 6. He mentioned it next day, however. He had to, after breakfast, a letter forwarded from five creeks, bridged him from the baby's caretaker, the lady of whom he stood in such undignified dread. The sight of her handwriting paled his brown face, and said his stout heart fluttering. What did she want of him? He kept the letter unopened for some time, because he was afraid to know, although convinced beforehand that he did know that, of course, it was the visit he should have paid before coming up country. When at last he drew the sheet from its envelope, as if it had come from an infected house, and had not been fumigated, and cast a hurried glance over the contents. He found the unexpected had happened once more, the wildly unexpected. She was going to be married. He was a general merchant in prosperous business, and there was nothing to wait for, except Mr Carey's instructions as to what was to be done with the dear little boy. She would feel acutely departing from him, after he had been from his birth like a child of her own. But Mr Carey would understand that she could not now continue her labour of love on his behalf. That she had others to consider. That she knew of a most excellent substitute, a dear friend of her own, who had long taken the deepest interest in Darling Harry, and with whom she was sure he would be as soap and happy as with herself. She had expected to see Mr Carey when he arrived, to arrange matters. She hoped he would come as soon as possible. In the bewilderment of his mingled elation and anxieties, the young father did not know what to do for the moment, while recognising the urgent need for action. He must go as soon as possible, of course, but he could not depart suddenly without a reason, and to give the reason would be to give himself away to Alice Urquhart. Besides, a day's outing had been planned on purpose for him. The possibilities in connection with it were enormous, and five days of his leave were unexpended still. He must think it over. He must have advice. So, as a first installment of duty, he sprawled a recklessly affectionate letter, full of gratitude to her, who had been his good genius and the guardian angel of his boy. He did not disguise his envy at the general merchant, whose vows of love could not have excelled in fervent expression the good wishes of the writer, the happiness of the betrothed pair. He hoped to have the pleasure of seeing his dear old friend on the following day, or the day after that at latest, and he promised himself the satisfaction of squandering his safe pay on such a wedding present, as would at least cover the cost of the bread and milk the boy had devoured at her expense. Guth redropped his letter in the postbag while they were calling to him that it was time to start, and he turned the key of silence upon his secret until he could pour it into the right ear. It was a wonder he did not pour it into Mary's, for she drove him to Bundaboo, and nobody could have been more sympathetic than she. She was the virtual mother of the family, who loved children, and she was not, she could not be, a husband-hunter. A sensible man in domestic difficulties could not have sought a wiser confidant. Yet he resisted stubbornly all her gentle invitations to confide. In the first place he did not want to go with her in the pony carriage, while Deb and Delzel rode. He did not like to see it taken for granted, as it seemed to be by all, but a sailor on horseback must necessarily make a fool of himself. The slight to his self-respect was enough to dull the edge of his joy in the general merchant's proceedings, for, as the reader will remember, he was still but three and twenty. He had to weigh down the springs of the little basket thing, no better than an invalid's wheelchair, and see the young exquisite, whom he could have tossed over his shoulder with one hand, show off feats of fancy horsemanship to make Deb's dark-eyes kindle. Mr. Pennyquick had carelessly asked Billy's degenerate son to skill a bit, a creature which for weeks had not allowed a man upon his back, and had had no exercise beyond his voluntary scamperings about the paddock, from which he had been brought, dancing with excitement and indignation. All the stablemen had been required to get his bridle and saddle on. He now wheeled round and round in the large space left for him, while called Delzel, in his London riding clothes, and with his air of a reigning prince, wearily turned with him. Guthrie Cleary, in the waiting pony carriage, had but one interest in the performance, his hopeful anticipation of a fatal, or at least a ridiculous, result. But there was no fear of that, and evidently Deb knew it. Sitting her own dancing chestnut, how her beautiful eyes glowed. She glurried in the ring of breathless witnesses, to the prowls of her night. Many a time did she scoff and scowl at the dandyisms, which she seemed epitome. This was one at the moments which showed the man as she desired him. Through those fine fingers, with the polished filbert nails, the shortened reins were drawn and held as by clamps of steel. So was the wild eyed head, by the lock of mane, in the same hand. When no one was looking, although every eye believed itself fixed upon him, his left foot found its stirrup, his right gave a hop, and, like lightning, he had sprung up and ground, without touching the horse until fairly down in the saddle, so that the animal was robbed of his best chance of getting the rider off, which is at the moment before he is quite on. No other chance was offered to the baffled one, although he kicked like a demon for nearly 10 minutes. I wish Guthrie carry ground through his strong teeth, that the cranky beast would break his neck, it was not the beast's neck, he meant. But dead cool, bravo, well done, indeed. And when the battle was over, called the victor to her with her lovely face of pride and joy. Right willingly, he went, and they sailed away together, like wind, and were lost to view. Yes, this was Delzal Zour. She knew nothing of the brave deeds of sailor men common and constant as eating and drinking, and performed to no audience and for no reward. Alice Urquhart and Rose Pennyquik, also on horseback, followed the flying pair, then a buggy containing Jim and skill girl Francie, her governess gone home for holidays today, and a load of ironwork for a blacksmith on the route. Last of all, Mary and the sailor, for all the world life, the old father and mother of the party. Mr. Pennyquik excused himself from the excursions nowadays, and so did Miss Keane, the elderly and quite uninfluential duena of the house. When one was needed, she did the flowers and knitted singlets for everybody. The Shetlands patted along at a great rate that did not come up with the riders until they were nearly at Thunderboo. And all the way, a long way, Guthrie Carey had to make efforts not to bore his hostess. They talked about the clear air and the dull coloured land, the richest sheep country in the colony, but now without a blade of green upon it, and no comments upon three bullock-draze pole with wool bales and two camping sundowners, and one Chinaman hawkers cart, which they encountered on the way. And that was about all. The homecoming was a different affair. Tea had been served in Mr. Thornycroft's cool drawing room, hats and gloves had been collected, orders sent to the stables, and the young sailor, panting to emulate the prowls of his rival, and thereby compelled Miss Deborah to respect him, was asking one and another, what were the arrangements at the return journey? I said, Rose, who hugged a puppy in her arms, a puppy long possessed, but only now old enough to leave its mother. I am going in the buggy with Jim. Wouldn't you rather go in the pony carriage, inquired Carey anxiously? You could make a better lap on the lower seat. I could ride your horse home for you, if they'll lend me a saddle. Yours could be put in the buggy. Even as she spoke, Deb came round the corner from somewhere, with swift steps and a brilliant complexion, Delzel hurrying after her. Mr. Carey, she called, while the sailor was still yards away from her. Molly and I are going to change skirts. I am tired with my ride this morning, and I'm going to drive home. Will you trust your neck to me? Would he not, indeed, he was but a pawn in the game. But what did that matter? Eighteen miles, absolutely alone with her, and possibly half of them in the dark. No saddle horse in the world could have tipped at him now. He could hardly speak his gratitude and joy. Delighted, Miss Deborah, delighted, delighted. But Delzel, black as thunder, swung aside, muttering in his teeth. Oh, oh, Francis Loud Whisper, follow. Did you hear what he said? He said, damn, that's because you cut along. Jim's draw broke in, and get ready if you want to ride. Mr. Thornycroft tucked Deb into the pony carriage with the solitude of a mother, fixing up a young baby, going out with its nurse. He insisted that she should wear a shawl over her linen jacket, and brought forth an armful of softer wool, Indian mode. Where did you get this, she asked, fondling it, for she loved fine fabrics. Never mind, said he, put it on. I am suspicious of these shawls and fowls that Bunderboost seems full of. Who is the hidden lady? He only smiled at her. Ah, God-par, you spoil me. She drew the wrap about her, and he assisted