.
Before it came the thought of Melbourne and the old life, which parted the mind’s mist with a lurid light. That old life need not necessarily be an absolutely wicked one. There were points about that old life, wicked or otherwise. It had warmth, colour, jingle and glare, abundant variety, and superabundant gaiety. But rest? And rest was all she wanted now — all. And the mist gathered again in her mind; but the river still ran at her feet.
The river! How little heed she had taken of it until this moment! She had watched without seeing it, but she noted everything now. Thai the rain must have stopped before her banishment from the house, since her dry clothes were dry still; that overhead there was more clear sky than clouds; that the clouds were racing past a sickle moon, overwhelming it now and then, like white waves and a glistening rock; that the wind was shivering and groaning through the river-timber, and that it had loosened her own hair; that the river itself was strong, full, noisy and turbulent, and so close, so very close to her own feet.
She stooped, she knelt, she reached and touched it with her fingers. The river was certainly very cold and of so full a current that it swept the finger-tips out of the water as soon as they touched it. But this was only in winter-time. In summer it was a very different thing.
In summer-time the river was low and still and warm to the hand; the grass upon the banks was dry and yellow; the bottle-green trees were spotted and alive with the vivid reds, emeralds, and yellows of parrot, parrakeet, and cherry-picker; and the blue sky pressed upon the interlacing branches, not only over one’s head but under one’s feet, if one stood where Missy was standing now and looked where she was looking.
She was imagining all these things, as she had heard and seen and felt them many a time last summer. Last Christmas Day was the one she had especially in mind. It was so very hard to realise that it was the same place. Yet there was no getting over that fact. And Missy was closer than she knew to the spot where she had cast herself upon the ground and shut out sight and hearing until poor John William arrived upon the spot and brought about a little scene which she remembered more vividly than many a more startling one of her own unaided making. Poor Jack, indeed! Since that day he had been daily in her thoughts, and always as poor Jack. Because he had got it into his head that he was in love — and with her — that was why he was to be pitied; or rather, it was why she had pitied him so long, whom she pitied no longer. To-night — now, at any rate, as she stood by the river — of the two she pitied only herself.
To-night she had seen him again; to-night he had carried her in his arms, but spoken no word of love to her; to-night he had stood aside and allowed her to be turned out of the house by his mother who was not dying — not she.
It was as it should be; it was also as s
he had prayed that it might be. He did not care. That was all. She only regretted she had so long tormented herself with the thought that he might, nay, that he did care. She felt the need of that torment now as keenly as though it had been a comfort. Without it, she was lonely and alone, and more than ever in need of rest.
Then, suddenly, she remembered how that very day — last Christmas Day — in the gorgeous summer-time, but in this selfsame spot — the idea had come to her which was with her now. And her soul rose up in arms against herself for what she had not done last Christmas Day.
“If only I had,” she cried, “the trouble would have been over when it seems it was only just beginning. I shouldn’t have disgusted them as I did on purpose that very afternoon. A lot of good it did me! And they would all have forgiven me, when they found out. Even Mrs. Teesdale would have forgiven me then. And Jack — Jack — I shouldn’t have lived to know you never cared.”
She clasped her hands in front of her and looked up steadily at the moon. It was clear of the clouds now — a keen-edged sickle against a slatey sky; and such light as it shed fell full enough upon the thin brown face and fearless eyes of the nameless girl whom, as Missy, two or three simple honest folk had learnt to like so well that they could think of her kindly even when the black worst was known of her. Her lips moved — perhaps in prayer for those two or three — perhaps to crave forgiveness for herself; but they never trembled. Neither did her knees, though suddenly she knelt. And now her eyes were shut; and it seems, or she must have heard him, her ears also. She opened her eyes again, however, to look her last at sky and moon. But her eyes were full of tears. So she shut them tight, and, putting her hands in front of her, swung slowly forward.
It was then that John William stooped forward and caught her firmly by the waist; but, after a single shrill scream, the spirit left her as surely as it must had he never been there.... Only, it came back.
He had taken off his coat. She was lying upon it, while he knelt over her. The narrow moon was like a glory over his head.
“Why did you do it?” she asked him. “You might have let me get to rest when — when you didn’t care!”
“I do care!” he answered; “and I mean you to rest nowall the days of your life — your new life, Missy. I have cared all the time. But now I care more than ever.”
“Your father and ‘Bella—”
“Care as much as I do, pretty nearly, in their own way. Missy, dear, don’t you care, too, — for me?”
She looked at him gratefully through her starting tears. “How can I help it? You picked me up out of the gutter between you; but it was you alone that kept me out of it, after I’d gone; because I sort of felt all the time that you cared. But oh, you must never marry me. I am thinking so of your mother! She will never, never forgive me; I couldn’t expect it; and she is going to get quite better, you know — I feel sure that she is better already.”
He put his hand upon the hair that was only golden in the moonshine: he peered into the wan face with infinite sadness: for here it was that Missy was both right and wrong.
THE END
IRRALIE’S BUSHRANGER
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X
CHAPTER XI
CHAPTER XII
CHAPTER XIII
CHAPTER I
ARMS AND A MAN
“Coooooooo-eeeee!”
