But these minutes mounted up by fives and then by tens. And the verandah was now filled to blindness and suffocation by the sunken sun. And there sat Moya Bethune, the admired of all the most admirable admirers elsewhere, baking and blinking in solitary martyrdom, while, with a grim and wilful obstinacy, she stoically waited the pleasure of a back-block overseer who preferred a disreputable tramp’s society to hers!
The little fool in her was uppermost once more. There was perhaps some provocation now. Yet a little fool it indubitably was. She thought of freckles. Let them come. They would be his fault. Not that he would care.
Care!
And her short lip lifted in a peculiar smile; it was the war-smile of the Bethunes, and not beautiful in itself, but Moya it touched with such a piquant bitter-sweetness that some of her swains would anger her for that very look. Her teeth were white as the wing of the sulphur-crested cockatoo, and that look showed them as no other. Then there was the glitter it put into her eyes: they were often lovelier, but never quite so fine. And a sweet storm-light turned her skin from pale rose to glowing ivory, and the short lip would tremble one moment to set more unmercifully the next. Even so that those who loved and admired the milder Moya, feared and adored her thus.
But this Moya was seldom seen in Toorak, or, for that matter, anywhere else; and, of course, it was never to show itself any more, least of all at Eureka Station. Yet it did so this first, this very afternoon, though not all at once.
For the next thing that happened she took better than all that had gone before, though those were negative offences, and this was a positive affront.
It was when at last the store door opened, and Rigden went over to the kitchen for something steaming in a pannikin, and then to his room for something else. He passed once under Moya’s nose, and once close beside her chair, but on each occasion without a look or a word.
“Something is worrying him,” she thought. “Poor fellow!”
And for a space her heart softened. But it was no space to speak of; intensified curiosity cut it very short.
“Who can the horrid man be?”
The question paved the way to a new grievance and a new resolve.
“He ought to have told me. But he shall!”
Meanwhile the dividing door was once more shut; and now the better part of an hour had passed; and the only woman on the station (she might remain the only woman) had carried tea through the verandah and advised Moya to go indoors and begin. Moya declined. But no one ever sat in the sun up there. Moya said nothing; but at length gave so short an answer to so natural a question that Mrs. Duncan retreated with a very natural impression, false for the moment, but not for so many moments more.
For presently through the handful of pines, red-stemmed and resinous in the sunset, there came the jingle of bit and stirrup, to interrupt the unworthiest thoughts in which the insulted lady had yet indulged. She was thinking of much that she had missed in town by coming up-country in the height of the season; she was wishing herself back in Toorak. There she was somebody; in Toorak, in Melbourne, they would not dare to treat her thus.
Her fate was full of irony. There she could have had anybody, and, rightly or wrongly, she was aware of the fact. No other girl down there — or in Melbourne, for that matter — was at once a society belle, a general favourite, and a Bethune. The latter titles smacked indeed of the contradiction in terms, but their equal truth merely emphasised the altogether exceptional character of our heroine. That she was herself aware of it was not her fault. She had heard so much of her qualities for so many years. But all her life it had been impressed upon her mind that the Bethunes, as a family, were in a class by themselves in the southern hemisphere. In moments of chagrin, therefore, it was only natural that Moya should aggravate matters by remembering that she also was a Bethune.
A Bethune engaged to a bushman who dared to treat her thus!
Such was the pith and point of these discreditable reflections when the jingle of approaching horse put a sudden end to them. Moya looked up, expecting to see her brother, and instinctively donning a mask. She forgot it was in the buggy that Theodore had been got out of the way, and it was with sheer relief that her eyes lit upon a sergeant and a trooper of the New South Wales mounted police, with fluttering puggarees and twinkling accoutrements, and a black fellow riding bareback in the rear.
They reined up in front of the verandah.
“We want to see Mr. Rigden,” said the sergeant, touching the shiny peak of his cap.
“Oh, indeed!”
