Under Two Skies

by E. W. Hornung

  “You’re saving my life,” said he gaily. “I should have starved. I didn’t think it at the time, but now I know I should. I thought I could hold out, between belt and ’baccy; but I couldn’t now, anyhow. If I hold out till the damper’s baked, it’s all I can do now. It’s like my luck! I never saw anything look quite so good before. There now, bake up. Got any tea?”

  “Yes.”

  “Meat?”

  “No.”

  “Well, we could have done with meat, but it can’t be helped. I’m lucky enough to get anything. It’s my luck all over. I’m the luckiest man in this Colony, let me tell you. But we could have done with chops. Gad, but I’d have some yet, if I saw a sheep! They’re all wethers in this paddock, but they don’t draw down towards the gate much.”

  He turned his head, and knitted his brows, but it was difficult to distinguish things beyond the immediate circle of firelit sand, and he saw no sheep. To be sure, he would not have touched one; he had said what he did not mean; but something in his way of saying it made the old man stare at him hard.

  “Then you’re one of the gentlemen from Dandong Station, sir?”

  “I am,” said Deverell. “My horse is fresh off the grass, and a bit green. He’s knocked up, but he’ll be all right in the morning; the crab-holes are full of water, and there’s plenty of feed about. Indeed, it’s the best season we’ve had for years—my luck again, you see!”

  The tramp did not seem to hear all he said. He had turned his back, and was kneeling over the fire, deeply engrossed with the water-bag and the quart-pot, which he was filling. It was with much apparent preoccupation that he asked:

  “Is Mr. Deverell the boss there now?”

  “He is.” Deverell spoke drily, and thought a minute. After all, there was no object in talking about himself in the third person to a man who would come applying to him for work the next day. Realising this, he added, with a touch of dignity, “I’m he.”

  The tramp’s arm jerked, a small fountain played out of the bottle neck of the water-bag and fell with a hiss upon the fire. The tramp still knelt with his back to Deverell. The blood had left his face, his eyes were raised to the pale, bright stars, his lips moved. By a great effort he knelt as he had been kneeling before Deverell spoke; until Deverell spoke again.

  “You were on your way to see me, eh?”

  “I was on my way to Dandong.”

  “Wanting work? Well, you shall have it,” said Deverell, with decision. “I don’t want hands, but I’ll take you on; you’ve saved my life, my good fellow; or you’re going to, in a brace of shakes! How goes the damper?”

  “Well,” said the old man, answering Deverell’s last question shortly, but ignoring his first altogether. “Shall I sweeten the tea or not?”

  “Sweeten it.”

  The old man got ready a handful of tea and another of sugar to throw into the quart-pot the moment the water boiled. He had not yet turned round. Still kneeling, with the soles of his boots under Deverell’s nose, he moved the damper from time to time, and made the tea. His hands shook.

  Deverell made himself remarkably happy during the next half-hour. He ate the hot damper, he drank the strong tea, in a way that indicated unbounded confidence in his digestive powers. A dyspeptic must have wept for envy. Towards the end of the meal Deverell discovered that the swagman, who sat remote from the fire, and seemed to be regarding him with extreme interest, had scarcely broken his bread.

  “Aren’t you hungry?” asked Deverell, with his mouth full.

  “No.”

  But Deverell was, and that, after all, was the main thing. If the old man had no appetite, there was no earthly reason for him to eat; his abstinence could not hurt him under the circumstances, and naturally it did not worry Deverell. If, on the other hand, the old man preferred to feed off Deverell—with his eyes—why, there was no accounting for preferences, and that did not worry Deverell either. Indeed, by the time his pipe was once more in blast, he felt most kindly disposed towards this taciturn tramp. He would give him a billet. He would take him on as a rabbiter, and rig him out with a tent, camp fixings, traps, and perhaps even a dog or two. He would thus repay in princely fashion to-night’s good turn—but now, confound the thing! He had been sitting the whole evening on the old fool’s blankets, and the old fool had been sitting on the ground!

  “I say! Why on earth don’t you come and sit on your own blankets?” The young man spoke a little roughly; for to catch oneself in a grossly thoughtless act is always irritating.