to adjust it, with gentle skill. Then he turned abruptly to Carrie as to a groom. See that she doesn't throw that off, it will be chilly presently. No, she'd better drive, she knows the road, but take care of her, good night. Isn't he an old deer, said Deb, to Carrie, as they drove off? He has been a second father to me ever since I was a child. She did not hurry the ponies, being anxious not to appear to be tearing after her offended swain. The evening is the pleasantest time to be out, this weather, she said, lolling back in her seat. And I'm sure I don't want to look at dinner after such a lunch as I have eaten. I don't know how you feel. I feel the same, he assured her, with truth. So, for her own purposes, she made their drive half as long again, as if need had been. And was so friendly, so free, so intimate, leading that poor innocent to the belief that his great rival was already virtually out of his way. He was an unsophisticated sailor lad, who, with that rival's help, had reached a certain stage and crisis, another one of his man's life. And, let us be honest in our diagnosis, the bubbles of Mr. Thornycroft's fine champagne still ran in his blood and brightened his brain, lifting him above the prosaic ground level where a craven timidity would have smothered him, not touching the balance of his wits, being it understood, just heartening him no more. Twice and thrice she branched off from the road to show him something that could well have waited for another day. She was imprudent enough to introduce him to so sentimental a spot as the family cemetery, established at a time when there were only deltals and pennyquicks to feed it. Their shepherds were killed by the blacks, said Deb, as she pushed the ponies up to the wall, and he rose in the carriage to look over the top, and they buried them here, marking the place with a pile of stones. There were other deaths, and they enclosed the peace of land. Then a brother of Mr. Delzels and a girl, and Mr. Delzels himself, wished to be put here, beside his brother. Not his wife, she wouldn't. She lies in the Melbourne cemetery. Then some of our babies, then mother. She was the last. I don't suppose there will be any more now. The state will insist on taking charge of us. Real English churchyard alms crowded about the walls, and blightingly overshadowed the lonely group of graves. English ivy instead of neatly clothing the wall, as it had been meant to do, straggled wildly over the part of the enclosure, which had once been a garden around them. Out of it, like sea-striped wrecks, dead sticks of rose bushes poked up, and ragged things that had gone to seed. The turf was parched away like the grass at the surrounding paddocks. The mounds were cracked. The headstones, several of them, ornate and costly, stained with the drip from the trees and birds, and some distinctly out of the perpendicular. It ought not to look like this. Deb apologised for it. It ought to have been seen to. We used to come often and bring water from the dam, but one forgets as time goes on. One doesn't think or care. Poor dead people. How out of it they are, and we shall be the same someday, neglected and abandoned, just like this. Don't, muttered Guthrie Carey, shivery. The ghost of his sweet lily seemed to reproach him with Deb's voice. But the ghost woman, 15 months old, had no chance with the glowing live woman born into his life but yesterday, and no blame to him either, and no wrong to the dead, if one can look at the thing dispassionately and with an unbiased mind. Let us go and see the dam. Deb cheered him as she turned the pony's heads. You haven't seen our big dam, have you? Everybody that comes to Redford must see that, or father will want to know the reason why. Penny clicks folly, some people call it, because he spent so much money on it, but father is not one to spoil the ship for a penneth of paint. He likes to do things thoroughly, so do I. And soon they halted on the embankment of a mile-wide sheet of water, shining like a mirror in a setting of soft bosomed hills. Their done day colour changed to a heavenly rose purple under the poetic evening sky. Why, it is a lake, said Guthrie Carey. You could hold regattas on it. We do, now and then, with our little boats. We had three over there, pointing with a whip to a white shed on the father's shore. And swimming matches, we used sometimes when we were younger to come down on hot nights and be mermaids. Once we moored ourselves out in the middle, away from the mosquitoes, and slept in the bottom of the boat under the stars. How charming! It was holiday time, and our parents were away. We took cushions and things, and it was great fun. But Caesarea reported us, and we were never allowed to do it again. They sat in the pony carriage on the dam embankment, gazing silently. A flock of wild fowl had been scared away by their approach. And now not a wing, not an eye, was near. At a great distance, Curlew's wailed, only to make the stillness and solitude more exquisite. More profound, the purple of the hills grew deeper and softer, the lake and mere pulseless shimmer through the twilight haze. And then, last touch of magic, the moon swung up, the same moon that had transfigured Five Proops Garden and Alice Irvhard last night. He poured out his soul to Deborah Penikwick. First it was only the story of the baby, the story he had told Alice, with some omissions and additions. He took advantage of the opportunity to ask Deb's invaluable advice. Deb, well aware of the influence of a summer night and certain accessories, tried her best to be practical. She asked straight questions about the baby. Where have you got him? Where does his friend live? Who has been recommended to you? In Sandridge, all at Sandridge. That dirty, low part, that's no place to rear a boy. Bring him into the bush, to clean air, if you want to make a man obby. I know a dear, nice woman. She is our overseer's wife, who has no children, and is dying to get hold of one somehow or other. We might make some arrangement with her, I am sure, and if so, the little fellow would be in clover. We'd all look after him, of course, while you were at sea. Oh, oh, oh, the young father's heart simply exhaled itself, in gratitude too fast for words. I, there was no hanging back now. Not the baby only, but the dog chain was laid at Deborah's feet. You go and fetch him tomorrow, said she, and I'll talk to Mrs. Kelsey while you are away, then I'll meet you at the station on your return, to help you with him, and tell you what Mrs. Kelsey says, though I have no doubt of what it will be. But we'll keep him at Redford for a bit, till he gets used to everybody, and you must stay with him all you can until your ship sails. His eyes were full of tears. He laid his hand on her shawl again. He leaned to her. It was no use. The moon and his feelings were too much for him. They were talking of the baby, and the word love had not been, and was not going to be mentioned. But there the thing was unmistakable to her keen intelligence, looming like a frontier custom house on the road ahead. She grasped his big trembling hand, and with it held him back, meeting his adoring gaze with steady eyes and mouth. My dear boy, don't, don't, don't spoil this nice eating. It was all that was necessary, and still so kind, so gentle with him, no scorn, no offender dignity, no displeasure even. She, who could punish insolence with anybody, was never hard upon the humble admirer, only too soft, in fact, with all her basic firmness and incapable of the hard-hearted coquetry that so commonly makes beauty vile. Face of a waxen angel with poor a desert beast, that was not Deborah Pennyquick. A sob broke from him. I am a damned fool, he muttered savagely, and by a violent effort collected himself. I beg your pardon. That's all right, said she, turning the ponies from the embankment and within them to a gallop. Chapter 7 Sisters This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. This reading by Lucy Burgoyne. Sisters by Ada Cambridge. Chapter 7 There was moon the next night also. It did not appreciably affect him this time, down in Dirty Sandridge, hobnobbing with the baby's caretaker and the general merchant, who, shutting his shop at six, was free to make the sailor's acquaintance and helping to spend a pleasant evening. But it turned Redford Garden with its fine old trees and lawns into the usual bit of fairyland for those who strayed therein. Redford was packed with Christmas guests. The wagonette that had taken Guthrie Carey to the train had returned full of them, and batches had been arriving at intervals through the day. At bedtime, the sisters were sharing rooms. Rose had come to Deb's, Francis to Mary's, and the unmarried men were all at the bachelor's quarters. It was a hot night and Deb, under the circumstances, was disinclined for sleep. She paid visits to one guest chamber and another, the private gossips and good-nights. When she returned to her own, where Placid Rose had long composed herself, she roamed the floor like a caged animal. It is no use my coming to bed yet, she addressed her sister. I could not sleep. I should only kick about and disturb you. I'll sit down and read a bit. She found a novel and an easy chair, and made deliberate efforts to tranquilise herself. Soon Rose heard sighs and fuse, and sudden rustlings and