“Is he about?”
Moya would not say, and pretended she could not. The sudden apparition of the police had filled her with apprehensions as wild as they were vague. The trooper had turned in his saddle to speak to the blackfellow, and Moya saw the great Government revolver at his hip. Even as she hesitated, however, the store door opened, and Rigden locked it behind him before sallying forth alone.
“Yes, here he is!” exclaimed Moya, and sat like a statue in her chair. Yet the pose of the statue was not wholly suggestive of cold indifference and utter unconcern.
“Glad to find you in, Mr. Rigden,” said the sergeant. “We’re having a little bit of sport, for once in a way.”
“I congratulate you. What sort?” said Rigden.
“A man-hunt!”
And there were volumes of past boredom and of present zest in the sergeant’s tone.
“That so?” said Rigden. “And who’s the man?”
The sergeant glanced at the young lady. Rigden did the same. Their wishes with respect to her were only too obvious. Moya took the fiercer joy in disregarding them.
“I’d like to have a word with you in the store,” said the sergeant.
“No, no!” said Rigden hastily. “Sergeant Harkness — Miss Bethune.”
It was a cold little bow, despite this triumph.
“Miss Bethune will be interested,” added Rigden grimly. “And she won’t give anything away.”
“Thank you,” said Moya. And her tone made him stare.
Harkness touched his horse with the spurs, and rode up close to the verandah, on which Rigden himself now stood.
“Fact is,” said he, “it oughtn’t to get about among your men, or it’s a guinea to a gooseberry they’ll go harbouring him. But it’s a joker who escaped from Darlinghurst a few days ago. And we’ve tracked him to your boundary — through your horse-paddock — to your home-paddock gate!”
Rigden glanced at Moya. Her eyes were on him. He knew it before he looked.
“Seen anything of him?” asked the sergeant inevitably.
“Not to my knowledge. What’s he like?”
“Oldish. Stubby beard. Cropped head, of course. Grey as a coot.”
“Height 5 ft. 11 in.,” supplemented the trooper, reading from a paper; “‘hair iron-grey, brown eyes, large thin nose, sallow complexion, very fierce-looking, slight build, but is a well-made man.’”
A dead silence followed; then Rigden spoke. Moya’s eyes were still upon him, burning him, but he spoke without tremor, and with no more hesitation than was natural in the circumstances.
“No,” he said, “I have seen no such man. No such man has been to me!”
“I was afraid of it,” said Harkness. “Yet we tracked him to the boundary, every yard, and we got on his tracks again just now near the home-paddock gate. I bet he’s camping somewhere within a couple of miles; we must have another look while it’s light. Beastly lot of sand you have from the home-paddock gate right up to the house!”
“We’re built upon a sandhill, you see,” said Rigden, with a wry look into the heavy yellow yard: “one track’s pretty much like another in here, eh, Billy?”
The black tracker shook a woolly pate.
“Too muchee damn allasame,” said he. “Try again longa gate.”
“Yes,” said the sergeant, “and we’ll bring him here for the night when we catch him. You could lend us your travellers’ hut, I suppose?”
“Oh, yes.
”
“So long then, Mr. Rigden. Don’t be surprised if you see us back to supper. I feel pretty warm.”
And the sergeant used his spurs again, only to reign up suddenly and swing round in his saddle.
“Been about the place most of the afternoon?” he shouted.
“All the afternoon,” replied Rigden; “between the store and this verandah.”
“And you’ve had no travellers at all?”
“Not one.”
“Well, never mind,” cried the sergeant. “You shall have four for the night.”
And the puggarees fluttered, and the stirrup irons jingled, out of sight and earshot, through the dark still pines, and so into a blood-red sunset.
III
INSULT
Rigden remained a minute at least (Moya knew it was five) gazing through the black trees into the red light beyond. That was so characteristic of him and his behaviour! Moya caught up the Australasian (at hand but untouched all this time) and pretended she could see to read. The rustle brought Rigden to the right about at last. Moya was deep in illegible advertisements. But the red light reached to her face.