The voice was very hoarse and far away. But Irralie had fancied she heard something before. And this time she felt sure enough to stop the horses in their own length, while she herself stood up to peer this way and that across the tufts of salt-bush and the spaces of pure sand.
Yet at first no sign of life intervened between the buggy and the Seven-mile Whim whose black timbers stood out like a gallows against the setting sun. The whim, however, was a league away. Irralie accordingly looked right and left; and on the right a five-wire fence ran east and west into twilit space; but on the left a clump of box-trees grew a couple of hundred paces from the track. Clearly the clump was the place; and, even as she turned her horses, the girl saw a flash and a puff on its outskirts, followed by a sharp report.
Irralie Villiers was used to firearms. A dead Riverina turkey and an empty fowling-piece lay at her feet at the present moment; and the shot from the clump only made her urge her horses the harder in its direction. It was obviously a signal of distress, and a little rough driving showed Irralie who had fired it. A tall, ragged fellow stood with his back to the trees, as still as they; his wide-awake was on the ground in front of him, and the wet hair clung to his white forehead. Also on the ground, in separate heaps, lay a shrunken bay horse and a singularly shabby saddle, bridle, and valise.
The girl drove up with a single word:
“Water?”
“Have you got any?” cried the man, spitting out a leaf as he came forward.
“No; but jump up, and I’ll drive you straight to the tank. Can your horse move?”
“We’ll see.”
And the man knelt over the helpless animal, slipped on the bridle, and coaxed it to its four feet.
“Now tie him on behind,” said Irralie, “and put your saddle and valise under the seat. There’s a tank not a mile from this spot.”
“If only I’d known!”
“You couldn’t. How long have you gone without?”
“Oh, for hours; not that there’s much wrong with me; it was the poor brute knocked up, not I.”
“I should have said you were at death’s door by all that shouting and shooting!”
The man laughed, showing beneath a heavy mustache a row of teeth more than presentable. He had fallen asleep beside his horse, and awoke only just in time. Another moment, and the buggy would have been out of earshot; there was no time to give chase, but only to do as he had done. Certainly he felt queer for want of water; but that was all.
Meanwhile, Irralie was steering her horses across country to the tank, and that as fast as the bay could follow. Leaning back at her side, the man scrutinized his deliverer with a glance bold to insolence. The girl was very young, and tall and slim; yet bodily weakness was as little apparent under the close-fitting sleeves of that period as infirmity of purpose in the alert, good-tempered, sunburnt face. Her hair and eyebrows were absolutely black; the latter, indeed, a little heavy for her sex; but the eyes themselves were the blue, continual havens of a smile no lips could equal, and the girl was written fearless and frank by her mere expression. A hearty voice and a blunt way of speaking were further characteristics, duly noted by the time the tank was reached, and man and beast drinking ravenously side by side.
The former was dressed like a common stockman — with a difference in the stockman’s favor. He wore the orthodox rough shirt and baggy mole-skins; but the humble legging was replaced by a riding - boot of piratical length; and from a pocket of the dilapidated, loose coat there peeped the butt end of the revolver recently discharged. Now, revolvers were not even then in everyday use in the bush; nor were long boots often seen in the stirrups of the common stockman; and the girl felt a puzzled awe in thus encountering so new a type. She was taken, however, with her protégé’s appearance, which was quite romantically devil-may-care; and she chiefly viewed him with a very genuine curiosity as he returned to the buggy, dashing the water from his long mustache.
“Now we can push on for ourselves,” said he. “You have saved us both, and we are grateful. Allow me to relieve you of my saddle and valise.” —
“But may I ask where you are going “Surely; to the station.”
“This station? Arran Downs?”
“Why, yes; but I really can’t think of putting you to any more trouble. I am quite well able to ride—”
“Nonsense!” said Irralie. “Your horse isn’t quite well
able to carry you. What do you ride?”
“Fourteen stone or so.”
“Then tie him on again, and jump up at once.”
It was done with a shrug — and subsequent alacrity.
“Then you belong to this station?” said the man, reseating himself in the failing light. But Irralie preferred to regain the track in safety before replying; and the question was put again.
“Oh, yes! I’m the manager’s daughter. I beg your pardon; now it’s all right, we’re in the straight.”
“You are, then, a Miss Villiers?”
“I am.”
“And you think nothing of driving about alone with a buggy and pair?”
“Nothing in the world. The gates are the only drawback. Do you mind opening this one?”
“Not in the least.”
She waited for him in the farther paddock. “You’re not coming for work, I suppose?”
“Well, I wasn’t.”
“To stay?”
“Yes, if I can be put up.”
“No doubt it can be done. But you’re a parlor man?”
“A parlor man!”
“I mean to say you’re for the house, not for the hut?” said Irralie, judging him by the ear rather than the eye, and not very certain of him yet. “You see, we put up everybody; only the men go to the traveller’s hut, and the — the —— —”
“Exactly! Well, I had thought of the house; still, if you’re full—”
“We are fuller than usual; but of course there’ll be room. And you will be welcome to it. But I wish you would tell me one thing: why on earth do you carry about a loaded revolver?”
In the buggy there was silence. Irralie glanced over her left shoulder, but now there was darkness too.
Complete Works of E W Hornung Page 67