slappings, and then the bang of the book upon the floor. I can't read, and the lights bring the mosquitoes. It's too hot in here. I'm going out to get cool, Rosie. All right, mumble drowsy Rosie, and the light was extinguished, and the blind at the French window rattled up. Deb flung both leaves wide, like all the red-for-doors. They were never locked or barred, and drifting over the brander sat down on the edge of it, with their feet on the gravel. She had tossed off her pearl necklace and a breastknot at Wilter Rose's, otherwise she sat in full evening dress, and the night air bathed her bare neck and arms. Also the mosquitoes found them a delicious morsel, so that she had to turn her lacy skirt up over her head to be quite comfortable. From under this hood the dark lamps of her eyes shone forth, gazing steadily into the dim world, into the bit of future that she thought she saw unveiled. The loom of the trees, the glimmer of flowering bushes, the open spaces of lawn and pallowed pathways, the translucent blue-green sky, the rising moon, these things made the picture, but were to all intense, invisible to their inward sight. She really saw nothing until suddenly a pin-point spark appeared out of the shadows, moved along a hedge of laurels, and fixed itself in the neighborhood of a distant garden seat. Then at once she stiffened like a cat that has heard a mouse squeak or a bird's wing rustle. She was alert, on instant, concentrated upon the phenomenon. Instinct recognized the tip of a cigar which had the handsome face applauded Delzel behind it. What is he doing out of doors at this time of night, she wondered, and the little star began to draw her like a magnet. The world becomes another world in these mystic hours. It has new rulers and new laws, or rather, it has none. The moon sways more than ocean tides. In broad day Deb would no more have stalked a man than she would a crocodile. In this soft, free, empty, irresponsible night, the primal woman was out of her husk, one with the desert prowling animal that calls through the moonlight silence for its mate. Twenty times had she snubbed an ardent lover at the behest of all sorts of reasons, and so-called instincts cultivated for her guidance by generations of wise men. Now, all in a moment, came this moon-born impulse to give herself to him unmasked. She could not resist it. Like Deb, Claude had not been inclined to sleep, and for much the same reason. The guest chamber usually allotted to him being needed for a lady. He had been sent to the bachelor's quarters, a barrack-like dormitory amongst the outbuildings. Very useful for the accommodation of the occasional vet or cattle buyer, and to take the overflow of company on festive occasions. De Merckhardt, when at Redford, always slept there. He preferred it, particularly when he had companions with whom to smoke and talk sheep, and perhaps play cards at liberty, for the bachelor's quarters had its own wood stack and supplies, and one could sit by a blazing hearth all night, if so disposed without incommodating anybody. Generally, four bachelor beds were made up, and a screened end at the room stacked with the material for twice as many more. At Christmas all were in use, and lined the two long walls, which Delthal called herding, and disliked extremely, while recognising that it was a necessary arrangement to which it was his duty to conform. The herd was undressing itself in a miscellaneous manner, yawning, shaking, cutting stupid jokes, some of them at his expense, until the process was at an end, and he could reasonably assume the fellows to be asleep. He preferred the gardens to the bachelor's quarters. And the free night infolded him. The rising moon uplifted him, in the usual way. He being like Deb, like Guthrie Carey, an instrument fitted to respond to their mute appeals. Perhaps even more finely fitted than Guthrie or Deb, that he had what are called gifts of intellect and imagination transcending theirs, faculties of mine which, lacking worthy use, bred him in a sordid chronic melancholy, the poetic discontent of the unappreciated and misunderstood, a mood to which moonlight ministers as wine to the drinking fever, at once an exquisite exasperation and a divine appeasement. He was a poet, a painter, a musician, possibly a soldier, or a king, possibly anything, spoiled, blighted by that misnamed good fortune, which the lucky workers who had to work so naturally and stupidly envied him. The proper stimulus to the worthy development of the manhood latent in him had been taken from him at the start, and now he wandered among his dilatisms, dissatisfied and ineffectual. He lived beneath himself in his common intercourse with others. He ate his heart when he was alone. Unconsciously, by force of habit, he selected the most comfortable and cleanly at the garden seats, and made sure that the best of cigars was drawing perfectly before he gave himself to his meditations on this particular moonlight night. Then he began to think adept in the same new way that Cary had began to think of her after discovering a dangerous rival in the field. To Claude Guthrie was dangerous in his rude bulk and strength, the knitted brute power that the sea and his hard life had given him. To Guthrie, Claude was dangerous in the hybrid beauty and finish of his person, clothes and manners, and in the astounding cleverness that he displayed. Each man feared the force of those qualities which he lacked himself and was secretly ashamed of lacking. Claude Delzal considered this matter at the rival, not a probable but a possible rival, seriously, for the first time. Hitherto he had had an easy mind in his relations with the beauty at the countryside. She was his for all he wanted of her, and feeling this he had taken no steps to register his claim. He had not even yet proposed to her. Matrimony was not a fashionable institution, it was, indeed, a jest in his set. A young man with a heap of money was not expected to tie himself down as if he were a poor clerk on a hundred a year. The conditions of club life with as many domestic hearths to visit as he wished, and to stay away from when he chose, the luxury and freedom of pampered bachelorhood had not only been deemed appropriate, but necessary to his peculiar needs and organization. He had not considered himself a marrying man, but now the idea came to him, to make his rights in debt secure. Certainly he could not contemplate the possibility of doing without her. He had loved her that much for years. Within the last day or two he had loved her twice that much. And now the moonlight showed him his love enthroned above all his lesser loves, a thing of heaven where they were at the earth consecrated a great passion to lift him out of himself. He sat and smoked spiritually the muse, his brain running like a fountain with melodies of music and poetry, notes and words that sung in his ears and murmured on his lips without his hearing them. So a distant curlew thrilled him to a more ecstatic melancholy with its call through the moon-transfigured world, and he did not notice it. All the influences of the gentle night contributed to his inspired mood, but love was the first violin in that orchestra under nature's conductorship, nature, whose hour it was, walking a god in the garden of Eden in the cool of the day. And he came dead, gliding towards him by a path that he could not see, holding her lace skirts tightly bunched in her nervous hands. Youth to youth, beauty to beauty, man to woman, woman to man, the magnet to the steel, they were just elements of the elements for once in their lives. How fortunate that I put on black tonight, thought deaf, as she pursued her stealthy way at the back of bushes, and something that does not rustle. How beautiful she was tonight, thought clawed, how a dark dress throws up that superb neck of hers. I'll take her to Europe and show her to the sculptors and painters, but where's the hand that could carve that shape, or the paint that could give her colour? I'll have a London season with her, and see her snuff out the milk and water debutants, no milk and water about death, wine and fire, and with all so proud and unapproachable. That hoping brute imagines that he'll find his mistake if he attempts to cross the line. Beauty, passion, purity, what a blend. She's a woman alone, the blue rose of women, and she is mine, he murmured, to some cadence of a shoe that serenade, my dev, my love, my love, my queen, and suddenly stopped short in his musings. Her foot crunched the gravel behind him. Without turning his head, he sat alertly motionless for several minutes, listening, holding his breath. Then he dropped his cigar gently. Thine night, dev, he remarked aloud. There was no immediate answer, but presently a low chuckle from the laurel bushes. How did you know it was me, she asked, imitating his casual tone? Couldn't explain, I'm sure, it was born in on me somehow. You did not see me. I don't want to see, in your case, I feel you. There was another brief silence, and then she rustled off a step or two. Well, good night, I just came out to look for a book. I left here somewhere. What book? It doesn't matter. It is too late to read tonight, anyhow. It spoils books to leave them out all night. I will help you to find it. He got up and pretended to look about. It is not on this seat. Perhaps Miss