  “I am all right here, thank you,” returned the swagman mildly. “The sand is as soft as the blankets.”

  “Well, I don’t want to monopolise your blankets, you know,” said Deverell, without moving. “Take a fill from my pouch, will you?”

  He tossed over his pouch of tobacco. The swagman handed it back; he did not smoke; had got out of the way of it, he said. Deverell was disappointed. He had a genuine desire at all times to repay in kind anything resembling a good turn. He could not help being a little selfish; it was constitutional.

  “I’ll tell you what,” said he, leaning backward on one elbow, and again clouding the stars with wreaths of blue smoke, “I’ve got a little berth that ought to suit you down to the ground. It’s rabbiting. Done any rabbiting before? No. Well, it’s easy enough; what’s more, you’re your own boss. Catch as many as you can or care to, bring in the skins, and get sixpence each for ’em. Now the berth I mean is a box-clump, close to a tank, where there’s been a camp before, and the last man did very well there; still you’ll find he has left plenty of rabbits behind him. It’s the very spot for you; and look here, I’ll start you with rations, tent, camp-oven, traps, and all the rest of it!” wound up Deverell generously. He had spoken out of the fulness of his soul and body. He had seldom spoken so decently to a pound-a-week hand—never to a swagman.

  Yet the swagman did not jump at the offer.

  “Mr. Deverell,” said he, rolling the name on his tongue in a curious way, “I was not coming exactly for work. I was coming to see you. I knew your father!”

  “The deuce you did!” said Deverell.

  The old man was watching him keenly. In an instant Deverell had flushed up from his collar to his wideawake. He was manifestly uncomfortable. “Where did you know him?” he asked doggedly.

  The tramp bared his head; the short gray hair stood crisply on end all over it. He tapped his head significantly, and ran the palm of his hand over the strong bristles of his beard.

  “So,” said Deverell, drawing his breath hard. “Now I see; you are a brother convict!”

  The tramp nodded.

  “And you know all about him—the whole story?”

  The tramp nodded again.

  “By God!” cried Deverell, “if you’ve come here to trade on what you know, you’ve chosen the wrong place and the wrong man!”

  The tramp smiled. “I have not come to trade upon what I know,” said he quietly, repeating the other’s expression with simple sarcasm. “Now that I’ve seen you, I can go back the way I came; no need to go on to Dandong now. I came because my old mate asked me to find you out and wish you well from him; that was all.”

  “He went in for life,” said Deverell, reflecting bitterly. “I have the vaguest memories of him; it happened when I was so very young. Is he well?”

  “He was.”

  “And you have been in gaol together! And you know what brought him there, the whole ‘story’!” Curiosity crept into the young man’s tone, and made it less bitter. He filled a pipe. “For my part,” he said sadly, “I never had the rights of that story.”

  “There were no rights,” said the convict. “It was all wrong together. Your father robbed the bank of which he himself was manager. He had lost money in mining speculations. He took to the bush, and fought desperately for his life.”

  “I’m glad he did that!” exclaimed Deverell.

  The other’s eyes kindled, but he only said, “It was what any one would have done in hi
s place.”

  “Is it?” answered Deverell scornfully. “Did you, for instance?”

  The old man shrugged his shoulders. Deverell laughed aloud. His father might have been a villain, but he had not been a coward. That was one consolation.

  A silence fell between the two men. There were no more flames from the fire, but only the glow of red-hot embers. This reddened the face of Deverell, but it did not reach that of the old man. He was thus free to stare at Deverell as hard and as long as he liked, and his eyes never left the young man’s face. It was a sufficiently handsome face, with eyes as dark as those of the old man, only lightened and brightened by an expression altogether different. Deverell’s pipe had soothed him. He seemed as serene now as he had been before he knew that his companion had been also the companion of his father—in prison. After all, he had grown up with the knowledge that his father was a convicted felon; to be reminded of it casually, but also privately, was not to receive a new wound; and the old one was too old to smart severely at a touch. The tramp, staring at him with a fierce yearning in his eyes, which the young man could not see, seemed to divine this, but said:

  “It cannot be pleasant for you to see me. I wouldn’t have come, only I promised to see you; I promised to let him hear about you. It would have been worse, you know, had he got out on ticket-of-leave, and come himself!”

