 Part 1 Chapter 6 In a white-washed parlour of Beamish's family-hotel, some few miles north of Geelong, three young women in voluminous skirts and with their hair looped low over their ears sat at work. Books lay open on the table before two of them, the third was making a bookmark. Two were fair, plump, rosy, and well over twenty, the third pale-skinned and dark was still a very young girl. She it was who stitched magenta hieroglyphics on a strip of perforated cardboard. "'Do let me see, Paul,' said the eldest of the trio, and laid down her pen. "'You have been quick about it, my dear.' Polly the brunette freed her needle of silk and twirled the bookmark by its ribbon ends. Being the mystic characters united to form the words, kiss me quick.' Her companions titted. "'If Ma did not know for certain it was meant for your brother John, she'd never have let you make it,' said the second blonde, whose name was Ginny. "'Girls, what a lark it would be to send it up to Purdy Smith by Ned,' said the first speaker. Polly blushed. "'Fie, Tilly, that would not be ladylike.' Tilly's big bosom rose and fell in a sigh. "'What's a lark, never is?' Ginny giggled, agreeably scandalised. "'What things you do say, Tilly, don't let Marry a year, that's all.' "'Ah, be blowed, how does this look now, Polly?' And across the waxcloth Tilly pushed a copy book in which she had laboriously inscribed a prim maxim the requisite number of times. Polly laid down her work and knitted her brows over the page. "'Well, it's better than the last one, Tilly,' she said gently, averse to hurting her pupil's feelings. "'But still, not quite good enough. The eff's look should be more like this. And taking a steel pen she made several long-tailed effs in a tiny pointed hand.' Tilly yielded an ungrudging admiration. "'Our way you do it, Paul, but I hate writing if only Marr weren't so set on it.' "'You'll never be able to write yourself to a certain person whose name I won't mention if you don't hurry up and learn,' said Ginny, looking sage. "'Oh, siods, we've always got Paul to write for us,' gave back Tilly, and lazily stretched out a large plump hand to recover the copy book. A certain person'll never know, or not till it's too late.' "'Ear, Polly, dear,' said Ginny, and held out a book, I know it now.' Again Polly put down her embroidery. She took the book. "'Plough,' said she. "'Plough,' echoed Ginny vaguely, and turned a pair of soft cow-like brown eyes on the blow-fly, sitting sticky and sleepy around the walls of the room. "'Why did you—let me think—' "'Plough, oh yes, I know—' "'P-L.'" "'P-L-O,' prompted Polly, the speller coming to a full stop. "'P-L-O-W,' shot out Ginny and Triumph. "'Not quite right,' said Polly. "'It's G-H, Ginny. "'P-L-O-U-G-H.'" "'Oh, that's what I meant. I knew it right enough.' "'Well, now, trough.' "'Troph,' repeated Ginny in the same slow vacant way. "'Troph, white, let me think a minute. "'T-R-O.'" Polly's lips all but formed the U to prevent the F she felt impending. "'I'm afraid you'll have to take it again, Ginny, dear,' she said reluctantly, as nothing further was forthcoming. "'Oh, no, Paul. "'T-R-O,' began Ginny with fresh vigor. But before she could add a fourth to the three letters, a heavy foot pounded down the passage, and a start woman out of breath, her cab-bands flying, came bustling in and slammed the door. "'Girls, girls, now, whatever do you think? "'Ears, Purdy, smith, come riding into the yard, and another gent with him. "'Scutle along now, and put them books away. "'Till day, your knits are fangin' off. "'You don't want your sweetheart to see you're all untidy like that, do ya? "'Help them, Polly, my dear, and be quick about it. "'Hurt with your so-in-chicks.'" Sprung up from their seats the three girls darted to and fro. The tell-tale spelling and copy-books were flung into the drawer of the chiffonniere, and the key was turned on them. Polly, her immodest sampler, safely hidden in the bottom of her work-box, was the most composed of the three. And while locks were smooth and collars adjusted in the adjoining bedroom, she remained behind to look out thimbles, needles, and strips of plain sewing, and to lay them naturally about the table. The blond sisters reappeared, all aglow with excitement, tillie in particular was in a sad flutter. "'Oh, girls, I simply can't face him in here,' she declared. "'It was ear in this very room that he first—you know what?' "'Nor can I,' cried Ginny, catching the fever. "'Feel my heart—oh, it beats,' said her sister, pressing her hands one over the other to her full left breast. "'Minds every bit as bad,' avert Ginny. "'I believe I shall have the palpitations and faint away if I stop here.' Polly was genuinely concerned. "'I'll run and call mother back.' "'Now, I tell you what, let's hide,' cried tillie, recovering. Ginny wavered. "'But will they find us?' "'Duffer, of course. Marl gives in the hint. Come on!' Suiting the action to the word and imitated by her sister, she scrambled over the window-sill to the veranda. Polly found herself alone, a conscientious scrupling, but mother, maybe cross, had passed unheeded. Now she, too, fell into a flurry. She couldn't remain there by herself to meet two young men, one of whom was a stranger. Steps and voices were already audible at the end of the passage. And so, since there was nothing else for it, she clambered after her friends, though with difficulty for she was not very tall. This was why, when Mrs. Beamish flourished open the door, exclaiming in a hearty tone, "'And here you'll find them, gents, sitting at their needles, busy as bees.' The most conspicuous object in the room was a very neat leg, clad in a white stocking and black pranella boot, which was just being drawn up over the sill. It flashed from sight, and the patter of running feet beat the floor of the veranda. "'Aha! too late the birds have flown,' laughed Purdy, and smacked his thigh. "'Well, I declare, and so they have, the naughty creatures,' exclaimed Mrs. Beamish in mock dismay. "'But trust you, Mr. Smith, for sayin' the right thing, just exactly like birds they are, so shy and scared like.' "'But I'll give you the ink, gents, they'll not be far away, just you show them to comply at that game.' "'Mr. S., you know the harbour.' "'Should say I do. Men is the time I've anchored there,' cried Purdy with a guffaw. "'Come, Dick,' and crossing to the window he straddled over the frame and disappeared.' Reluctantly Marnie followed him. From the veranda they went down into the vegetable garden where the drab and tangled growths that had outlived the summer were beaten flat by the recent rains. At the foot of the garden behind a clump of gooseberry bushes stood an arbour formed of a yellow buddlier. No trace of a petticoat was visible so thick was the leafage, but a loud whispering and tittering betrayed the fugitives. At the apparition of the young men, who stooped to the low entrance, there was a cascade of shrieks. "'Oh, Lord, how you frighten me! However did you know we were here?' "'You wicked fellow, get away, will you? I ate the very side of you,' this from Tilly, as Purdy, his hands on her hips, gave her a smacking kiss. The other girls feared a light greeting. There were more squeaks and squeals and some ineffectual dives for the doorway. Purdy spread out his arms. "'Hey, look out, stop them, Dick. Now then, man, here's your chance.' Marnie stood blinking. It was dusk inside after the dazzle of the sun. At this reminder of the foolish bet he had taken, he hurriedly seized the young woman who was next to him and embraced her. It chanced to be Ginny. She screamed and made a faint of feeling mortally outraged. Marnie had to dodge a box on the ears. But Purdy burst into a horse laugh and held his sides, without knowing why Tilly joined in and Ginny, too, was infected. When Purdy could speak, he blurted out, "'Dick, you fathead, you jackass, you've mugged the wrong one!' At this clownish mirth Marnie felt the blood boil up over ears and temples. For an instant he stood irresolute. Did he admit the blunder, his victim would be hurt? Did he deny it, he would save his own face at the expense of the other young woman's feelings. So though he could have throttled Purdy, he put a bold front on the matter. "'Carpe diem is my motto, my