The Penguin Henry Lawson Short Stories

by Henry Lawson

  When Mary lifted her face it was as white as notepaper and her eyes seemed to grow wilder when she caught sight of me.

  ‘Oh, you did frighten me, Mr Barnes,’ she gasped. Then she gave a little ghost of a laugh and stood up, and some colour came back.

  ‘Oh, I’m a little fool!’ she said quickly. ‘I thought I heard old ’Tarnal Death at the chickens, and I thought it would be a great thing if I got the gun and brought him down; so I got up and dressed quietly so as not to wake Sarah. And then you came round the corner and frightened me. I don’t know what you must think of me, Mr Barnes.’

  ‘Never mind,’ said Jack. ‘You go and have a sleep, or you won’t be able to dance to-night. Never mind the gun – I’ll put that away.’ And he steered her round to the door of her room off the brick veranda where she slept with one of the other girls.

  ‘Well, that’s a rum start!’ I said.

  ‘Yes, it is,’ said Jack; ‘it’s very funny. Well, how’s your face this morning, Joe?’

  He seemed a lot more serious than usual.

  We were hard at work all the morning cleaning out the big wool-shed and getting it ready for the dance, hanging hoops for the candles, and making seats, &c. I kept out of sight of the girls as much as I could. One side of my face was a sight, and the other wasn’t too classical. I felt as if I had been stung by a swarm of bees.

  ‘You’re a fresh, sweet-scented beauty now, and no mistake, Joe,’ said Jimmy Nowlett – he was going to play the accordion that night. ‘You ought to fetch the girls now, Joe. But never mind, your face’ll go down in about three weeks.’ My lower jaw is crooked yet; but that fight straightened my nose, that had been knocked crooked when I was a boy – so I didn’t lose much beauty by it.

  When we’d done in the shed, Jack took me aside and said:

  ‘Look here, Joe; if you won’t come to the dance to-night – and I can’t say you’d ornament it – I tell you what you’ll do. You get little Mary away on the quiet and take her out for a stroll – and act like a man. The job’s finished now, and you won’t get another chance like this.’

  ‘But how am I to get her out?’ I said.

  ‘Never you mind. You be mooching round down by the big peppermint-tree near the river-gate, say about half-past ten.’

  ‘What good’ll that do?’

  ‘Never you mind. You just do as you’re told, that’s all you’ve got to do,’ said Jack, and he went home to get dressed and bring his wife.

  After the dancing started that night I had a peep in once or twice. The first time I saw Mary dancing with Jack, and looking serious; and the second time she was dancing with the blarsted jackeroo dude, and looking excited and happy. I noticed that some of the girls, that I could see sitting on a stool along the opposite wall, whispered, and gave Mary black looks as the jackeroo swung her past. It struck me pretty forcibly that I should have taken fighting lessons from him instead of from poor Romany. I went away and walked about four miles down the river road, getting out of the way into the Bush whenever I saw any chap riding along. I thought of poor Romany and wondered where he was, and thought that there wasn’t much to choose between us as far as happiness was concerned. Perhaps he was walking by himself in the Bush, and feeling like I did. I wished I could shake hands with him.

  But somehow, about half-past ten, I drifted back to the river sliprails and leant over them, in the shadow of the peppermint-tree, looking at the rows of river-willows in the moonlight. I didn’t expect anything, in spite of what Jack said.

  I didn’t like the idea of hanging myself: I’d been with a party who found a man hanging in the Bush, and it was no place for a woman round where he was. And I’d helped drag two bodies out of the Cudgegong River in a flood, and they weren’t sleeping beauties. I thought it was a pity that a chap couldn’t lie down on a grassy bank in a graceful position in the moonlight and die just by thinking of it – and die with his eyes and mouth shut. But then I remembered that I wouldn’t make a beautiful corpse, any way it went, with the face I had on me.

  I was just getting comfortably miserable when I heard a step behind me, and my heart gave a jump. And I gave a start, too.

  ‘Oh, is that you, Mr Wilson?’ said a timid little voice.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Is that you, Mary?’