Keane has taken it in. She's always after me to pick up my letters. It won't rain anyway, so it doesn't matter. No, it won't rain tonight. Awfully nice night, isn't it? I came over here to get a quiet smoke and let those fellows subside a bit. I could not stand their noise, and the place is stifling. I'm afraid so. I'm so sorry we have to put you there, but you know. Oh, of course, I don't mind a bit. It is hot indoors wherever you are. If it were not for the mosquitoes, it would be nice to sleep in hammocks under the trees this weather. I have often thought so. I can't breathe, shut up. Rose is in my room tonight, and she seems like a whole crowd. I had to come out to kill myself and to get you a book. What book was it? The Clouds Poems. How many copies have you? Because one of them has been in my pocket for two days. Well, I don't want it. Good night. She put out her hand. He took it and held it. The moonlight now was very bright, but not bright enough to reveal his smile or her blush. However, neither could be hidden from the second sight of love. Don't go yet, Debbie. I never get a word with you these days. You are so taken up with all sorts of people, and you haven't had time to get cool yet. I know you haven't, by the feel of your hand. She tried to withdrew it, but did not try very hard. My dear boy, she trembled. Do you know what time it is? It must be simply all hours. What does that matter? We are not keeping anybody up, and there's tomorrow to be considered. Christmas Eve is always such a busy tiring, sufficient for the day. Let us take things as we can get them. Besides, you will sleep all the better for it, five minutes more or less. He pulled gently but firmly at the imprisoned hand. Well, just five minutes, although it's really. She was drawn down to the bench beside him, and the man in the moon, as he looked into their shining, happy eyes, seemed to wink knowingly. Oh, Debbie. Isn't it a heavenly night? Oh, Debbie. His arms went round her, and she simply melted into them. Oh, my love. Five minutes had ran to an hour and a half before she scutted across the lawn to bed. And it was Mary, the busy housekeeper, who, on her busiest day, drove to the station to meet Guthrie Carey and the baby, and the baby's cheap and temporary child nurse. Mary, though she was not dead, was too sweet and good for words. She put the little hired girl on the front seat with the groom and sat in the body of the wagonette to talk to Guthrie and to take care of his child. There was no awkward shyness on her part now, and no boredom on his. Little Harry fused them. She had remembered to bring fresh milk and rusks for a possibly hungry baby, and he sat on her lap as she fed him, and cooed to her when his mouth was not too full, and seemed to forget that any other foster mother had ever existed. His father's relieved and astonished pleasure in the site was only equaled by Mary's pleasure in seeing his pleasure. Isn't he a jolly little cuss, Miss Penny Quick? He is a perfect darling, crewed Mary, kissing him. And, in fact, Harry Carey was a fine, clean, wholesome child, as worthy of his old family as any born under the ancestral roof. Mary shouldered him as if he belonged to her when they arrived at Redford shortly before the dinner hour. Now, Mr. Carey, you must go to the bachelor's quarters. I am sorry to say that he will not miss you, since you have been away from him for so long. He knows me now, said Mary proudly, and I will take charge of him. You may safely leap him to us now. Indeed, yes, I know that, said the thankful parent, and hastened to his quarters to receive the greetings and chapings of the young bachelor's, and to dress himself for dinner, while Mary carried the baby into the house, calling on Kazia Moon to come to her, the inadequate nurse girl trailing at her heels. The house party gathered in the glazed corridor of the middle part, a long, narrow room that had once been a veranda, and that led to the new big dining room to await the summons to the meal. Here, Deb, beautiful in limp white silk that showed up the lovely carmine of her cheeks, came forward to welcome the returned guest with an eager warmth that sadly misled him. He sat down to his dinner, a few minutes later with his head in a whirl and his appetite nowhere, as an effect of that cordial pressure of the hand, those tender eyes and that deep cued blush upon him. Then, as he came to himself, they crept into his mind a sense that things had been happening while he was away. All the eyes around the table seemed continually to turn either towards Deb, who, still flushed and bestowing absent-minded smiles upon anybody and anything, was certainly different from her usual stately self, or upon Claude Delzal, who sat beside her and seemed to have appropriated some of her lost dignity, or upon Mr. Peniquick, who fumbled oddly with carving knife and gravy spoon, and gave other evidences, Guthrie thought, of having been upset and shaken. The young man was still fumbling himself for light upon these mysteries when they were dispelled by a shock that for the moment stunned him. Mr. Peniquick called for a certain brand of wine long famous at his board. When it came and the bottles were being sent round, he stood up with a trembling goblet in his hand. The eyes round the table dropped, all but Guthrie's, which stared at the old man. There's no time like the present began the host. If a thing has to be done, he repeated this strange and embarrassing introductory remark and then spent some time in clearing his throat and blowing his nose and trying to wipe up the wine he was shaking over. When the fidgets had seized upon the whole company, he rushed his fence. I must ask you, my friends, to fill your glasses in honour of an event, an event that has just transpired in our midst, that I am sure will interest you all, that, in short, my dear daughter Deborah and the man of her choice, who knows, I hope, what a lucky dog he is. He does, called interjected, and there was eager dumb show all round the table, everyone again accepting Guthrie, leaning forward to cast brief smiles at the seated couple. I have given my consent, said Mr. Pennyquick. I have given my consent. My daughter shall be happy in her own way, and I hope he'll see to it that she gets all she bargains for. He is the son of my oldest friend, a man that was better than a brother to me, the whitest, straightest, but there's no words to say what he was. Only the son of such a man, anybody with Billy Delzal's blood in him, ought to be if he isn't. He is, sung dead, in a rich, ringing voice. Oh please, don't say any more, Father. Well, my dear, I know I am no-handed speech-making, but I can wish you luck, both of you, and I do. And I want our friends here, old friends of the family, to do the same. Good wishes make bring good fortune, but for all we know, they may do something towards it. And anyway, she may as well have all her chances. Ladies and gentlemen, long life and happiness to Deborah Pennyquick and her husband, that is to be. A general turmoil broke out, glass clinkings, cheers, handshakeings, kissings, with the sobble tube from the over-raught. And Guthrie, with no heart upon his sleeve, bowed and drank with the rest. When the demonstration was over, and the company back in its chairs, Delzal was left standing. His bride-elect sat beside him, her elbow on the table, her face shaded by her hand. On behalf of my dear wife, that is to be, said Claude, with a quiet mastery of himself, that was in striking contrast to the old man's agitation. And as a grateful duty of my own, I beg to thank you all, and especially Mr Pennyquick, for this great kindness, for your generous sympathy with us in our present happiness. Mr Pennyquick seems to have a doubt, natural to anyone, in the circumstances, but inevitable in a father, the father of such a daughter, as to my being qualified to appreciate the gift he has just bestowed upon me. I can assure him, and all of you, that I am overwhelmed with the sense of my good fortune, and of my unworthiness of it. I am unworthy, I admit it, that it shall be the business of my life to correct that fault, if it is a fault, and not merely a misfortune that I cannot help. To the best of my power I will prove, by deeds, not words, that I do know her value. Deb's hand under the table, he is dull towards his that hung at his side, and he's still holding it, until he finished speaking. Fortune has been kind in granting me the means to surround her with material comfort, to give so rare a duel the setting appropriate to it. For the rest, I must trust to her generosity. I feel quite safe in trusting to it. We have known each other, I believe we have loved each other, from childhood. I hope Mr. Peniquick will take that, as some guarantee, that his little misgivings are unnecessary. The all-rater twisted his moustache, and glanced down at the bowed head beside him. She seems to be a little taken aback by my suddenness of this public announcement, but I can say that it does not come a moment too soon for me. Mr. Peniquick has made me a proud man. I glory in my position as his daughter's a fiancéed husband. I wish to parade it as openly as possible. However, to spare her, I will say no more just now. Ladies and gentlemen, bowing to right and left, I thank you again. He sat down amid thunders of applause, and leaning