Sanderson accepted the eccentricity of his guest’s inquiries, because there was much of which he had been forewarned, even though his informant’s account seemed to diverge somewhat from fact. The German wore a blandness of expression, and appeared to be endowed with a simplicity of mind that was, indeed, unexpected. They rode on. In the clear, passionless afternoons of spring, the landowner wondered what evidence of passion he had anticipated. But his own mind could not conceive darkness. They forded streams in which nothing was hidden. A truth of sunlight was dappling the innocent grass. In this light, he felt, all that is secret must be exposed. But he could not accuse the German of a nature different from his own.
It was true, too, that there was no difference – at that moment, and in that place. An admirable courtliness and forbearance had possessed Voss. He would ride back along the line informing himself on the welfare of his party, point out features of interest, ask opinions, offer suggestions, and return to his position in file behind his host, there to drink fresh draughts of his new friend’s benevolence, for which, it appeared, he had a perpetual thirst.
All but Sanderson were in some way conscious of this.
Harry Robarts accepted gladly that his idol should deceive their host by borrowing the latter’s character. This was not theft, that Mr Voss had demonstrated to be honest. But Le Mesurier and Turner sniffed, as dogs that have been caught before by kind words, and then kicked. And Palfreyman looked and listened, in conflict between the scientific study of behaviour, and his instinctive craving to believe that man is right, even if, to establish this, he would have to prove that he himself had been wrong.
Late in the afternoon of their arrival, the party descended from the hills into a river valley, of which the brown water ran with evening murmur and brown fish snoozed upon the stones. Now the horses pricked their ears and arched their necks tirelessly. They were all nervous veins as they stepped out along the pleasant valley. They were so certain. Which did, indeed, inspire even strangers with a certain confidence and sense of homecoming.
Soon domestic cows had run to look, and horned rams, dragging their sex amongst the clover, were being brought to fold by a youthful shepherd. But it was the valley itself which drew Voss. Its mineral splendours were increased in that light. As bronze retreated, veins of silver loomed in the gullies, knobs of amethyst and sapphire glowed on the hills, until the horseman rounded that bastion which fortified from sight the ultimate stronghold of beauty.
‘Achhh!’ cried Voss, upon seeing.
Sanderson laughed almost sheepishly.
‘Those rocks, on that bit of a hill up there, are the “Towers” from which the place takes its name.’
‘It is quite correct,’ said the German. ‘It is a castle.’
This was for the moment pure gold. The purple stream of evening flowing at its base almost drowned Voss. Snatches of memory racing through him made it seem the more intolerable that he might not finally sink, but would rise as from other drownings on the same calamitous raft.
Sanderson, too, was bringing him back, throwing him simple, wooden words.
‘You can see the homestead. Down there in the willows. That is the shed where we shear our sheep. The store, over by the elm. And the men’s cottages. We are quite a community, you see. They are even building a church.’
Skeins of mist, or smoke, had tangled with the purple shadows. Dogs dashed out on plumes of dust, to mingle with the company of riders, and bark till almost choked by their own tongues. The men were silent, however, from the magnificence through which they had passed, and at the prospect of new acquaintanceships. Some grew afraid. Young Harry Robarts began to shiver in a cold sweat, and Turner, who had now been sober several days, feared that in his nakedness he might not survive further hazards of experience. Even Palfreyman realized he had failed that day to pray to God, and must forfeit what progress he had made on the road where progress is perhaps illusory. So he was hanging back, and would not have associated with his fellows if it had been possible to avoid them.
A woman in grey dress and white apron, holding a little girl by the hand, approached, and spoke with gravity and great sweetness.
‘Welcome, Mr Voss, to Rhine Towers.’ To which immediately she added, not without a smiling confusion: ‘Everybody is, of course, welcome.’
Sanderson, who had jumped down, touched his wife very briefly, and this woman, of indeterminate age, was obviously strengthened. For a second, it was seen, she forgot other duties. Then her husband called, and two grooms came, parting the fronds of the willows, to take the horses.