boy. I intend to make both young ladies pay toll.'" His words were the signal for a fresh scream and flutter. The third young person had escaped and was flying down the path. This called for chase and capture. She was not very agile, but she knew the ground which outside the garden was rocky and uneven. For a time she had Marnie advantage. His heart was not in the game. In cutting undignified capers among the gooseberry bushes he felt as foolish as a performing dog. Then, however, she caught her toe in her dress and stumbled. He couldn't disregard the opportunity. He advanced upon her. But two beseeching hands fended him off. "'No, no, please—oh, please don't!' This was no catch-penny coquetry. It was a genuine dread of undue familiarity. A kindred trait in Marnie's own nature rose to meet it. "'Certainly not. If it's disagreeable to you, shall we shake hands instead?' Two of the blackest eyes he had ever seen were raised to his and a flushed face dimpled. They shook hands and he offered his arm. Halfway to the arbor they met the others coming to find them. The girls bore diminutive parasols and Purdy, enrolicking spirits, tillie on one arm, Ginny on the other, held pollies above his head. On the appearance of the laggards Ginny, who had put her own interpretation on the misplaced kiss, prepared to free her arm, but Purdy, winking at his friend, squeezed it to his side and held her prisoner. Tillie buzzed a word in his ear. "'Yes, by thunder,' he ejaculated, and letting go of his companions he spun around like a ballet dancer. "'Ladies, let me introduce to you my friend Dr. Richard Townsend Marnie, F. R. C. S. M. D. Edinburgh, at present proprietor of the Dicker's Emporium, Dead Dog Hill, Ballarat. "'Dick, my hearty, Miss Tillie Beamish, world fame for her sauce, Miss Ginny renowned for her skill in casting the eyes of sheep, and last but not least, pretty little Polly Perkins, alias Miss Polly Turnham, whose good deeds put those of Dorcas to the blush.' The Mrs. Beamish went into fits of laughter, and Tillie hit Purdy over the back with her parasol. But a string of letters had puzzled them, roused their curiosity. "'What on earth did I mean? Gracious, so clever, makes me feel quite queer. "'You'd have told us beforehand, bird, so we could have studied up.' However, a walk to a cave was under discussion, and Purdy urged them on. "'Feebus is on the wane girls, and it's going to be damned cold to-night.' Once more, with the young person called Polly as companion, Marnie followed after. He walked in silence, listening to the rattle of the three in front. At best he was but a poor hand at the kind of repartee demanded of their swains by these young women, and to-day his slender talent failed him altogether, crushed by the general tone of vulgar levity. Looking over at the horizon, which swam in a kind of gold-dust haze below the sinking sun, he smiled thinly to himself at Purdy's ideas of waving. Reminded that he was not alone by feeling the hand on his arm tremble, he glanced down at his companion, and his eye was arrested by a neatly parted head of the glossiest back imaginable. He pulled himself together. "'Your cousins are excellent walkers.' "'Oh, yes, Ferry, but they're not my cousins.' Marnie pricked up his ears. "'But you live here?' "'Yes, I help mother, Mrs. Beamish, in the house.' But as if with this she had said too much, she grew tongue-tied again, and there was nothing more to be made of her. Taking pity on her timidity, Marnie tried to put her at ease by talking about himself. He described his life on the diggings and the straits to which he was at times reduced. The buttons affixed to his clothing by means of ginger-beer bottle-wire, his periodic onslaughts on sock-darning, the celebrated pudding it had taken him over four hours to make, and Polly, listening to him, forgot her desire to run away. Instead she couldn't help laughing at the tails of his masculine shiftlessness. But as soon as they came in view of the others, Tillie and Purdy sitting under one parasol on a rock by the cave, Ginny standing and looking out rather aggressively after the loiterers, she withdrew her arm. "'Mother, Mrs. Beamish will need me to help with tea, and would you please walk back with Ginny?' Before he could reply she had turned and was hurrying away. They got home from the cave at sundown, he with the ripe Ginny hanging a dead weight on his arm, to find tea spread in the private parlour. The table was all but invisible under its load, and their hostess looked as though she had been par-boiled in her own kitchen fire. She sat and fanned herself with a sheet of newspaper, while time and again, undaunted by refusals, she pressed the good things upon her guests. There were juicy beef steaks piled high with rings of onion and a barracuda and a cold leg of mutton. There were apple pies and jam tarts, a dish of curds and whey and a jug of custard. Butter and bread were fresh and new, scones and cakes had just left the oven, and the great cups of tea were tempered by pure thick cream. To the two men who came from Digger's Fair, cold chop for breakfast, cold chop for dinner and cold chop for tea, the meal was little short of a banquet, and few words were spoken in its course. But the moment arrived when they could eat no more, and when even Mrs. Beamish ceased to urge them. Pipes and pouches were produced. Polly and Ginny rose to collect the plates, Tillie and her beau to sit on the edge of the veranda. They could be seen in silhouette against the rising moon, Tillie's head drooping to Purdy's shoulder. Mrs. Beamish looked from them to Marnie with a knowing smile, and whispered behind her hand, I do wish those two would hurry up and make up their minds that I do. I'd like to see my Tilda settled. No offence meant to young Smith, he's the best of good company, but sometimes. Well, I could just knock their heads together when they sit so close and say, Come, give over your spoon and get to business. Either you want one another or you don't. I've seen you watch in our Polly, Mr. Mahoney. She made Marnie wince by stressing the second syllable of his name. Bless you, no, no relation whatsoever. She just helps a bit in the arse in his company for the girls. We tug her in a year ago. Her own relations had played her a dirty trick. Mustn't let her catch me saying so, though, she won't hear a word against them, and that's as it should be. Looking round and finding Polly absent from the room, she went on to tell Marnie how Polly's eldest brother, a ten-year's resident in Melbourne, had sent to England for the girl on her leaving school to come out and assist in keeping his house, and how an elder sister, who was governessing in Sydney, had chosen just this moment to throw up her post and returned a quarter herself upon her brother. And so, when Polly gets here, a little bit of a thing in short frocks in charge of the captain, there's no room for her, and she had to look about here for something else to do. We tug her in, and I will say, I've never regretted it. Indeed, I don't know now how we ever got on without her. Yes, it's you I'm talking about, Miss, sing in your praises, and you needn't get as red as if you'd been after Mischief. Far'll say as much for you, too. That I will, said Mr. Beamish, opening his mouth for the first time, except to put food in it, that I will, and he batted Polly's hand. The man as gets Polly will get a treasure. Polly blushed after the helpless touching fashion of very young creatures. The blood stained her cheeks, mounted to her forehead, spread in a warm wave over neck and ears. To spare her, Marnie turned his head and looked out of the window. He would have liked to say, run away, child, run away, and don't let them see your confusion. Polly, however, went conscientiously about her task, and only left the room when she had picked up her full complement of plates. But she did not appear again that night. Desserted even by Mrs. Beamish, the two men pushed back their chairs from the table and drew tranquilly at their pipes. The innkeeper proved an odd, misty sort of fellow, exceedingly backwarded to clearing himself. It was as though each of his heavy words had to be fetched from a distance. No doubt about it, it's the wife that wears the britches, was Marnie's inward comment. And