back in his chair, he looked straight and full at Guthrie Cary. Guthrie Cary erect, calm as a stone image, return the look steadily. There was absolutely no expression in his eyes. End of Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Sisters This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. This reading by Lucy Burgoyne. Sisters by Ada Cambridge. Chapter 8 Cary Jr. joined the Christmas party after breakfast and was handed round. Mary introduced him. He was spick and span with shining cheeks and a damp and glossy topknot, and his blue eyes stared at the strange crowd stolidly for several minutes, before he suddenly crumbled up his face and uttered a howl of terror. What is it, queried Delzel, with raised brows, pretending that he had never seen such a thing before? It's a baby, Francis explained, dancing round it, baby baby, shaking the new rattle that was one of its Christmas gifts. Look at me, baby. It is Mr. Cary's baby. Oh, come and speak to him, Mr. Cary. He is frightened of so many strangers. The stalwart father in the background glowed upon the sun, disgracing him, red as a beetroot, embarrassed and annoyed. He strode forward. The yelling infant cast one glance at him, and yelled louder than before. I shouldn't have let him come, the sailor growled. He had got up from the wrong side of the bed that morning, and was in the mood to regret everything, even that he had been born. I don't know what possessed me to let you be bothered with the brat. I'll ring for his nurse. This was unanimously objected to, the ladies gathered round, with honeyed words and tinkling baubles to pacify the little guest. Deborah snatched him from her sister's arms, and ran with him into the garden, where she tossed him, still writhing and wailing, up and down, and dipped his face into flowers, and played other pranks calculated to enchant their average baby. This baby turned on her thorough pains, and having slept her cheeks, grabbed her beautiful hair, and tore it down about her ears. The next instant he felt the weight of the hand from which his own had derived its strength. You brute cried dead, shielding the offending little arm from a second blow. A great man like you to strike a tender might like this. Tender is hardly the word the irate parents need, and might as he is. He is not to do things of that sort. Guthrie glared at her sacred locks, disheveled. I'm awfully sorry. He shan't do it again. I'll take him away tomorrow. You will do nothing of the sort, flash dead. You are not fit to have the care of him. He shall stay here, where he will be treated as a baby ought to be, not smacked and knocked about for nothing at all. I admire his pluck, quote Delzel, sauntering up. So do I, said Deb, but she handed her sobbing burden to Mary. Here, take him, myl, while I put my hair up. Poor little fellow. She'd need not have been so severe. She might have known that it was because the cheeks and hair were hers that the baby had been punished for his assault on men. She could have seen that she was wringing the culprit's heart. Perhaps she did, and had no room in her own to care. She stood on the sunny garden path and lifted her hands to her head, a lovely pose. Here, let me, said Claude Delzel. She let him, which was cruelest of all. Guthrie turned his murderous eyes from the group and sauntered away, out of the garden, out of their sight, unrecorded, apparently unnoticed. Mary carried the crying child into the house. Then for an hour the silly fellow walked alone in the most solitary places that he could find, reveling in the thought that it was Christmas day, and he singled out by fate to have no share in its happy circumstances. No home, no friends, no love, like other men. Nothing to make life worth living. Save only the baby's son that he had ill-used. Apart from the sting of Deb's comment on it, he repented him that blow. A great big man like him. To strike a tender might like this, a motherless babe, his precious lilies bequest to him. Ah, indeed. It was the act of a brute, whatever the provocation. The might was awake too, alone in the will when his father was at sea. Pathetically helpless, with no defence against blows and unkindness. The reflection brought dimness to the man's hard blue eyes, and turned his steps houseward. He arrived to find a large four-horse brake at the door. The body was filling with other persons. The sailor knew not. Cared not him. He looked up at the radiant figure in front. She looked down on him with heart-melting kindness, as if nothing had happened. Why, Mr. Carey, aren't you coming to church? She called to him. Not today, I think, he answered, without premeditation. Christmas Day, she hinted, invitingly. You don't always get the chance, you know. I know, but thanks, I'd rather not. He bluntly persisted, hating himself for the churlish response, and all the time wanting to go. Certain to have gone if he had given himself time to think. Soldiers and sailors, with their habit of unquestioning obedience to authority, are almost always called churchmen, and, as she had pointed out, his offer of Christian privileges did not come to him every year. He had not anticipated it on this occasion, knowing Redford to be situated at least 10 miles from the church. Oh, well, said Deborah, sent in spite. I daresay it is more comfortable in the cool house. And then she left him in the position of a self-indulgent idler, preferring comfort to duty, a foil to his more conscientious rival. When the dust of the departure had cleared away, he sat on, not in the cool house, but on the hot veranda, nursing his griefs in solitude. He seemed the only person left behind, or else he seemed forgotten, as a guest of no account. What a Christmas day was again his thought, while he dragged before his mind's eye old pictures of his English home, his dead mother, Santa Claus stockings, and all sorts of pathetic things. He resolved to quit Redford on the morrow, and spend the last hours of his leave in establishing his son elsewhere. Then Mary Pennyquick came out to him with that son in her arms. Her face was redeemed from its plainness by the tender motherliness, and the no less tender friendliness of its expression, that of little Harry was cherubic. The heart of the lonely man warmed to both. He has come to tell Daddy that he is a good boy now. Explain Mary proudly. Guthrie ejaculated, sonny boy, and held out his arms. The baby, bearing no malice, tumbled into them, and was at once occupied with his father's watch chain. The threes subsided upon two cane chairs, looking, as Mary keenly comprehended, like a self-contained family. You have stayed at home because of him, the man complained fretfully, but the girl hastened to perjure herself with the assertion that she had done nothing of the kind. She then persuaded him to the half-belief, that his child was not only no nuisance to the house, but its positive delight, and she earnestly talked him out of his cruel resolve to return it to bad air, and all sorts of domestic risks. How can he be any burden on us? She pleaded. We need never see him unless we like. Only, of course, we shall like. It is entirely an arrangement between you and Mrs. Kelsey. Unless she besought herself, unless you'd like to consider an idea of Alice Urquhart's. Oh no, he broke in. I'd rather Mrs. Kelsey, a proper business agreement, if I could feel absolutely certain. Well, you can, said Mary. The beginning and end of all the trouble to us is our answering for Mrs. Kelsey. She was once our nurse, and we know her ways, for the rest she is as independent of us as that lady in Sandridge. In that case, of course, I've very little time, and really I don't know where to turn, perhaps until after this voyage. Yes, then, if you are dissatisfied, you can make a change. She assumed the matter settled, and began to go into details. Deb saw Mrs. Kelsey while you were away. She's willing enough. She says 10 shillings a week would cover everything. The drainage is all right. Kelsey will see that he has one cow's milk. They'll feed him well, but they won't give him rich things. She's the most careful woman. He'll be out in the air, getting strong all the time. He'll want hardly any clothes in the country. Deb says he'd be better without shoes and socks. I hope he'll be kept out of Miss Deborah's way after that exhibition. Nonsense. She was too rough and ready with him, and she didn't mind a bit. Of course not. She says she likes boys to be boys. He is a thorough boy. Mary proudly declared, bending to kiss a chubby knee. Harry acknowledged the caress with a thumping smack of her bowed head. Gently, gently, mourn the father amiably. Now, what do you say to our walking over to interview Mrs. Kelsey? Mary pushed her advantage home. I daresay she will be busy, but she'd give us a few minutes. It would be a satisfaction to her to speak to you herself, and here is a good opportunity. They won't be home much before too. Guthrie fetched his straw hat. Mary retied the baby's flapping headgear, and they set forth. Let me have him, she begged, mother like. No, he's too heavy for you. The father carried the child, who loved the feel of the strong arms, in which he jumped up and down, continuing to make play with his dirty little fists. Instead of striking back, Guthrie answered the baby assaults with wild beast brawls and gestures that sent the