‘Come on, Voss. They will be seen to,’ Sanderson announced. ‘Are you so in love with the saddle? Come inside, and we shall hope to make you comfortable.’
‘Yes,’ said Voss.
But he continued to sit, thoughtful, with his mouth folded in.
The serpent has slid even into this paradise, Frank Le Mesurier realized, and sighed.
Everyone was expecting something.
‘I did not think to impose upon you to this extent, Mr Sanderson,’ the German released his lip and replied. ‘It would embarrass me to think such a large party should inconvenience you by intruding under your roof-tree. I would prefer to camp down somewhere in the neighbourhood with my men, with our own blankets, beside a bivouac fire.’
Mrs Sanderson looked at her husband, who had turned rather pale.
‘It would not enter my head,’ said the latter.
Since it had entered the German’s, his eyes shone with bitter pleasure. Now the beauty of their approach to Rhine Towers appeared to have been a tragic one, of which the last fragments were crumbling in the dusk. He had been wrong to surrender to sensuous delights, and must now suffer accordingly.
Those to whom such mortification remained a mystery, groaned and shifted in their saddles. Those who were more enlightened, composed their mouths.
‘But the beds are all aired,’ ventured the bewildered Mrs Sanderson.
Voss’s jaws were straining under the hurt he had done to the others, and, more exquisitely, to himself.
It was doubtful whether even the admirable Sanderson could have led them out of the impasse to which they had come, when Palfreyman sighed deeply, and began to crumple forward, and to slide down, which shocked the company into doing something. Everyone was taking part. Everyone breathed relief, except Palfreyman himself.
‘Is he ill?’ asked Mrs Sanderson. ‘Poor man, it could be exhaustion.’
As they carried the unconscious Palfreyman towards the house, Voss related how his colleague had sustained a fall from a horse a short time ago, and although pronounced fit, it was not his personal opinion that Palfreyman was sufficiently recovered to take part in the expedition. Voss kept wiping his neck with a handkerchief, but seemed to find no relief. His explanations assumed the tone of threats.
When they reached the veranda of the house, which was a low-built, slab edifice, in colour a faded yellow ochre, with whitewashed posts and window-frames, a thick-set strong-looking individual appeared and took the body of the unconscious man, although nobody had asked him to do so.
To Mr Sanderson, it appeared perfectly natural.
‘This is Mr Palfreyman, the ornithologist. Who has fainted,’ he explained for the benefit of the stranger. ‘He has not long recovered from an illness. Take him to the corner room, if you will, so that my wife and I shall be near him, and able to give attention.’
Regaining consciousness soon after in a strange room, Palfreyman’s chief concern was to find someone to whom he might apologize. At his pillow was standing rather a thick-set man, to whom he was preparing to speak, when the individual went away.
The incident of the ornithologist’s collapse did at least cut the knot: in the confusion, explanations and comradeship that followed, Voss and Le Mesurier had also accepted quarters in the house, while Turner and Harry Robarts had been led off to the back by the grooms. Nobody referred to the strange objections raised by Voss. It was possible that he himself
had forgotten, until such times as he would torment himself by reviving painful memories of all his past perversities.
Such night-growths withered quickly at the roots in that house, in which little children ran clattering and calling over the stone floors, maids came with loaves of yellow bread and stiffly laundered napkins, and dogs were whining and pointing at the smells of baking meats. In the big, low-ceilinged room in which the company was to eat, a fire of ironbark had been kindled. The clear, golden light flickered in patterns on the white cloth, until the advent of several mellow lamps. Finally, Mrs Sanderson herself, who had obeyed vanity to the extent of doing something different to her hair, brought her own contribution of light, and a branch of home-made candles to set upon the mantelpiece.
While they were waiting, their host had poured wine for Voss, Le Mesurier, and himself.