Rigden came slowly to her side. She took no notice of him. His chair was as he had pushed it back an age ago; he drew it nearer than before, and sat down. Nor was this the end of his effrontery.
“Don’t touch my hand, please!”
She would not even look at him. In a flash his face was slashed with lines, so deep you might have looked for them to fill with blood. There was plenty of blood beneath the skin. But he obeyed her promptly.
“I am sorry you were present just now,” he remarked, as though nothing very tragical had happened. There was none the less an underlying note of tragedy which Moya entirely misconstrued.
“So am I,” said she; and her voice nipped like a black frost.
“I wanted you to go, you know!” he reminded her.
“Do you really think it necessary to tell me that?”
All this time she was back in her now invisible advertisements. And her tone was becoming more and more worthy of a Bethune.
“I naturally didn’t want you to hear me tell a lie,” explained Rigden, with inconsistent honesty.
“On the contrary, I’m very glad to have heard it,” rejoined Moya. “It’s instructive, to say the least.”
“It was necessary,” said Rigden quietly.
“No doubt!”
“A lie sometimes is,” he continued calmly. “You will probably agree with me there.”
“Thank you,” said Moya promptly; but no insinuation had been intended, no apology was offered, and Rigden proceeded as though no interruption had occurred.
“I am not good at them as a general rule,” he confessed. “But just now I was determined to do my best. I suppose you would call it my worst!”
Moya elected not to call it anything.
“That poor fellow in the store — —”
“I really don’t care to know anything about him.”
“ — I simply couldn’t do it,” concluded Rigden expressively.
“Is he the man they want or not?”
The question came in one breath with the interruption, but with a change of tone so unguardedly complete that Rigden smiled openly. There was no answering smile from Moya. Her sense of humour, that saving grace of the Bethunes as a family, had deserted her as utterly as other graces of which she had more or less of a monopoly.
“Of course he’s the man,” said Rigden at once; but again there was the deeper trouble in his tone, the intrinsic trouble which mere results could not aggravate.
And this time Moya’s perceptions were more acute. But by now pride had the upper hand of her. There was some extraordinary and mysterious reason for Rigden’s conduct from beginning to end of this incident, or rather from the beginning to this present point, which was obviously not the end at all. Moya would have given almost anything to know what that reason was; the one thing that she would not give was the inch involved in asking the question in so many words. And Rigden in his innocence appreciated her delicacy in not asking.
“I can’t explain,” he began in rueful apology, and would have gone on to entreat her to trust him for once. But for some reason the words jammed. And meanwhile there was an opening which no Bethune could resist.
“Have I asked you for an explanation?”
“No. You’ve been awfully good about that. You’re pretty rough on a fellow, all the same!”
“I don’t think I am at all.”
“Oh, yes, you are, Moya!”
For her tongue was beginning to hit him hard.
“You needn’t raise your voice, Pelham, just because there’s some one coming.”
It was only the Eureka jackeroo (or “Colonial experiencer”), who had the hardest work on the station, and did it “for his tucker,” but so badly as to justify Rigden in his bargain. It may here be mentioned that the manager’s full name was Pelham Stanislaus Rigden; it was, however, a subconscious peculiarity of this couple never to address each other by a mere Christian name. Either they confined themselves to the personal pronoun, or they made use of expressions which may well be left upon their lovers’ lips. But though scarcely aware of the habitual breach, they were mutually alive to the rare observance, which was perhaps the first thing to make Rigden realise the breadth and depth of his offence. It was with difficulty he could hold his tongue until the jackeroo had turned his horse adrift and betaken himself to the bachelors’ hut euphemistically yclept “the barracks.”
“What have I done,” cried Rigden, in low tones, “besides lying as you heard? That I shall suffer for, to a pretty dead certainty. What else have I done?”