  “It would so!” cried Deverell sincerely.

  In the dark, the old man grinned like one in torment.

  “It would so,” Deverell repeated, unable to repress a grim chuckle. “It would be the most awkward thing that could possibly happen to me—especially if it happened now. At present I call myself the luckiest man in the Colony; but if my poor father were to turn up—”

  Deverell was not interrupted: he stopped himself.

  “You are pretty safe,” said his companion, in a somewhat singular tone—which, however, he quickly changed. “As your father’s mate, I am glad you are so lucky; it is good hearing.”

  Deverell explained how he was so lucky. He felt that the sentiments he had expressed concerning his father’s possible appearance on the scene required some explanation, if not excuse. This feeling, growing upon him as he spoke, led him into explanations that were very full indeed, under the circumstances. He explained the position he had attained as manager of Dandong; and the position he was about to attain through his marriage was quite as clearly (though un-intentionally) indicated. It was made plain to the meanest perception how very awkward it would be for the young man, from every point of view, if the young man’s father did turn up and ostentatiously reveal himself. While Deverell was speaking the swagman broke branches from the nearest pines and made up the fire; when he finished the faces of both were once more illumined; and that of the old man was stern with resolve.

  “And yet,” said he, “suppose the impossible, or at any rate the unlikely: say that he does come back! I know him well; he wouldn’t be a drag or a burden to you. He’d only just like to see you. All he would ask would be to see his son sometimes! That would be enough for him. I was his chum, mind you, so I know. And if he was to come up here, as I have come, you could take him on, couldn’t you, as you offer to take me?” He leant forward with sudden eagerness—his voice vibrated. “You could give him work, as you say you’ll give me, couldn’t you? No one’d know it was your father! No one would ever guess!”

  “No!” said Deverell decidedly. “I’ll give you work, but my father I couldn’t. I don’t do things by halves: I’d treat my father as my father, and damn the odds! He had pluck. I like to think how he was taken fighting! Whatever he did, he had grit, and I should be unworthy of him—no matter what he did—if I played the coward. It would be worse than cowardly to disown your father, whatever he had done, and I wouldn’t disown mine—I’d sooner shoot myself! No, I’d take him in, and be a son to him for the rest of his days, that’s what I’d do—that’s what I will do, if ever he gets out on ticket-of-leave, and comes to me!”

  The young man spoke with a feeling and intensity of which he had exhibited no signs before, leaning forward with his pipe between his fingers. The old man held his breath.

  “But it would be devilish awkward!” exclaimed Deverell frankly. “People would remember what they’ve been good enough to forget; and everybody would know what now next to none know. In this country, thank God, the man is taken for what the man is worth; his father neither helps nor hinders him, when once he’s gone. So I’ve managed to take my own part, and to get on well, thanks to my own luck. Yes, it would be devilish awkward. But I’d stand by him, before Heaven I would!”

  The old man breathed hard.

  “I don’t know how I’ve come to say so much to you, though you did know my father,” added Deverell, with a sudden change of tone. “It isn’t my way at all. I needn’t tell you that from to-morrow forward you’re the same as any other man to me. And if you ever go to see my father, you must not tell him all I have said to you about what, as you say, is never likely to happen. But you may tell him—you may tell him I am glad he was taken fighting!”

  The old man was once more quite calm. “I shall never see your father again. No more will you,” he said slowly and solemnly; “for your father is dead! I promised him to find you out when my time was up, and to tell you. I have taken my own way of breaking the news to you. Forgive me, but I couldn’t resist just seeing, first of all, if it would cut you up very badly!”

  Deverell did not notice the quiet bitterness of the last words. He smoked his pipe out in silence. Then he said: “God rest him! Perhaps it’s for the best. As for you, you’ve a billet at Dandong for the rest of your days, if you like to take and keep it. Let us turn in.”