‘From our own grapes,’ he explained. ‘It is one of my aims to become self-supporting.’
And he went on to draw their attention to various bowls and jugs that he had modelled himself in local clay, and on which his wife had painted designs and then fired in their own kiln. If the clear colours and honest forms of their pottery had, in the one case, run, in the other, been distorted by the intense heat in which that had been tried, its poignance had increased.
That was the quality which predominated in the dining-room, in the whole homestead at Rhine Towers, a quality of poignance, for heights scaled painfully, or almost scaled. Incidental failure did not rob the Sandersons of success. It was perhaps the source of their perfection.
‘I do congratulate you for your remarkable achievement here in the wilderness,’ said Voss, whose wine was hot in his mouth. ‘And envy, too.’
Sanderson replied rather harshly.
‘It is for anyone to achieve who wishes to.’
Voss himself knew this.
‘But achievements differ in different men. It is not for me, unfortunately so, to build a solid house and live in it the kind of life that is lived in such houses. That is why’ – and he began guzzling his wine – ‘it is disturbing,’ he said. ‘Honest people can destroy most effectually such foundations as some of us have.’
He put down his glass.
‘I cannot express myself in English.’
Mrs Sanderson, who had sensed more than her husband would allow himself to, looked unhappy. She held her thin, though strong, hands to the fire, so that they looked transparent, and said:
‘It is time the others came.’
Le Mesurier, also seated at the hearth, and sensible of his leader’s mood even as their hostess was, bent down then and picked up a little girl in his arms.
‘What do you like best?’ he asked, with no trace of that cynicism with which he would protect himself from the omniscience of children.
The child answered, out of what had never really been a doubt:
‘Treacle tart.’
She was fingering the skin of his face, gravely, as he held her, and drowning him in her eyes. Of all the enchantments at work in that room, in which the fire was crackling and a dog hunting dream hares, this was perhaps the most powerful – until Angus broke the spell.
It was immediately apparent that this must be Angus who had burst in. He would be forgiven almost anything, even his wealth and his ignorance, by all but the most disgruntled, for handsome, clumsy, oblivious young men, together with thoroughbred horses and gun-dogs, cannot be held responsible. Because his face concealed nothing, withdrawn souls felt guilty for their secrets, and hastened to make amends by coming into the open. He was so amiable, reddish of hair, and ruddy of skin, with a smile that was particularly white.
‘You are late, of course, Ralph,’ Sanderson did not complain; ‘but I suppose punctuality is past praying for.’ For the benefit of Voss, he added: ‘This is a second Ralph. I am the first.’
The thought of being duplicated, even in name, seemed to give great pleasure to the host.
Voss accepted the handsome young man with some caution, remembering that Angus had been promised to his expedition. He did not, however, confess to this knowledge, just as Angus thought better than to mention the agreement that had been reached. Mentally they were stalking round each other as they stood making conversation with their hosts.
‘I think if we ring for Mr Judd,’ Mrs Sanderson finally decided.
The bell echoed through Voss. Remembering the convict to whom Mr Bonner had referred, the German realized it was this that he dreaded most of all.
Presently Palfreyman appeared, walking frailly, his lips composed, but a dark yellow in colour. At his side was the thick-set man who had taken possession of him on arrival.
‘Do you think this is wise?’ Sanderson asked.
‘Perfectly,’ smiled Palfreyman. ‘It was a passing weakness. That is all. I have rested these two hours on a good bed, and Mr Judd has very kindly fed me with rum out of a spoon.’
So the thick-set individual was Judd.
He was there now, not far from Palfreyman’s elbow. He seemed to have appointed himself nurse, which the patient accepted as a natural arrangement.
Judd was introduced to Voss, and the two men shook hands.