as one after another of his well-meant remarks fell flat, a come almost a deaf mute it would seem under the eternal female clacking. But for each mortal there exists at least one theme to fire him. In the case of Beamish this turned out to be the land-question. Before the gold discovery he had been a bush-shepard, he told Marnie, and if he had called Tune he would have lived and died one. But the wife had had ambitions, the children were growing up, and everyone knew what it was when women got a maggot in their heads. There had been no peace for him until he had chucked his twelve-year-old job and joined the rush to Mount Alexander. But at heart he had remained a bushman, and he was now all on the side of the squatters in their tussle with the crown. He knew a bit, he'd make bold to say, about the acreage needed in certain districts per head of sheep. He could tell a tale of the risks and mischances squatting involved. If taint fire it's flood, and if the water passes you by it's the scab or the rot. To his thinking the governments attempt to restrict the areas of sheep-bruns and to give effect to the fourteen-year clause which limited the tenure were acts of folly. The gold supply would give out as suddenly as it had begun, but sheep would graze there till the crack of doom, the land was fit for nothing else. Marnie thought this point of view lobsided. No new country could hope to develop and prosper without a steady influx of the right kind of population, and this the colony would never have so long as the authorities, by refusing to sell them land, made it impossible for immigrants to settle there. Why America was but three thousand miles distant from the old country compared with Australia's thirteen thousand, and in America land was to be had in plenty at five shillings per acre. As to Mr. Beamish's idea of the gold giving out, the geological formation of the gold fields rendered that improbable. He sympathized with the squatters, who naturally enough believed their rights to the land inalienable, but a government worthy of the name must legislate with an eye to the future, not for the present alone. Their talk was broken by long gaps. In these the resonant voice of Mrs. Beamish could be heard rebuking and directing her two-hand maidens. Now then, Ginny, look alive and don't act like a dying duck in a thunderstorm, or you'll never get back to do your bit of spooning. Save them bones, Polly, never waste an atom my chuck, or remember that when you've gotten asked of your own. No girls, I always says, through their stomachs, that's the shortcut to their arts. The rest only fell to lulling. On the veranda, in face of the vasty star-spangled night, Tilly's head had found its resting place and an arm lay around her waist. I shall make him cut off his beard first thing, said Ginny that night. She was sitting half-undressed on the side of a big bed, which the three girls shared with one another. Ah! Mew just whiten, see if it's as easy as you think," retorted Tilly from her pillow. Again Purdy had let slip a golden chance to put the decisive question until his temper was short in consequence. Mrs. Dr. Marnie—though I do wonder how he ever keeps people from saying Mahoney, said Ginny dreamily—she too had spent some time in stargazing and believed she had ground for hope. Just listen to her, will you? said Tilly angrily. On my word, Ginny Beamish, if one didn't know you had the habit of marrying yourself off to every fresh cove you meet, one had say was downright bold. You needn't talk. Every one can see you're as mad as can be because you can't bring your old dot-and-go one to the scratch. Oh, hush, Ginny, said Polly, grieved at this thrust into Tilly's open wound. Well, it's true. Oh, looky, and now there's not a drop of water in this blister jug again. Who's weak is it to fill it? Tilly Bee, it's yours. Serves you right, you can fetch it yourself. Think I see myself? Polly intervened. I'll go for it, Ginny. Well, a little duck you are, Paul, but you shan't go alone. I'll carry the candle. Dying on a petticoat over her bed-gum, Polly took the ewer and with Ginny as torchbearer set forth. There was still some noise in the public part of the house beside the bar, but the passage was bare and quiet. The girls crept mousily past the room occupied by the two young men, and after several false alarms and suppressed chirps reached the back door, and filled the jug at the tap of the galvanized iron tank. The return journey was not so successful. Just as they got level with the visitor's room they heard feet crossing the floor. Polly started. The water splashed over the neck of the jug and fell with a loud plop. At this Ginny lost her head and ran off with the candle. Polly, in a panic of fright, dived into the pantry with her burden and crouched down behind a tub of fermenting ginger beer. And sure enough, a minute after, the door of the room opposite was flung open and a pair of jack-boots landed in the passage. Nor was this the worst. The door was not shut again, but remained ajar. Through the chink Polly shrunk to her smallest, what if one of them should feel hungry and come into the pantry and discover her? Polly heard Purdy say with appalling loudness, Oh, go on, old man, don't jaw so. He then seemed to plunge his head in the basin, for it was with a choke and a splatter that he next inquired. And what did you think of the little one? Wasn't I right? There was the chink of coins handled, and the other voice answered, Here's what I think. Take your money, my boy, and be done with it. Dick, great snakes, why dam it all, man, you don't mean to tell me. And understand, sir, in future I do not make bets where a lady is concerned. Oh, I know, only on the tilly Ginny sought. And yet good lord, Dick, the rest was drowned in a ball of laughter. Under cover of it Polly took to her heels and fled regardless of the open door or the padding of her bare feet on the boards. Without replying to the astonished Ginny's query in respect of the water, she climbed over tilly to her place beside the wall, and, shutting her eyes very tight, drew the sheet over her face. It felt as though it would never be cool again. Hence Ginny, agreeably wakeful, was forced to keep her thoughts to herself, for if you lie between two people, one of whom is in a bad temper and the other fast asleep, you might just as well be alone in bed. Next morning Polly alleged a headache and didn't appear at breakfast. Only Ginny and Tilly stood on the veranda of romantic memories, and roofily waved their handkerchiefs, keeping it up until even the forms of the horses were blurred in the distance. END OF PART ONE CHAPTER VII His tent-home had never seemed so comfortless. He ended his solitary ride late at night and went to the skin. His horse had cast a shoe far from any smithy. Long Jim alone came to the door to greet him. The shopman, on whose dullish honesty Marnie would have staked his head, had profited by his absence to empty the cash-box and go off on the spree. Even one of the cats had met its fate in an old shaft where its corpse still swam. The following day, as a result of exposure and hard riding, Marnie was attacked by dysentery, and before he'd recovered the goods arrived from Melbourne. They had to be unloaded at some distance from the store, conveyed there, got undercover, checked off, and arranged. This was carried out in sheets of cold rain which soaked the canvas walls and made it doubly hard to get about the clay tracks that served as streets. And as if this were not enough, the river in front of the house rose, rose, and in tutus was over its banks, and he and Long Jim spent a night in their clothes helping neighbours less fortunately placed to move their belongings into safety. The lion's share of this work fell on him. Long Jim still carried his arm in a sling, and was good for nothing but to guard the store and summon Marnie on the appearance of customers. Since his accident, too, the fellow had suffered from frequent fits of colic or cramp, and was forever slipping off to the township to find the spirits in which his employer refused a deal. For the unloading and warehousing of the goods it was true Old Ockock had learnt his sons, but the strict watch Marnie felt bound to keep over this pretty pair far outweighed