  The worn moon rose very late, and skimmed behind the pines, but never rose clear of them, and was down before dawn. It shone faintly upon the two men lying side by side, packed up each in a blanket—Deverell in the better one. From the other blanket a hand would steal out from time to time, grope tremulously over Deverell’s back, lie a minute, and then be gently withdrawn. Long before dawn, however, the old man noiselessly arose and rolled up his swag. He packed up everything that he had brought—everything except the better blanket. Over that he smiled, as though it was an intense pleasure to him to leave it behind, lapped round the unconscious form of Deverell. Just before going, when the swag was on his back, he stooped down once and put his face very close to that of Deverell. The worn moon glimmered through the pines upon them both. The faces were strangely alike; only Deverell’s was smiling in his dreams, while the old man’s lips moved tremulously, and he seemed much older than before: for the eager look had gone for ever.

  A few minutes later the gate in the Dandong boundary-fence closed behind the gaol-bird tramp. And Deverell’s father was dead indeed—to Deverell. Lucky for Deverell, of course. But then he was the luckiest man in the whole Colony. Didn’t he say so himself?

  The Notorious Miss Anstruther.

  It is prejudicial to the nicest girl in this unjust world to be asked in marriage too frequently. Things come out, and she gets the name of being a heartless flirt; her own sex add that she cannot be a very nice girl. A flirt she is, of a surety, but why heartless, and why not a nice girl? So grave defects do not follow. The flirt who doesn’t think she is one—the flirt with a set of sham principles and ideals, and a misleading veneer of soul—is heartless, if you like, and something worse. Now the girl who gets herself proposed to regularly once a week in the season is far less contemptible; she is not contemptible at all, for how could she know that you meant so much more than she did? She only knows a little too much to take your word for this.

  A sweetly pretty and highly accomplished young girl, little Miss Anstruther, came to know too much to dream of taking any man’s word on this point. She was reputed to have refused more offers than a good girl ought to get; for what in the very beginning conferred a certain distinction upon her, made her notorious at a regrettably early stage of her career. The finger of feminine disappro
val pointed at her, presently, in an unmistakable way; and this is said—by women—to be a very bad sign. Men may not think so. Intensely particular ladies, in the pride of their complete respectability, tried to impress upon very young men in whom they were interested that Miss Anstruther was not at all a nice girl. But this had a disappointing effect upon the boys. And Miss Anstruther by no means confined herself to rejecting mere boys.

  The moths that singed themselves at this flame were of every variety. They would have made a rare collection under glass, with pins through them; Miss Anstruther herself would have inspected them thus with the liveliest interest. Her detractors also could have enjoyed themselves at such an exhibition; but the more generous spirits among them, those who had been young and attractive too long ago to pretend to be either still, might have found there some slight excuse for Miss Anstruther. Of course, it was no excuse at all, but it was notable that almost every moth had some salient good point—something to “account for it” on her side, to some extent—say a twentieth part of the extent to which she had gone. There was a great deal of assorted merit scattered among those moths. Looks, intellect, a nice voice, an operatic moustache, an aptitude for the in-formal recitation of engaging verses, were a purely random selection from their several strong points; but even these, picked out and fitted together, would have furnished forth a dazzling being: whom Miss Anstruther would have rejected as firmly and as finally as she had already rejected his integral parts.

  For there was no pleasing the girl. Apparently she did not mean to be pleased—in that way. She had neither wishes nor intentions, it became evident, beyond immediate flirtation of the most wilful description. To many honest minds hers seemed actually depraved.

  Her accomplishment was singing. She sang divinely. Also she had plenty of money; but the money alone was not at the bottom of many declarations; her voice was the more infatuating element of the two; and her “way” did more damage than either. She was not, indeed, aware what a way she had with her. It was a way of seeming desperately smitten, and a little unhappy about it; which is quite sufficient to make a man of tender years or acute conscientiousness “speak” on the spot. Thus many a proposal was as unexpected on her part as it was unpremeditated on his. He made a sudden fool of himself—heard some surprisingly sensible things from her frivolous lips—decided, upon reflection and inquiry, that these were her formula—and got over the whole thing in the most masterly fashion. This is where Miss Anstruther was so much more wholesome than the flirt who doesn’t think she flirts: Miss Anstruther never rankled.