  And she said yes. It was the first time I called her Mary, but she did not seem to notice it.

  ‘Did I frighten you?’ I asked.

  ‘No – yes – just a little,’ she said. ‘I didn’t know there was any one –’ then she stopped.

  ‘Why aren’t you dancing?’ I asked her.

  ‘Oh, I’m tired,’ she said. ‘It was too hot in the wool-shed. I thought I’d like to come out, and get my head cool and be quiet a little while.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘It must be hot in the wool-shed.’

  She stood looking out over the willows. Presently she said: ‘It must be very dull for you, Mr Wilson – you must feel lonely. Mr Barnes said – ’ Then she gave a little gasp and stopped – as if she was just going to put her foot in it.

  ‘How beautiful the moonlight looks on the willows!’ she said.

  ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘doesn’t it? Supposing we have a stroll by the river.’

  ‘Oh, thank you, Mr Wilson. I’d like it very much.’

  I didn’t notice it then, but, now I come to think of it, it was a beautiful scene: there was a horse-shoe of high blue hills round behind the house, with the river running round under the slopes, and in front was a rounded hill covered with pines, and pine ridges, and a soft blue peak away over the ridges ever so far in the distance.

  I had a handkerchief over the worst of my face, and kept the best side turned to her. We walked down by the river, and didn’t say anything for a good while. I was thinking hard. We came to a white smooth log in a quiet place out of sight of the house.

  ‘Suppose we sit down for a while, Mary,’ I said.

  ‘If you like, Mr Wilson,’ she said.

  There was about a foot of log between us.

  ‘What a beautiful night!’ she said.

  ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘isn’t it?’

  Presently she said, ‘I suppose you know I’m going away next month, Mr Wilson?’

  I felt suddenly empty. ‘No,’ I said, ‘I didn’t know that.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I thought you knew. I’m going to try to get into the hospital to be trained for a nurse, and if that doesn’t come off I’ll get a place as assistant public-school teacher.’

  We didn’t say anything for a good while.

  ‘I suppose you won’t be sorry to go, Miss Brand?’ I said.

  ‘I – I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Everybody’s been so kind to me here.’

  She sat looking straight before her, and I fancied her eyes glistened. I put my arm round her shoulders, but she didn’t seem to notice it. In fact, I scarcely noticed it myself at the time.

  ‘So you think you’ll be sorry to go away?’ I said.

  ‘Yes, Mr Wilson. I suppose I’ll fret for a while. It’s been my home, you know.’

  I pressed my hand on her shoulder, just a little, so she couldn’t pretend not to know it was there. But she didn’t seem to notice.

  ‘Ah, well,’ I said. ‘I suppose I’ll be on the wallaby again next week.’

  ‘Will you, Mr Wilson?’ she said. Her voice seemed very soft.

  I slipped my arm round her waist, under her arm. My heart was going like clockwork now.

  Presently she said:

  ‘Don’t you think it’s time to go back now, Mr Wilson?’

  ‘Oh, there’s plenty of time!’ I said. I shifted up, and put my arm further round, and held her closer. She sat straight up, looking right in front of her, but she began to breathe hard.

  ‘Mary,’ I said.

  ‘Yes,’ she said.

  ‘Call me Joe,’ I said.

  ‘I – I don’t like to,’ she said. ‘I don’t think it would be right.’

  So I just turned her face round a
nd kissed her. She clung to me and cried.

  ‘What is it, Mary?’ I said.

  She only held me tighter and cried.

  ‘What is it, Mary?’ I said. ‘Ain’t you well? Ain’t you happy?’

  ‘Yes, Joe,’ she said, ‘I’m very happy.’ Then she said, ‘Oh, your poor face! Can’t I do anything for it?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘That’s all right. My face doesn’t hurt me a bit now.’

  But she didn’t seem right.

  ‘What is it, Mary?’ I said. ‘Are you tired? You didn’t sleep last night –’ Then I got an inspiration.

  ‘Mary,’ I said. ‘what were you doing out with the gun this morning?’

  And after some coaxing it all came out, a bit hysterical.