what their help was worth to him. Now it was Sunday evening and for the first time for more than a week he could call his soul his own again. He stood at the door and watched those of his neighbours who were not Roman Catholics making for church and chapel, to which half a dozen tinkly bells invited them. The weather had finally cleared up, and a goodly number of people waded past him through the mire. Among them, in seemingly sabbath dress, went Ockock with his two black sheep at hill. The old man was a rigid methodist, and at a recent prayer meeting had been moved to bear public witness to his salvation. This was no doubt one reason why the young scapegrace Tom's almost simultaneous misconduct had been so bitter a pill for him to swallow. While through God's mercy he was become an exemplar to the weaker brethren, a son of his made his name distinct in the nostrils of the reputable community. Marnie liked to believe that there was good in every body, and thought the intolerant harshness to which the boy was subjected would defeat its end. Yet it was open to question if clemency would have answered better. Bad eggs, the brace of them, had been his own verdict after a week's trial of the lads. One would not, the other apparently could not work. Johnny the elder was dull and liverish from intemperance, and the round-faced adolescent, the news of whose fatherhood had raced the wind, was so sheep-faced, so craven in the presence of his elders that he could not say boo to a battle-door. There was something unnatural about this fierce timidity, and the doctor in Marnie caught a quick glimpse of the probable reverse of the picture. But it was cold in face of all this rain-soaked clay, cold blue-gray clouds drove across a washed-out sky, and he still felt unwell. Returning to his living-room, where a small American stove was burning, he prepared for a quiet evening. In a corner by the fire stood an old packing-case. He lifted the lid and thrust his hand in. It was here he kept his books. He needed no light to see by, he knew each volume by the feel, and after fumbling for a little among the tumbled contents he drew forth a work on natural science and sat down to read, but he didn't get far. His brain was tired, intractable. Lighting his pipe, he tilted back his chair, laid the vestiges face downwards, and put his feet on the table. How differently bashfulness impressed one in the case of the weaker sex! There it was altogether pleasing. Young Ockhock's grocery had recalled the little-made Polly's ingenious confusion at finding herself the subject of conversation. He had not once consciously thought of Polly since his return. Now, when he did so, he found to his surprise that she had made herself quite a warm little nest in his memory. Looked back on, she stood out in high relief against her somewhat graceless surroundings. Small doubt she was both maidenly and refined. He also remembered with a sensible pleasure her brisk service, her consideration for others. What a boon it would have been during the past week to have a busy, willing little woman at work with him and for him behind the screen. As it was, for want of a helping hand, the place was like a pigsty. He had had neither time nor energy to clean up. The marks of hobnail boots patterned the floor. Loose mud and crumbs from meals had been swept into corners or under the stretcher bed, while commodities that had overflowed the shop added to the disorder. Oh, good Lord, no—no place this for a woman! He rose and moved restlessly about, turning things over with his foot. These old papers should be burnt and that heap of straw-packing—those empty sardine and coffee-tins be thrown in the refuse-pit. Scrubbed and clean, it was by no means an uncomfortable room, and the stove drew well. He was proud of his stove—many houses had not even a chimney. He stood and stared at it, but his thoughts were elsewhere. He found himself trying to call to mind Polly's face. Except for a pair of big black eyes—ignificent eyes, they seemed to him in retrospect—he had carried away with him nothing of her outward appearance. Yes, stay, her hair—her hair was so glossy that when the sun caught it highlights came out on it—so much, he remembered. From this he fell to wondering whether her brain kept pace with her nimble hands and ways. Was she stupid or clever? He couldn't tolerate stupidity, and Polly had given him no chance to judge her, had hardly opened her lips before him. What a timid little thing she was, to be sure. He should have made it his business to draw her out by being kind and encouraging, instead of which he had acted towards her, he felt convinced, like an ill-mannered bore. He didn't know how it was, but he couldn't attach his thoughts from Polly this evening to their accompaniment he paced up and down. All of a sudden he stood still and gave a short hearty laugh. He'd just seen, in a kind of phantom picture, the feet of the sister's beamish as they sat on the verandah edge. Both young women wore flat sandal shoes. And so that neatest of neat ankles had been little Polly's property, for his life he loved a well-turned ankle in a woman. A minute later he sat down at the table again. An idea had occurred to him. He would write Polly a letter, a letter that called for acknowledgment, and form an opinion of the girl from her reply. Taking a sheet of thin blue paper and a magnum bonum pen he wrote, Dear Miss Turnham, I wonder if I might ask you to do me a favour. On getting back to Ballarat I find that the rain has spoilt my store-flag. Would you be so kindest to make me a new one? I have no lady-friends here to apply to for help, and I am sure you are clever with your needle. If you consent I will send you the old flag as a pattern and stuff for the new one, my kind regards to all at the hotel, faithfully yours, Richard Townsend Marnie. P.S. I have not forgotten our pleasant walk to the cave. He went out to the post with it himself. In one hand he carried the letter, in the other the candle-in stuck in a bottle that was known as a Ballarat lantern, for it was a pitch-dark night. The trade was slack. In consequence he found the four days that had to pass before he could hope for an answer exceptionally long. After their lapse he twice spent an hour at the post-office in a fruitless attempt to get near the little window. On returning from the second of these absences he found the letter waiting for him. It had been delivered by hand. So far good Polly had risen to his fly. He broke the seal. Dear sir, I shall be happy to help you with your new flag if I am able. Will you kindly send the old one and the stuff down by my brother, who is coming to see me on Saturday? He is working at Rotten Gully and his name is Ned. I do not know if I so well enough to please you, but I will do my best. I remain yours truly, Mary Turnham. Marnie read, smiled, and laid the letter down, only to pick it up again. It pleased him, did this prim little note, there was just the right shade of formal reserve about it. Then he began to study particulars. Grammar and spelling were correct. The penmanship was in the Italian style, minute yet flowing, the letters dowered with generous loops and tails. But surely he had seen this writing before. By Jupiter, yes, this was the hand of the letter Purdy had shown him on the road to Melbourne—the little puss—so she not only wrote her own letters, but those of her friends as well. In that case she was certainly not stupid, for she was much the youngest of the three. Today was Thursday. Summoning Long Jim from his seat behind the counter, Marnie dispatched him to Rotten Gully with an injunction not to show himself until he had found a digger of the name of Turnham. And having watched Jim set out at a snail's pace and murmuring to himself, Marnie went into the store and measured and cut off material for the new flag from two different coloured rolls of stuff. It was ten o'clock that night before Polly's brother presented himself. Marnie met him at the door and drew him in. The stove crackled, the room was swept and garnished. He flattered himself that the report on his habitat would be a favourable one. Ned's appearance gave him a pleasant shock. It was just as if Polly herself, translated into male terms, stood before him. No need now to