little man into fits of delight. Mary laughed in chorus, keeping touch with the happy creature over the towering shoulder rid between them. It was more than ever like a little self-contained family taking a Sunday stroll. Mrs. Kelsey had her Christmas dinner in hand, but came to them in her big white apron and sleeves rolled to her dimpled elbows, smiling, businesslike, charming in her plain, reposeful, straightforward attitude towards the visitors and their mission. No sooner had he beheld her orderly and cheerful house, looked into her kind eyes, and heard her sincere speech than the young father was satisfied that he had found a good place for his little son. The child seemed to know it too, for when the strange woman drew him to a broad lap, calmly, as if used to doing it, he surrendered himself without a protest. When presently she gave him a drink of milk and a biscuit to munch, he regaled himself peaceably, with the air of feeling quiet at home. When he had finished his lunch, he played with a colleague puppy. I'll do my best for him, Sue, and I'll not let these young ladies spoil him if I can help it, said Mrs. Kelsey, with a smile at Mary Penny Quick. Terms had been arranged and everything settled. I hope you will be able to keep him from being any bother to them, said Guthrie earnestly. Bother, crowed Mary, whose intention was to visit the child daily. We'll see to that, Mr. Carey, never fear. Mrs. Kelsey suggested beginning her duties, with the aid of the little nurse, at once, that Mary would not hear a part in the boy from his father while they could be together. So he was carried back to Redford, to be the plaything at the housekeeper's room for the rest of the day. My baby, Mary began to call him. She had to preside at the great dinner, that was not visible to her family for hours before and after. It was a better Christmas to Guthrie Carey in the end than in the beginning. Deb came back from church, chastened in spirit, to make up to him for her unkindness, on the score of which her warm heart had reproached her. She made him play billiards with her after tea, while Claude was resting after his labours. She chased him deliciously on his errors in the game. She forgot to ask after his baby, but she asked whether it would not be possible to get his leave extended. When he said no, he had had more than he share already, she commended him for his sense of duty, and in her seriousness was more enchanting than in her fun. But I do wish we could have kept you longer. She flattered him in a sweet way. However, we shall have a hostage for your return. Several new people came to dinner, including Mr Goldsworthy and Ruby, the latter sent at once, by Deb's command, to keep Little Carey company. Spacious Redford was taxed to the utmost to accommodate its guests, and never was better Christmas cheer provided in the old hall of English Redford than its son in exile dispensed under his Australian roof. When every leaf was put into the dining table, it was so long that Mary at one end was beyond speaking distance of her father at the other, and those at the sides could scarce use their elbows as they ate. The banquet was prodigious, with speeches to wind up with Mr Goldsworthy in his aeration, disgusted Deb by referring to the host as princely, and to the ladies at the house as his bevy of beautiful daughters. And if the truth must be told, the crowning ceremony at the Loving Cup was a bit superfluous. It found the host already fuddled beyond a doubt, and several of the guests under suspicion of being so. But in the opinion of all, Redford had to celebrate a Christmas in an unsurpassably proper manner. Two mornings later, a wagonette was packed with luggage and four passengers, Mary Pennequik, Guthrie Carey, the baby and the baby's little nurse. They proceeded in a body to the overseas house, where the load was halved. Mary, the baby, and one box were left with Mrs Kelsey, reinforced by the collie puppy and a plate of sugared strawberries. The sailor and the nursemaid, after a few poignant moments, went on to a distant railway station. Had an easy mind, said Mary, outside the parlour door, he will be well off with her, and we shall all be looking after him. How can I thank you? said the parting guest, barely able to articulate. He wrung her hand and looked at her kind, red-faced, with feelings unspeakable. God bless you, God reward you for your goodness to the little chap and me. He was including all the family in his benediction, and it was the father and him that was so touched and overcome. Nonetheless, she accepted the tribute for her own, and to her poverty-stricken womanhood it was wealth indeed. She stood in the porch to watch the wheels of his departing chariot flash through the sun and dust. She stared long at the vacant point of disappearance, like one entranced. When she came to her soul, she ran into the house and fell upon little Harry. My baby, she crooned passionately, my baby. Carrie Junior responded with his ready fist, pushing her from him. He was feeding the puppy with the strawberry, and she put her head in the way. Five, you mustn't do that, said Mrs. Kelsey, mindful of her responsibilities. That's rude. Oh, let him pleaded the girl, infatuated with that look of his father in his face, and she dropped on her knees before him and kissed a dangling foot, with which he kicked her mouth. Let him do what he likes, so long as he's happy. Not at all, her old nurse reproved her. I promise Mr. Kerry that he should not be spoiled. He was not spoiled, the admirable foster mother. Brooking no interference with her system, improved him into a well-behaved child, as well as the healthiest and most beautiful in all that countryside. It was the standing grievance at Redford that she would not allow him to be always on show there, subject to Mary's indulgence, and Deb's caprices, and the temptations of the housekeeper's storeroom. Only Mr. Kelsey, who was his idol, was permitted to withdraw him from Mrs. Kelsey's eye. The man used to take the child with a toy whip in his little hand on the saddle before him, and let him think he was guiding the steady horse, and doing all the business at the station as well. The overseer confessed, in bad weather, when he had to ride alone, that he was lost without his little mate. Hardly weaned, he used to brag, and knows every beast on the place, as well as I do myself. This was gross exaggeration, yet was the infant Harry a conspicuously forward child, with the makings of a man in him visible to all. His hearty woes and gee-ups carried as far as the overseer's gruff voice, and the picture of the jolly boy with his rosy, joyous face, and his fair curls blowing in the wind was one to kindle the admiration of all who saw it. The phrase continually on the lips of his adopted family and connections was, won't his father be surprised when he sees him? They enjoyed, in anticipation, the grateful praises that would be heaped upon the men, but Guthrie Carey never saw his son again. The baby went a visiting with his foster parents to the local township, and it was supposed caught the infection of tythoid there from some unknown source. Having caught it, the robust little boy, unused to any ailment, was wrecked at once, where a frail child might easily have weathered the storm. No little prince of blood royal could have been better nursed and more strenuously fought for, for three days after he had visibly sickened he was dead, and then the wail went up. Oh, what will his father say? When Guthrie came, prepared by letters from fellow mourners, as bereaved as himself, it was but from one day to the next, only to hear the particulars, and to see the little grey. Deborah was away from home, but in any case, Mary would have been the one to perform the sad duties of the occasion. They were hers by right. She took him to the family cemetery on the only evening of his day, and herself, speechless and weeping, showed him the whole place, renovated and made beautiful, for the sake of the latest comer. No weeds, no dead rose bushes, no vampire ivy now, but an orderly garden, new planted and watered, and in the midst a small mound heaped with fresh cut flowers. She had visited the child daily, while he lived at Mrs Calces. Now she almost daily visited his grave. They dropped on their knees beside it, close as bride and bridegroom on their altar steps, as father and mother at the first born cradle. The dusk was melting into moonlight. They could not see each other's faces. When his big praying heaved with heavy sobs, she laid a timid hand, her beautiful hand, on his shoulder, and when he felt that sympathetic woman's touch, he turned sullenly and kissed her. Afterwards he did not remember that he had done it. She seemed to cling to him when, next morning, the time came for him to go. You will come again, she implored him, in a trembling whisper. You will come here when you return next time. Oh, surely he replied, whispering too, and to the pool as deeply moved. But when he got away, it was to other lands that he turned his eyes, in the search for new interests to occupy his lonely life. With Lily and the baby dead, and Deborah Peniquick given to another man, Australia had no more hold on him. His first letter to Redford notified that he had changed into another line, and that the name of his new ship was the Dovdale. She