  ‘I couldn’t sleep – I was frightened. Oh! I had such a terrible dream about you, Joe! I thought Romany came back and got into your room and stabbed you with his knife. I got up and dressed, and about daybreak I heard a horse at the gate; then I got the gun down from the wall – and – and Mr Barnes came round the corner and frightened me. He’s something like Romany, you know.’

  Then I got as much of her as I could into my arms.

  And, oh, but wasn’t I happy walking home with Mary that night! She was too little for me to put my arm round her waist, so I put it round her shoulder, and that felt just as good. I remember I asked her who’d cleaned up my room and washed my things, but she wouldn’t tell.

  She wouldn’t go back to the dance yet; she said she’d go into her room and rest a while. There was no one near the old veranda; and when she stood on the end of the floor she was just on a level with my shoulder.

  ‘Mary,’ I whispered, ‘put your arms round my neck and kiss me.’

  She put her arms round my neck, but she didn’t kiss me; she only hid her face.

  ‘Kiss me, Mary!’ I said.

  ‘I – I don’t like to,’ she whispered.

  ‘Why not, Mary?’

  Then I felt her crying or laughing, or half-crying and half-laughing. I’m not sure to this day which it was.

  ‘Why won’t you kiss me, Mary? Don’t you love me?’

  ‘Because,’ she said, ‘because – because I – I don’t – I don’t think it’s right for – for a girl to – to kiss a man unless she’s going to be his wife.’

  Then it dawned on me! I’d forgot all about proposing.

  ‘Mary,’ I said, ‘would you marry a chap like me?’

  And that was all right.

  Next morning Mary cleared out my room and sorted out my things, and didn’t take the slightest notice of the other girls’ astonishment.

  But she made me promise to speak to old Black, and I did the same evening. I found him sitting on the log by the fence, having a yarn on the quiet with an old Bushman; and when the old Bushman got up and went away, I sat down.

  ‘Well, Joe,’ said Black, ‘I see somebody’s been spoiling your face for the dance.’ And after a bit he said, ‘Well, Joe, what is it? Do you want another job? If you do, you’ll have to ask Mrs Black, or Bob’ (Bob was his eldest son); ‘they’re managing the station for me now, you know.’ He could be bitter sometimes in his quiet way.

  ‘No,’ I said; ‘it’s not that, Boss.’

  ‘Well, what is it, Joe?’

  ‘I – well, the fact is, I want little Mary.’

  He puffed at his pipe for a long time, then I thought he spoke.

  ‘What did you say, Boss?’ I said.

  ‘Nothing, Joe,’ he said. ‘I was going to say a lot, but it wouldn’t be any use. My father used to say a lot to me before I was married.’

  I waited a good while for him to speak.

  ‘Well, Boss,’ I said, ‘what about Mary?’

  ‘Oh! I suppose that’s all right, Joe,’ he said. ‘I – I beg your pardon. I got thinking of the days when I was courting Mrs Black.’

  TELLING MRS BAKER

  MOST Bushmen who hadn’t ‘known Bob Baker to speak to’, had ‘heard tell of him’. He’d been a squatter, not many years before, on the Macquarie River in New South Wales, and had made money in the good seasons, and had gone in for horse-racing and racehorse-breeding, and long trips to Sydney, where he put up at swell hotels and went the pace. So after a pretty severe drought, when the sheep died by thousands on his runs, Bob Baker went under, and the bank took over his station and put a manager in charge.

  He’d been a jolly, open-handed, popular man, which means that he’d been a selfish man as far as his wife and children were concerned, for they had to suffer for it in the end. Such generosity is often born of vanity, or moral cowardice, or both mixed. It’s very nice to hear the chaps sing ‘For he’s a jolly good fellow’, but you’ve mostly got to pay for it twice – first in company, and afterwards alone. I once heard the chaps singing that I was a jolly good fellow, when I was leaving a place and they were giving me a send-off. It thrilled me, and brought a warm gush to my eyes; but, all the same, I wished I had half the money I’d lent them, and spent on ’em, and I wished I’d used the time I’d wasted to be a jolly good fellow.