cudgel his brains for her image. In looking at Ned he looked again at Polly. The wider wake of the same fine, soft black hair came to light. Here worn rather long and curly. The same glittering black eyes, ivory-white skin, short, straight nose, and as he gazed an offshoot of Marnie's consciousness wondered from what quarter this middle-class English family fetched its dark, un-English strain. In the beginning he exerted himself to set the lad at ease. He soon saw, however, that he might spare his pains. Though clearly not much more than eighteen years old, Ned Turnham had the aplomb and assurance of double that age. Lollying back in the single armchair the room boasted, he more than once stretched out his hand and helped himself from the sherry-bottle Marnie had placed on the table. And the disparity in their ages notwithstanding there was no trace of deference in his manner. Or the sole hint of it was, he sometimes smothered a profane word, or apologised with a winning smile for an oath that had slipped out unawares. Marnie could not accustom himself to the foul language that formed the digger's idiom. Here, in the case of Polly's brother, he sought to overlook the offence or to lay the blame for it on other shoulders. At his age and alone the boy should never have been plunged into this cahenna. Ned talked mainly of himself and his doings, but other facts also transpired of greater interest to his hearer. Thus Marnie learned that out of a family of nine, four had found their way to the colony, and a fifth was soon to follow. A mere child this on the underside of fifteen. He gathered, too, that the eldest brother, John by name, was regarded as a kind of Napoleon by the younger fry. At thirty this John was a partner in the largest wholesale dry-goods warehouse in Melbourne. He had also married Marnie and intended in due course to stand for the legislative council. Behind Ned's windy bragging Marnie thought he discerned tokens of a fond brotherly pride. If this were so, the affair had its pathetic side, for, from what the boy said, it was evident that the successful man of business held his relatives at arm's length. And as Ned talked on, Marnie conceived John to himself as a kind of electromagnet which, once it had drawn these lesser creatures after it, switched off the current and left them to their own devices. Ned, young as he was, had tried his hand at many trades. At present he was working as a hired digger, but this only until he could strike a softer job. Digging was not for him, thank you, what you earned at it hardly repaid you for the sweat you dripped. His every second word, indeed, was of how he could amass most money with the minimum of bodily exertion. This calculating, unyouthful outlook was repugnant to Marnie, and for all his good will the longer he listened to Ned the cooler he felt himself grow. Another disagreeable impression was left by the grudging, if nothing better turns up, fashion, in which Ned accepted an impulsive offer on his part to take him into the store. It was made on the spur of the moment, and Marnie had qualms about it while the words were still warm in the air, realising that the overture was aimed not at Ned in person, but at Ned as Polly's brother. But his intuition did not reconcile him to Ned's lukewarmness, he would have preferred a straight refusal. The best trait he could discover in the lad was his affection for his sister. This seemed genuine. He was going to see her again, getting a lift half-way, tramping the other twenty-odd miles at the end of the week. Perhaps, though, in the case of such a young opportunist, the thought of Mrs. Bemish's lavish board played no small part, for Ned had a rather lean, underfed look. But this only occurred to Marnie afterwards. Then his chief vexation was with himself. It would have been kinder to set a dish of solid food before the boy in place of the naked Sherry bottle, but as usual his hospitable leanings came too late. One thing more. As he lighted Ned and his bundle of stuff through the shop, he was impelled to slip a coin into the boy's hand with a murmured apology for the trouble he had put him to. And as something, the merest nuance in Ned's manner of receiving and pocketing the money, flashed the uncomfortable suspicions with the giver's mind that it had been looked for, expected. And this was the most unpleasant touch of all. But bless his soul did not most large families include at least one poorish specimen. He'd got thus far by the time he came to wind his watch for the night. And next day he felt sure he'd judged Ned over harshly. His first impressions of people, he had had occasion to deplore the fact before now, were apt to be either dead white or black as ink, the web of his mind took on no half-tints. The boy had not betrayed any actual vices, and time might be trusted to knock the bluster out of him. With this reflection Marnie dismissed Ned from his mind. He had more important things to think of, chief among which was his own state with regard to Ned's sister. And during the fortnight that followed he went about making believe to weigh this matter, to view it from every coin, for it did not suit him even in secret to confess to the vehemence with which, when he much desired a thing, his temperament knocked flat the hurdles of reason. The truth was his mind was made up, and had been all along. At the earliest possible opportunity he was going to ask Polly to be his wife. Doubts beset him, of course. How could he suppose that a girl who knew nothing of him who had barely seen him would either want or consent to marry him? And even if, for ifs were cheap, she did say yes, would it be fair of him to take her out of a comfortable home away from friends, such as they were, of her own sex, to land her in these crude surroundings where he didn't know a decent woman to bear her company? Yet there was something to be said for him, too. He was very lonely. Now that Purdy had gone he was reduced for society to the long gyms and ococks of the place. What would he not give once more to have a refined companion at his side? Certainly marriage might postpone the day on which he hoped to shake the dust of Australia off his feet. Life à deux would mean a larger outlay, saving not proof so easy. Still it could be done, and he would gladly submit to the delay if by doing so he could get Polly. Besides, if this new happiness came to him, it would help him to see the years he had spent in the colony in a truer and juster light. And then, when the hour of departure did strike, what a joy to have a wife to carry with one, a Polly to rescue, to restore to civilisation. He had to remind himself more than once during this fortnight that you would be able to devote only a fraction of a day to flag-making. But he was at the end of his tether by the time of parcel and letter were left for him at the store, again by hand. Little Polly had plainly no sixpences to spare. The needle-work was perfect, of course. He hardly glanced at it even when he had opened and read the letter. This was of the same decorous nature as the first. Polly returned a piece of stuff that had remained over. He had really sent material enough for two flags, she wrote, but she had not wished to keep him waiting so long. And then in postscript. Mr. Smith was here last Sunday. I am to say Mrs. Beamish would be very pleased if you also would call again to see us. He ran the flag up to the top of his forty-foot staff and wrote, What I want to know, Miss Polly, is would you be glad to see me? But Polly was not to be drawn. We should all be very pleased. Some days previously Marnie had addressed a question to Henry Ockock. With this third letter from Polly he held the lawyer's answer in his hand. It was unsatisfactory. Yourself at Spolliver. We think that action will be set down for trial in about six weeks' time. In these circumstances we do not think any useful purpose will be served by you calling to see us until after this is done. We should be glad if you would call after the action is entered. Six weeks' time. The man might as well have said a year, and meanwhile Purdy was stealing a march on him was paying clandestine visits to Geelong. Was it conceivable that anyone in his five senses could prefer Tilly to Polly? It was not. In the clutch