“Oh, nothing,” said Moya impatiently, as though the subject bored her. In reality she was wondering and wondering why he should have run the very smallest risk for the sake of a runaway prisoner whom he had certainly pretended never to have seen before.
“But I can see there’s something else,” persisted Rigden. “What on earth is it, darling? After all I did not lie to you!”
“No,” cried Moya, downright at last; “you only left me for two mortal hours alone on this verandah!”
Rigden sprang to his feet.
“Good heavens!” he cried; and little dreamed that he was doubling his enormity.
“So you were unaware of it, were you?”
“Quite!” he vowed naïvely.
“You had forgotten my existence, in fact? Your candour is too charming!”
His candour had already come home to Rigden, and he bitterly deplored it, but there was no retreat from the transparent truth. He therefore braced himself to stand or fall by what he had said, but meanwhile to defend it to the best of his ability.
“You don’t know what an interview I had in yonder,” he said, jerking a hand towards the store. “And the worst of it is that I can never tell you.”
“Ah!”
“God forgive me for forgetting or neglecting you for a single instant!” Rigden exclaimed. “I can only assure you that when I left you I didn’t mean to be gone five minutes. You will realise that what I eventually undertook to do for this wretched man made all the difference. It did put you out of my head for the moment; but you speak as though it were going to put you out of my life for all time!”
“For the sake of a man you pretended never to have seen before,” murmured Moya, deftly assuming what she burned to know.
“It was no pretence. I didn’t recognise him.”
“But you do now,” pronounced Moya, as one stating a perceptible fact.
“Yes,” said Rigden, “I recognise him — now.”
There was a pause. Moya broke it softly, a suspicion of sympathy in her voice.
“I am afraid he must have some hold over you.”
“He has indeed,” said Rigden bitterly; and next moment his heart was leaping, as a flame leaps before the last.
She who loved him was back at his side, she who had flouted him was no more. Her hot
hands held both of his. Her quick breath beat upon his face. It was now nearly dark in the verandah, but there was just light enough for him to see the tears shining in her splendid eyes. Rigden was infinitely touched and troubled, but not by this alone. It was her voice that ran into his soul. She was imploring him to tell her all; there must be no secrets between them; let him but tell her the worst and she would stand by him, against all the world if need be, and no matter how bad the worst might be. She was no child. There was nothing he could not tell her, nothing she could not understand and forgive, except his silence. Silence and secrecy were the one unpardonable sin in her eyes. She would even help him to conceal that dreadful man, no matter what the underlying reason might be, or how much she might disagree with it, if only the reason were explained to her once and for all.
It was the one thing that Rigden would not explain.
He entreated her to trust him. His voice broke and the words failed him. But on the crucial point he was firm. And so was she.
“You said you were unreasonable and exacting,” he groaned. “I didn’t believe it. Now I see that it is true.”
“But this is neither one nor the other,” cried Moya. “Goodness! If I were never to exact more than your confidence! It’s my right. If you refuse — —”
“I do refuse it, in this instance, Moya.”
“Then here’s your ring!”
There was a wrench, a glitter, and something fell hot into his palm.
“I only hope you will think better of this,” he said.
“Never!”
“I own that in many ways I have been quite in the wrong — —”
“In every way!”
“There you are unreasonable again. I can’t help it. I am doing what I honestly believe — —”
His voice died away, for a whip was cracking in the darkness, with the muffled beat of unshod hoofs in the heavy sand. They sat together without a word, each waiting for the other to rise first; and thus Theodore found them, though Moya’s dress was all he could descry at first.
“That you, Moya? Well, what price the bush? I’ve been shooting turkeys; they call it sport; but give me crows to-morrow! What, you there too, Rigden? Rum coincidence! Sorry I didn’t see you sooner, old chap; but I’m not going to retract about the turkeys.”
Complete Works of E W Hornung Page 170