traded to the West Indies. He forgot to write again when, not very long afterwards, he went back to his old grind, at the invitation of the company, as captain at the ship on which he had served as mate. End of Chapter 8 Sisters This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. This reading by Lucy Burgoyne. Sisters by Ada Cambridge. Chapter 9 Dovdale Dovdale, hello. Mr Peniquick broke the silence of his newspaper reading. Why, isn't that, well, upon my soul? It does seem as if some folks were born unlucky. Here's that poor young fellow. First he loses a charming wife, before he's been married any time, and then the finest child going. And now, here, he's gone himself, before his prime, with no end of a career before him. Who cried dead from the tea table, where she was helping herself to a hot cake? Young Carey, Al Carey, oh, it's him all right, worse luck. His ship's been wrecked, and only two ABs saved to tell the tale. Look here. He passed the newspaper, pressed under his broad thumb. Deb stood to read the indicated item, while her father watched her face. Neither of them noticed Mary's peculiar appearance, nor marked her departure from the room. We must inquire about this, said Deb earnestly. We must get the names of those on board. He may have been on leave. She was a prompt person, and as she spoke, looked at the clock, a little after four, and laid the paper down. I'll drive you to the station, Daddy, and we'll telegraph to the shipping people, and his doctor friend. We'll get authentic information somehow, if we have to cable home for it. They were off in a quarter of an hour, having sent a message to Mary by Miss Keane to explain their errand. They dwind in the township while waiting for replies, and came home late at night, heavy-hearted, with the melancholy news confirmed. Since it happened to be the transition moment when Mr Carey had ceased to be a mate, and was only a prospective commander, the authorities in Melbourne, consulting latest advisers, had no doubt of his having been on the dovetail to the last. Those of them who presently found themselves mistaken did not take the trouble to say so. They left it to time and the newspaper. But meanwhile, Mary Pennyquick sadly complicated the case. When Deb and her father returned from their expedition, it was to hear from Francis an excited story of how the elder sister had hidden behind locked doors, and not only refused dinner, but denied speech to all comers. We know she's there because she said go away to Miss Keane when she knocked first, but since then she hasn't said a word, not for hours and hours. I've been listening at her door since Miss Madden let me out of school. I shouldn't be surprised, said Francis, who had a fine imagination if she's committed suicide. Poor Mr Carey was her lover, you know? Poo! said Deb. She knew who's lover poor Mr Carey had been, but she ran to Mary's room in some concern. She tried the handle of the door, and then wrapped sharply. Molly opened this door, she commanded. And there was a rustle inside, a shuffling step, and the lock clicked. She marched in to see Mary fling herself back on the bed from which she had risen with a protesting wail. Oh, why can't you all let me alone? Why, what's the matter? Deb climbed on the bed, and tried to lift the half-buried head to her breast. A signal for the pent-up brief to burst forth. Molly, sweetheart, what's all this about? Oh, my love, my love, came Mary wildly. Oh Deb, oh Deb, he was my all, and he's dead, and I can't bear it, I can't, I can't. Deb hurst her lips, and the colour rose in her cheek. She saw the situation, so pathetic, and so ignominous. She could not understand a woman fallen in love with, and then breaking her heart full, a man who had never cared for her. But then Deb's face was not heavy and bricky, with prominent cheekbones, and a forehead four inches high. My precious, she pruned, as tenderly as if she understood it all, and as if her immense pity was not mixed with contempt. Don't, don't, it doesn't matter about me, but don't let the others think. It would be too undignified, darling, a casual acquaintance, though a dear, good boy, as ever lived. There was nobody liking Deb, and he was my all, no, no, Mary. You don't know, Debby, oh, nobody knows. And wrapping her head in her arms again, Mary abandoned herself to her despair. Deb got off the bed, lip-dressing table candles, and poured water, and only cologne, into a washbasin. She returned with a fragrant sponge, with which she stroked what she could reach of her sister's face. Come now, said she briskly. You must have a little pride, dear. You mustn't give way like this, for a man who did not, and you know he did not. Mary broke in with a sudden passion, lifting her distorted countenance to the crew of light. He did, she affirmed. You have no business to sneer and say he didn't. He did. It was not for nothing that the heart-hungry girl had brooded for months over a few acts and words, magnifying them through the spectacles that nature and her needs had provided. Deb put her pitying arms round her sister's shoulders. But, my dear, I know, we all know. How could you know when you were not at home? Nobody knows, nobody but him and me. Feeling Deb's continued skepticism in the silence of her caresses. Mary burst out recklessly. Would he have kissed me if he had not? Deb's arm was withdrawn. She twisted half round to look in Mary's face. Mary covered it with her pretty hands, weeping bitterly. Is that—did he do that? Asked Deb, in a low tone. That night, that last night, I ought not to have spoken of it. When we were at our little grave, it was that precious child that drew us together. You think he had gone away and forgotten, but I know he had not. He would have come back. He promised to. He gave me his dear photograph. I have not shown it to anybody, but here it is. And still sobbing, and with tears running down her cheeks, she reached to a drawl by the bedside and dragged out this further testimony to her claim. It was wrapped in layers of tissue paper, like her father's valentine, and displayed it with a touching pride. Before handing it to Deb, she gazed at it with grotesquely distorted face, kissed it, pressed it to her bosom, kissed it again, and moaned over it, rocking to and fro. Then, when she had pushed it from her, flung herself into her former attitude of complete abandonment to grief. Very calmly Deb carried the picture to the dressing table, and held it behind a candle. There he was, big, strong, healthy, manly, with that clear brow, that square chin, that steady, good mouth. And he looked her straight in the eyes. Was it possible that accountants could sow to see? No more tears from Deb, for his untimely fate. Had it been his face in the flesh, it could not possibly have gazed in that undaunted way at hers, her expression would have withered him. She returned to the morning room, drawing room, also, when no guests were in the house, to report to her father. Mary has gone to bed. She said quietly, she is very much upset by this business. It appears there was something between her and Mr. Carey. She expected him to come back for her. What, Mary? cried Rose, waiting with Francis to say good night. There, try and Francis. What did I say? Mary, their father, echoed Rose's surprised tones. The dickens. You don't say so. Poor little soul. Poor little girly. Well, I never thought of that. Did you, Deb? Never, father. Not for a moment. I suppose it was the child. It must have been the child. Mr. Peniquick was deeply consumed. I wonder why he never said anything. He addressed Deb when Rose and Francis had been sent to bed. Hey, Deb. Seems strange, don't it? We had so much talk together. Quite like a sort of son. He was. I could have made a son of that fellow. Poor lad. Poor lad. Suppose he thought it wasn't the straight thing to bind a girl of ours. Till he was in a better position. It would be just like him. Well, but Mary, of all people. This was the puzzle to all. It must have been the baby. She certainly did do it on that child. And love him. Love my dog, eh? But to think of her keeping it so close all that time. Afraid I'd make a fuss, I suppose. You could have told her, Deb, that I don't stand in my children's way for the sake of my own feelings, and a carry of well-wood isn't for us to sniff at either, if he is poor. A carry has been good enough for a Peniquick before today. God, I wish I'd known. I might have got him something better to do and saved them both from this. Poor old girl. Is she very bad, Debbie? Shall I go and talk to her a bit? I wouldn't tonight, Father, if I were you, replied Deb, with a weary air. She is quieter now, and I have given her something to send her to sleep. I will keep my door open and go and look at her through the night. I think she will be better tomorrow. On the morrow Mary was, at least more, self-controlled. She came amongst her family with the look of one who had passed through an illness and shrinking from the first words and glances. But they all gathered her to their hearts and murmured loving sympathy in her ears, and tenderly fussed over her and waited upon her. Her father took her to his sanctum and showed her his old daguerreotype and valentine, and told her they should be hers at his death. Ms. Keane, excited as an old maid is over anybody's love affair, wanted to