of a sudden fear Marnie went to Baths and ordered a horse for the following morning. This time he left his store in charge of a young consumptive whose plight had touched his heart. The poor fellow was stranded on Ballarat without a fathering, having proved like many another of his physique quite unfit for work on the diggings. A strict baptist this temple, and one who believed Hellfire would be his portion if he so much as guessed at the plant of his employer's cash-box. He also pledged his word to bear and forebear with Long Jim. The latter saw himself superseded with an extreme bad grace, and was in no hurry to find a new job. Marnie Snag was in good condition, and he covered the distance in a trifle over six hours. He had evidently hit on the family washing-day. The big boiler in the yard belched clouds of steam, the female inmates of the hotel were gathered in the out-house. He saw them through the door as he rode in at the gate. All three girls stood before tubs, their sleeves rolled up, their arms in the lather. At his apparition there was a characteristic chorus of cheeps and shrills, and the door was banged too. Mrs. B. Michelone came out to greet him. She was moist and blown and smelt of soap. Not in a mood to mince matters he announced straightway the object of his visit. He was prepared for some expression of surprise on the part of the good woman, but the blend of sheep-faced amazement and uncivil incredulity to which he subjected him made him hot and angry, and evouched safe no further word of explanation. Mrs. B. Michelone presently so far recovered as to be able to finish wiping the suds from her fat red arms. Thereafter she gave way to a very feminine weakness. Well, and now I come to think of it, I'm blessed if I didn't suspect something of it right from the first. Why didn't I say to beamish with me own lips how you couldn't hardly take your eyes off her? Well, well, I'm sure I wish you every happiness, though how we're ever going to get done with that Polly I really don't know. Don't I wish it had been one of my two as a tucky fancy, that's all. Between you and me I don't believe a blessed thing's going to come of all Smith's dangle and a round, and Polly is still a bit young, only just turned sixteen. Not if she's any the worse of that though, you'll get her all the easier into your ways. And now I must look smart and get you by to something after your ride. In vain did Marnie assure her that he had lunched on the road. He did not know Mrs. B. Miche. He was forced not only to sit down to the meal she spread, but also under her august eye to eat of it. When, after a considerable delay, Polly at length appeared, she had removed all traces of the tub. The hand was cold that he took in his, as he asked her if she would walk with him to the cave. This time she trembled openly. Like a lamb led to the slaughter, he thought, looking down at her with tender eyes. Small doubt that vulgar creature within doors had betrayed him to Polly and exaggerated the ordeal that lay before her. When once she was his wife he would not consent to her remaining intimate with people of the beamish's kidney, what a joy to get her out of their clutches, nor should she spoil her pretty shape by stooping over a wash tub. In his annoyance he forgot to moderate his pace. Polly had to trip many small steps to keep up with him. When they reached the entrance to the cave she was flushed and out of breath. Marnie stood and looked down at her. How young she was! How young and innocent! Every feature of her dear little face still waited as it were for the strokes of time's chisel. It should be the care of his life that none but the happiest lines were graved upon its precious surface. Polly, he said, fresh from his scrutiny, Polly, I'm not going to beat about the bush with you. I think you know I came here today only to see you. Polly's head duped further forward. Now the rim of her bonnet hid her face. You aren't afraid of me, are you, Polly? Oh, no, she was not afraid. Nor have you forgotten me. Polly choked a little in her attempt to answer. She could not tell him that she had carried his letters about with her by day and slept with them under her pillow, that she knew every word in them by heart and had copied and practised the bold flourish of the Dickens-like signature, that she had never let his name cross her lips, that she thought him the kindest, handsomest, cleverest man in the world and would willingly have humbled herself to the dust before him. All this boiled and bubbled in her as she brought forth her poor little—no. Indeed, I hope not, went on Manny, because Polly, I've come to ask if you will be my wife. Rocks, trees, hills suddenly grown tipsy when seesawing around Polly when she heard these words said. She shut her eyes and hid her face in her hands. Such happiness seemed improbable, was not to be grasped. Me, your wife, she stammered through her fingers. Yes, Polly, do you think you could learn to care for me a little, my dear? No, don't be in a hurry to answer, take your own time. But she needed none. With what she felt to be a most unmaidingly eagerness, yet could not subdue, she blurted out, I know I could, I—I do. Thank God, said Manny, thank God for that. He let his arms fall to his sides. He found he had been holding them stiffly out from him. He sat down. And now take away your hands, Polly, and let me see your face. Don't be ashamed of showing me what you feel. This is a sacred moment for us. We are promising to take each other, you know, for richer, for poorer, for better, for worse, as the good old words have it. And I must warn you, my dear, you are not marrying a rich man. I live in a poor, rough place, and have only a poor home to offer you. Oh, I have had many scruples about asking you to leave your friends to come and share it with me, Polly, my love. I'm not afraid. I'm strong. I can work. And I shall take every care of you. Please, God, you will never regret your choice. They were within sight of the house where they sat, and Manny imagined rude, curious eyes, so he didn't kiss her. Instead he drew her arm through his, and together they paced up and down the path they had come by while he laid his plans before her and confessed to the dreams he had dreamt of their wedded life. It was a radiant afternoon. In the distance the sea lay deep blue with turquoise shallows, a great white bird of a ship her canvas spread to the breeze was making for. Why, to-day he didn't care whether for port or for home. The sun went down in a blaze behind a bank of emerald green, and little Polly agreed with everything he said, was all one lovely glow of acquiescence. He thought no happier mortal than himself trod the earth. Manny remained at the hotel until the following afternoon, then walked to Geelong and took the steam-packer to Melbourne. The object of his journey was to ask Mr. John Turnham's formal sanction to his marriage. Polly accompanied him a little way on his walk, and whenever he looked back he saw her standing fluttering her handkerchief, a small solitary figure on the bare red road. He parted from her with a sense of leaving his most precious possession behind, so close had words made the tie. On the other hand he was not sorry to be out of range for a while of the beamish family's banter. This had set in the evening before as soon as he and Polly returned to the house. Pacing the deck of the little steamer he writhed anew at the remembrance. Jokes at their expense had been cracked all through supper. His want of appetite, for instance, was the subject of a dozen crude insinuations, and this, though every one present knew that he had eaten a hearty meal not two hours previously, had been kept up until he grew stony and savage, and Polly, trying hard not to mind but read to the rims of her ears, slipped out of the room. Supper over Mrs. Beemish announced in a loud voice that the veranda was at the disposal of the turtle-dubs. She no doubt expected them to bill and coo in public as Purdy and Matilda had done. On edge at the thought he drew Polly into the comparative seclusion of the garden. Here they strolled up and down, their promenade bounded at the lower end by the dense-leaved arbor under which they had first met. In its screening shadow he took the kiss he had then