The former convict was in every way discreet, which was the more noticeable in anyone of his bulk and strength. He was, in fact, a union of strength and delicacy, like some gnarled trees that have been tortured and twisted by time and weather into exaggerated shapes, but of which the leaves still quiver at each change, and constantly shed shy, subtle scents. He was rather grizzled, deeply wrinkled on the back of his neck. It was difficult to estimate his age, but he was not old. He was quietly, even well spoken. What he knew could have been considerable, though would not escape from him, one suspected, even if pincers were brought to bear. Not that he mistrusted men. Rather had the injustice and contempt that he had experienced during a certain period sealed him up. Risen from the tomb of that dead life, he could not yet bring himself to recognize it as a miracle, and perhaps he would not, and perhaps it was not.
‘Now that we are all here, let us sit down at once,’ Mrs Sanderson suggested. ‘I expect you are hungry, Mr Angus.’
‘I am always hungry,’ said the agreeable young man, but somewhat tight-lipped.
For Mrs Sanderson was disposing her guests at the table.
‘And you, Mr Angus there. And Mr Judd.’
Angus was all vagueness and colour as his hand touched the back of the chair. Whereas Mr Judd seemed possessed of a sad irony for some situation that he had experienced before.
Voss realized then that they were about to sit down with the former convict, and that the prospect occupied the young landowner’s mind to the exclusion of all other thought or feeling. The German wondered whether his own crimes, to which he would admit on days of candour, exceeded those that Judd had committed. Here he might possess, he felt, a salve for some future sore. But he quickly threw it away. His own distaste was rising. He did not object to Judd as a convict, but already suspected him as a man.
‘Come, then,’ said Mr Sanderson irritably, ‘is nobody going to sit down?’
Because he was daring them not to, and because of the respect they bore him as an unquestionably superior being, everybody did sit, while saving up their grievances.
Then the girls were bringing a big soup, and thick, homely plates.
‘I understand Mr Judd is a squatter in these parts’ – the German did not quite accuse.
His face professed kindness, but was prepared to examine any visible wounds.
The emancipist barely turned his eyes, and opened his mouth. He expected his host to save him, which Sanderson hastened to do.
‘Mr Judd has taken up a few acres on our boundary,’ he explained. ‘So you see, we are close neighbours. Fortunately for us, as it means we are able to take advantage of his assistance and advice.’
Judd began to eat his soup, which was of a milky, potatoey consistence, speckled with sweet herbs, and eminently soothing. The convict was taking Sanderson’s defence
of him for granted, or so it seemed. Some of those present adjusted their opinion of him from that instant, considering that they themselves would have spoken up. But Judd continued to eat his soup. The opinion of others did not affect him any more.
The company enjoyed their dinner. They had a big, crisp, crinkled saddle of baked mutton, and a dish of fresh, scented plums, and conversation, which by degrees, and with the warmth of wine, sounded agreeable to everyone.
The evening progressed. It would not be one in which to discuss matters of importance. This was implicit in the light and temper of it. Mrs Sanderson kept her guests deliberately on the surface, and began to enjoy herself, remembering parties of her girlhood, with music and games. She became quite flushed, and looked frequently at her husband, who was preventing the collision of their friends by his own methods. He had begun to give some account of their existence at Rhine Towers, since they arrived there on bullock wagons, with all their possessions and their white skins, and were at first burnt, then blistered, finally calloused, but above all, grappled for ever to their land by the strong habits of everyday life that they formed upon it. Many simple images were conveyed most vividly to the minds of his audience, there to stay, as he told of prime beasts, a favourite gun, springs of cold water he had found in the hills, or a wild dog he had failed to tame. Once, treading through the bracken, his horse’s hoof had struck against a human skull, probably that of some convict, escaped from the coastal settlements in search of the paradise those unfortunates used to believe existed in the North.
The narrator presented the skull with such detachment that Ralph Angus could almost feel the downy bracken growing through the sockets of his own eyes.
Judd, too, observed the skull, in silence. His silences, Voss could feel at times, were most formidable.
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