  When I first met Bob Baker he was a boss-drover on the great northwestern route, and his wife lived at the township of Solong on the Sydney side. He was going north to new country round by the Gulf of Carpentaria with a big mob of cattle, on a two years’ trip; and I and my mate, Andy M’Culloch, engaged to go with him. We wanted to have a look at the Gulf Country.

  After we had crossed the Queensland border it seemed to me that the Boss was too fond of going into wayside shanties and town pubs. Andy had been with him on another trip, and he told me that the Boss was only going this way lately. Andy knew Mrs Baker well, and seemed to think a deal of her. ‘She’s a good little woman,’ said Andy. ‘One of the right stuff. I worked on their station for a while when I was a nipper, and I know. She was always a damned sight too good for the Boss, but she believed in him. When I was coming away this time she says to me, ‘Look here, Andy, I am afraid Robert is drinking again. Now I want you to look after him for me, as much as you can – you seem to have as much influence with him as anyone. I want you to promise me that you’ll never have a drink with him.’

  ‘And I promised,’ said Andy, ‘and I’ll keep my word.’ Andy was a chap who could keep his word, and nothing else. And, no matter how the Boss persuaded, or sneered, or swore at him, Andy would never drink with him.

  It got worse and worse: the Boss would ride on ahead and get drunk at a shanty, and sometimes he’d be days behind us; and when he’d catch up to us his temper would be just about as much as we could stand. At last he went on a howling spree at Mulgatown, about a hundred and fifty miles north of the border, and, what was worse, he got in tow with a flash barmaid there – one of those girls who are engaged, by the publicans up-country, as baits for chequemen.

  He went mad over that girl. He drew an advance cheque from the stock-owner’s agent there, and knocked that down; then he raised some more money somehow, and spent that – mostly on the girl.

  We did all we could. Andy got him along the track for a couple of stages, and just when we thought he was all right, he slipped us in the night and went back.

  We had two other men with us, but had the devil’s own bother on account of the cattle. It was a mixed-up job all round. You see it was all big runs round there, and we had to keep the bullocks moving along the route all the time, or else get into trouble for trespass. The agent wasn’t going to go to the expense of putting the cattle in a paddock until the Boss sobered up; there was very little grass on the route or the travelling-stock reserves or camps, so we had to keep travelling for grass.

  The world might wobble and all the banks go bung, but the cattle have to go through – that’s the law of the stock-routes. So the agent wired to the owners, and, when he got their reply, he sacked the Boss and sent the cattle on in charge of another man. The new Boss was a drover coming south after a trip; he had his two brothers with him, so he didn’t want me and Andy; but anyway, we were full up of this tr
ip, so we arranged, between the agent and the new Boss, to get most of the wages due to us – the Boss had drawn some of our stuff and spent it.

  We could have started on the back track at once, but, drunk or sober, mad or sane, good or bad, it isn’t Bush religion to desert a mate in a hole; and the Boss was a mate of ours; so we stuck to him.

  We camped on the creek, outside the town, and kept him in the camp with us as much as possible, and did all we could for him.

  ‘How could I face his wife if I went home without him?’ asked Andy, ‘or any of his old mates?’

  The Boss got himself turned out of the pub where the barmaid was, and then he’d hang round the other pubs, and get drink somehow, and fight, and get knocked about. He was an awful object by this time, wild-eyed and gaunt, and he hadn’t washed or shaved for days.

  Andy got the constable in charge of the police station to lock him up for a night, but it only made him worse: we took him back to the camp next morning, and while our eyes were off him for a few minutes he slipped away into the scrub, stripped himself naked, and started to hang himself to a leaning tree with a piece of clothes-line rope. We got to him just in time.

  Then Andy wired to the Boss’s brother Ned, who was fighting the drought, the rabbit-pest, and the banks, on a small station back on the border. Andy reckoned it was about time to do something.

  Perhaps the Boss hadn’t been quite right in his head before he started drinking – he had acted queer sometimes, now we came to think of it; maybe he’d got a touch of sunstroke or got brooding over his troubles – anyway he died in the horrors within the week.