been generous enough to forego. I think I loved you, Polly, directly I saw you. In the distance a clump of hills rose steep and bare from the wasteland by the sea's edge. He could see them at this moment as he lent over the taffrail. With the sun going down behind them they were the colour of smoked glass. Last night they had been white with moonlight which lay spilled out upon them like milk. Strange old hills, standing there unchanged, unshaken from time immemorial, they made the truth that had been plighted under their shields impetively frail. And yet the vows which Polly and he had found so new, so wonderful, were not these in truth as ancient as the hills themselves, and as undying. Countless generations of human lovers had uttered them. The lovers passed, but the pledges remained, had put on immortality. In the course of their talk it leaked out that Polly would not feel comfortable till her choice was ratified by Brother John. I'm sure you'll like John, he's so clever. I shall like any one belonging to you, my Polly. As she lost her shyness Marnie made the discovery that she laughed easily and was fond of a jest. Thus when he admitted to her that he found it difficult to distinguish one fair plump sister beamish from the other, that they seemed to him as much alike as two firm pink ribbed mushrooms. The little woman was hugely tickled by his masculine want of perception. Why, Ginny has brown eyes until he blew. What he did not know, and what Polly did not confess to him, was that much of her merriment arose from sheer lightness of heart. She, silly goose that she was, who had once believed Ginny to be the picked object of his attentions. But she grew serious again. Could he tell her please why Mr. Smith wrote so seldom to Tilly? Poor Tilly was unhappy at his long silences, fretted over them in bed at night. Marnie made excuses for Purdy, urging his unsettled mode of life, but it pleased him to see that Polly took sides with her friend and loyally espoused her cause. No, there had not been a single jarring note in all their intercourse. Each moment had made the dear girl dearer to him. Now, worse luck, forty odd miles were between them again. It had been agreed that he should call at her brother's private house towards five o'clock in the afternoon. He had thus to kill time for the better part of the next day. His first visit was to a jeweller's in Great Collins Street. Here he pushed aside a tray of showy diamonds, a successful digger was covering the fat red hands of his bride with them, and chose a slender, discreetly chased setting containing three small stones. No matter what household duties fell to Polly's share, this little ring would not be out of place on her finger. From there he went to the last address Purdy had given him, only to find that the boy had again disappeared. Before parting from Purdy the time before, he'd lent him half the purchase-money for a horse and ray, thus enabling him to carry out an old scheme of plying for hire at the city wharf. According to the landlord of the hotel Vendome, to whom Marnie was referred for fuller information, Purdy had soon tired of this job, and selling tray and beast for what he could get had gone off on a new rush to Simpson's diggings or the White Hills. Small wonder, Miss Tillie, was left languishing for news of him. Pricked by the nervous disquietude of those who have to do with the law, Marnie next repaired to his solicitor's office. But Henry Ockock was closeted with a more important client. This, Grindel the clock, whom he met on the stairs, informed him with an evident relish and with some hidden, hinted meaning in the corners of his shifty little eyes. It was lost on Marnie, who was not the man to accept hints from a stranger. The hour was on lunch-time. Grindel proposed that they should go together to a legal chop-house which offered prime value for your money and where, over the meal, he would give Marnie the latest news of his suit. At a loss how to get through the day the latter followed him. He was resolved, too, to practice economy from now on. But when he sat down to a dirty cloth and fly-spotted crewit, he regretted his compliance. Besides, the news Grindel was able to give him a mountain to nothing, the case had not budged since last he heard of it. Worse still was the clock's behaviour, for after lauding the cheapness of the establishment Grindel disputed the price of each item on the menu, and when he came to pay his bill chuckled over having been able to diddle the waiter of a penny. He was plainly one of those who feel the constant need of an audience, and since there was no office-boy present for him to dazzle with his wit he applied himself to demonstrating to his table-companion what a sad, sad dog he was. Women are the deuce, sir, he asserted, lying back in his chair and sending two trails of smoke from his nostrils, the very deuce, you should hear my governor on the subject, ear-tickle your ears for you. Look here, I'll give you the tip, this move, you know, to Balorat, that he's driving at, what'll you bet me there isn't a woman in the case? In fact, upon my word there is, and a devilish fine woman too. He shut one eye and laid a finger along his nose. You won't blow the gab? That's why you couldn't have your Pollywood this morning. When Milady comes to town, H.O.'s non-est as long as she's here, and she with the Robbie of her own, too. What had our old Pa say to that, eh? Manny, who could draw in his feelers no further than he had done, touched the limit of his patience. My connection with Mr. Ockock is a purely business one. I have no intention of trespassing on his private affairs, or of having them thrust upon me. Cover my bill. Bowing distantly, he stalked out of the eating-house and back to the criterion where he dined. So much for a maiden attempt at economy. Towards five o'clock he took his seat in an omnibus that flied between the city and the seaside suburb of St. Kilda, three miles off. A cool breeze went. The hooves of the horses beat a rattle-plan on the hard surface. The great road, broad enough to make three of, was alive with smart geeks and trotters. St. Kilda was a group of white houses facing the bay. Most were of weather-board with brick chimneys, but there were also a few of a more solid construction. Marnie's goal was one of these, a low stone villa surrounded by verandas in the midst of tasteful grounds. The drive up to the door led through a shrubbery artfully contrived of the native tea-tree behind the house-stretched kitchen and fruit gardens. Many rare plants grew in the beds. There was a hedge of geraniums close on fifteen feet high. His knock was answered by a groom who made a saucy face. Mr. Turnham and his lady were attending the governor's ball this evening and did not receive. Marnie insisted on the delivery of his visiting card, and since the servant still blocked the entrance he added, Inform your master, my man, that I am the bearer of a message from his sister, Miss Mary Turnham. The man shut him out, left him standing on the veranda. After a lengthy absence he returned with her. Well, come along in, then. Opened the door of a parlour. This was a large room, well furnished in horse-hair and rep. Wax-light stood on the mantelpiece before a gilt-framed pier-glass. Coloured prints hung on the walls. While Marnie was admiring the gentile comfort to which he had long been a stranger, John Turnham entered the room. He had a quiet tread, but took determined strides at the floor. In his hand he held Marnie's card, and he looked from Marnie to it and back again. To what do I owe the pleasure, Mr. Marnie, he asked, refreshing his memory with a glance at the paste-board. He spoke in the brusque tone of one accustomed to run through many applicants in the course of an hour. I understand that you make use of my sister Mary's name, and as Marnie did not instantly respond he snapped out, My time is short, sir. A tinge of colour mounted to Marnie's cheeks he answered with equal stiffness. That is so. I come from Mr. William Beamish's family hotel, and am commissioned to bring you your sister's warm love and regards. John Turnham bowed and waited. I have also to acquaint you with the fact, continued Marnie, gathering hoarder as he went, that the day before yesterday I proposed