take over the housekeeping as well as the doing of the flowers in order to leave the mourner free to enjoy the full luxury of her estate. The governess assumed to be above love affairs was very strict with Francis, holding her to tasks set on purpose to prevent her from teasing her elder sister. But Francis had informed the servants overnight that Mr. Carey was drowned and that he had been Miss Pennyquicks, a fianceed husband all the time, unbeknown to anybody, and the tale was already spreading far and wide to the ear cuts at five creeks, to Mr. Thornycroft at Bundaboo, to Mr. Goldsworthy and his parishioners, to the editor of the local paper, so that soon the family friends were arriving to press Mary's hand and condole with her to show her how she had risen in the world as a woman in the eyes of all. No, no, she protested when the a fianceed husband was too literally taken for granted. It was not a formal engagement. It was only defending herself against the puzzled stare and lifted eyebrow, only that we understood each other. He was coming back if he had lived. The wish was valid to the thought. Good, honest girl as she was, she had persuaded herself to this, that he would have come back if he had lived, and that then the omitted formalities called for by that graveside kiss would certainly have been observed. It seems incredible that rampant sex does strange things every day of the week. There is, at any rate, nothing extraordinary in the way she clung to the sweet dignity that a similar belief on the part of others brought to her, the poor plain girl who had always been out of it. The long hidden photograph was now put into a costly frame and set up in a room for anybody to see. Francis would often sneak in with the visitor to show the manner of man who would have married Molly. There were even times when Mary herself was the exhibitor. At other times she might have been found kneeling before it as at a shrine and weeping her eyes out, and she put off her colours and ornaments and wore black and nobody made any objection. The hero of romance was given to her unquestioningly, and with him a respect and consideration such as she had never known before. Lovers talked to her of their love affairs, feeling that she was now one of them. Her father mourned a tour for hours at a stretch at the old Mary Carey, at last secure of sympathy and a perfect listener. Dead was reserved and silent, but otherwise as devoted as the rest. And then came the inevitable discovery that Guthrie Carey was not dead after all. It was made at Five Cricks while Francis was on a holiday visit to her friend Belle Urquhart. At Redford nobody thought of reading the shipping columns in the newspaper. Their interest was supposed to be gone forever. The Jim Urquhart glanced at them daily, looking for the arrival of a friend from overseas, and one day he saw a ship's name that was familiar to him and bracketed with the name of Jim Carey as its commander. The coincidence was startling. He pointed it out to a man staying in the house, a stranger to the Redford family and to the district. There was a mate named Carey on this ship a while ago. He changed into that unfortunate dovetail that was wrecked and was lost with her. Odd that the captain of his old vessel should have the same name, same initial too. Our friend was Guthrie. Guthrie Carey, oh, I know Guthrie Carey, met him in London last year, just after the dovetail wreck. He told me of his narrow escape, was really going with her on her last voyage, and only prevented at the last moment by the offer of this captaincy from his former owners. It's the same man, do you know him? They all told how much they knew him, and there was great commotion at Five Creek's. Jim was for driving hotfoot to Redford to warn Mr. Peniquick against disseminating the newspaper through the house too rashly. Alice and her mother each volunteered to go with him, so as to break it with feminine skillfulness to Mary, whose reason might be destroyed by too sudden a gorge of joy, like the stomach of a starved man by clumsy feeding. But while they anxiously discussed what ought to be done, Francis was doing. The enterprising young lady slipped away, and with Bell's help caught and settled her pony, and was off to Redford as if wolves were at her heels. No war correspondent on active service ever did a smarter trick to get ahead of other papers. She burst in to the family circle violently. Mary, Mary, Deb, Rose, Father, Mr. Carey is alive. He wasn't drowned. He wasn't on the dovetail. He was just going. But they wanted him back, and they made him a captain, and he's here now. His ship came in last night, and there it is in the paper, and his name, and Mr. Mills, at Five Preaches, saw him himself after the dovetail was wrecked, and he knows him well, and he's in Melbourne now, and I expect he'll be here directly. Perhaps he's coming up now, this very minute. She was checked by angry exclamations from all persons addressed, except Mary. She, at the moment, bending over a table, cutting out needlework, straightened herself, and stood stock still and staring, while first her bricky face went dark purple all over, and then seemed drained in three seconds of every drop of blood. She heard the words, Mr. Carey is alive, and instantly believed them. At the same moment, her dream palace vanished, and she saw the bare ground of her love affair exactly as it was, as Guthrie himself would see it, and just how she had deceived herself and others. Her healthy heart and nervous system could not support her under the impact of such a shock. She reeled as she stood, spun half-round, and fell backwards into Deborah's arms. You little fool, Debrae, the dismayed child, to blurt it out like that. Never mind, Father, it's all right. She has fainted, but she'll soon come round. Go and get a smelling bottle, somebody. Tell Khazai to bring a little brandy. Don't speak to anybody else. Where's today's Argus? While Rose was flying for restoratives and Francis speeding through the house with her great news, Deb and her father exchanged significant glances over Mary's prostrate form. It is more than a year, said Deb, and he has not even written to her. I'll write to him, said Mr. Pennyquick, grinding his teeth. I'll write to him. It was the tone in which he might have said, I'll wring his neck for him. But when Mary came round and perceived his mood and intentions, she implored him not to write, went on her knees, and almost shrieked in her frantic fear of his doing so. Oh, Father, don't, don't. If he does not remember, if he does not want to come, you would not drag him by force, and he never bound himself. He never really asked me. Very likely he did not mean anything, after all. Not mean anything. Shout at the indignant father. He can kiss a girl, a daughter of mine, and not mean anything. I'll make him tell me whether he did not mean anything. No, Father, Commander Deb, you must not write to him. It is not for a Pennyquick to fling herself at any man's head. Let him alone. We don't want him. Treat him, as I hope Mollie is going to do, with the contempt that he deserves. Mr. Pennyquick stormed and muttered, but obeyed. And for two days Captain Carey was left to the Anathemas of Redford, and the countryside as a heartless tilt. To Mary's extreme anguish, she tried to water down the concoction that she stood answerable for, to take blame of him, and put it on herself. But she did not go far enough to convince anybody that she was not sacrificing herself to shield him. It was a horrible position for a delicate-minded and even high-minded girl, and the misery of it was aggravated by the constant effort to face its signs and evidences. She was left with no outlook in life but to get through 20, 30, 40 years somehow, and come to a little peace at last, when everything would be forgotten. And her, one fall on hope, was that Guthrie would not discover her crime, would keep up the neglect with which he had treated his old friends, and not come near them. He might have done this, for the fact was that he now had a dawning affair in another quarter, had not Francis intervened. To her inaction at such a crisis was intolerable, and since nobody else would do it, she wrote to Guthrie Carey herself. She wrote, she said, to welcome him back to life and to Australia, and to congratulate him on being a captain. Incidentally, she mentioned other matters and asked innocent-seeming questions, which she was well aware could only be answered in person. Francis, since his first acquaintance with her, had shot up into a slim, tall girl, exquisite in colouring and the doneness of her figure and face. Although, unlike Deb, in every way, people were beginning to compare them as rival beauties. Francis' private opinion being that there was no comparison. She had nearly done with goblesses, short rocks and pigtails, and was ardently anticipating the power and glory coming to her when she should be a full-grown woman. Two days after the clandestine postage of her letter to Captain Carey, a new housemaid brought Mary his visiting card on a silver tray. Mary knew, before looking at it, having heard nothing of the letter and no sound of his arrival in his hired buggy, what name at all. Her full-lawn hope had been too full-lawn to stand for anything but despair. She had expected the catastrophe from the first.