marriage to your sister, and that she did me the honour of accepting me. Ah, indeed! said John Turnham, with a kind of ironic snort. And may I ask on what ground you— On the ground, sir, that I have a sincere affection for Miss Turnham, and believe it lies in my power to make her happy. Of that kindly allow me to judge. My sister is a mere child, too young to know her own mind. Be seated. To a constraining, restraining vision of little Polly Marnie obeyed, stifling the near retort that she was not too young to earn her living among strangers. Two men faced each other on opposite sides of the table. John Turnham had the same dark eyes and hair, the same short straight nose as his brother and sister, but not their exotic pallor. His skin was bronzed, and his large scarlet mouth supplied a vivid dash of colour. He wore bushy side whiskers. And now, Mr. Marnie, I will ask you a blunt question. I receive letters regularly from my sister, but I cannot recall her ever having mentioned your name. Who and what are you? Who am I, flared up Marnie? A gentleman like yourself, sir, though a poor one. As for Miss Turnham not mentioning me in her letters, that is easily explained. I only had the pleasure of making her acquaintance five or six weeks ago. You are candid, said Polly's brother, and smiled without unclosing his lips. But your reply to my question tells me nothing. May I ask under what circumstances you came out to the colony in the first instance? No, sir, you may not," cried Marnie, and flung up from his seat. He sent it a deadly insult in the question. Come, come, Mr. Marnie," said Turnham, in a more conciliatory tone. Nothing is gained by being techy, and my inquiry is not unreasonable. You are an entire stranger to me. My sister has known you but for a few weeks, and is a young and inexperienced girl into the bargain. You tell me you're a gentleman, sir. I had a sleeve you said you were a blacksmith. In this grand country of ours where progress is the watchword, a feat's standards and dogging traditions must go by the board. Gritt is of more use to us than gentility. Each single bricklayer who unships serves the colony better than a score of gentlemen. In that I'm absolutely not at one with you, Mr. Turnham," said Marnie coldly. It sat down again, feeling rather ashamed of his violence. Without a leaven of refinement the very raw material of which the existing population is composed. But Turnham interrupted him. Give him time, sir, give him time. God bless my soul, Rome wasn't built in a day. But, to resume, I have repeatedly had occasion to remark in what small stead the training that fits a man for a career in the old country stands him here. And that is why I'm dissatisfied with your reply. Show me your muscles, sir. Give me a clean bill of health. Tell me if you have learnt a trade and can pay your way. See, I will be frank with you. The position I occupy today I owe entirely to my own efforts. I landed in the colony ten years ago when this marvellous city of ours was little more than a village settlement. I had but five pounds in my pocket. Today I'm a partner in my firm, and intend if all goes well to enter Parliament. Hence I think I may, without presumption, judge what makes for success here, and of the type of man to attain it. Work, hard work, is the key to all doors. So convinced am I of this that I have insisted on the younger members of my family learning but times to put their shoulders to the wheel. Now, Mr. Marnie, I have been open with you. Be equally frank with me. You are an Irishman. Cander invariably disarmed Marnie, even lay a little heavy on him with the weight of an obligation. He retaliated with a light touch of self-deprecation. An Irishman, sir, in a country where the Irish have fallen, and not without reason, into general disrepute. Over a biscuit and a glass of sherry he gave a rough outline of the circumstances that had led to his leaving England two years previously and of his dismayed arrival in what he called the cesspool of 1852. Thanks to the rose-water romance of the English press, many a young man of my day was enticed away from a modest competency to seek his fortune here, where it was pretended that nuggets could be gathered like cabbages. I myself threw up a tidy little country practice. I might mention that medicine was my profession. It would have given me intense satisfaction, Mr. Turnham, to see one of these glib journalists in my shoes or the shoes of some of my messmates on the Ocean Queen. There were men aboard that ship, sir, who were reduced to beggary before they could even set foot on the road to the north. Granted it's the duty of the press to encourage emigration. Let the press be, Marnie, said Turnham. It sat back, crossed his legs, and put his thumbs in his armholes. Let it be. What we need here is colonists. Small matter how we get them. Having had his say, Marnie scamped the recital of his own sufferings. The discomforts of the month he had been forced to spend in Melbourne getting his slender outfit together, the miseries of the tram to Ballarat on delicate unused feet among the riff-raff of nations under one December sky, against which the trunks of the gum-trees rose white as still, and out of which blazed a copper sun with a misty rim. He scumped, too, his six months attempted digging, had been no more fit for the work than a child. Worn to skin and bone, his small remaining strength sucked out by dysentery, he had, in the end, bartered his last pinch of gold dust for a barrel-load of useful odds and ends, and this had formed the nucleus of his store. Here, fortunate, smiled on him, his flag hardly set aflying, custom had poured in, business gone up by leaps and bounds, although I have never sold so much as a pint of spirit, sir. His profits for the past six months equaled a clear three hundred, and he had most of this to the good. With a wife to keep, expenses would naturally be heavier, but he should continue to lay by every spare penny with a view to getting back to England. You have not the intention, then, of remaining permanently in the colony? Not the least in the world. Hmm! said John. He was standing on the hearth-rug now, his legs apart. That, of course, puts a different complexion on the matter. Still, I may say, I am entirely reassured by what you've told me, entirely so. Indeed, you must allow me to congratulate you on the good sense you displayed in striking while the iron was hot. Many a one of your medical brethren, sir, would have thought it beneath his dignity to turn shopkeeper. And now, Mr. Marnie, I will wish you good day. We shall doubtless meet again before very long. Nay, one moment there are cases, you will admit, in which a female opinion is not without value. Besides, I should be pleased for you to see my wife. He crossed the hall, tapped at a door, and cried, Emma, my love, will you give us the pleasure of your company? In response to this, a lady entered, whom Marnie thought one of the most beautiful women he'd ever seen. She carried a yearling infant in her arms, and with one hand pressed its pale flaxen-poll against the rich ripe corner of her own hair, as if to dare comparison. Her cheeks were of a delicate rose-pink. My love, said Turnham, and one felt that the word was no mere flower of speech. My love, here is someone who wishes to marry our Polly. To marry our Polly, echoed the lady, and smiled a faint, amused smile. It was as though she said, to marry this infant that I bear on my arm. But Polly is only a little girl. My very words, dearest, and too young to know her own mind. But you will decide for her, John. John hung over his beautiful wife, wheeled up an easy chair, arranged her in it, placed a footstool. Pray, pray, do not over-fatigue yourself, Emma. That child is too heavy for you. He objected, as the babe made strenuous efforts to kick itself to its feet. You know I don't approve of you carrying it yourself. Nurse is drinking tea. But why do I keep a house full of domestics if one of the others cannot occasionally take her place? He made an impetuous step towards the bell. Before he could reach it there came a thumping at the door, and a fluty voice cried, Let me in, Papa, let me in. Turn him through the door open, and admitted a sturdy two-year-old whom he led forward by the hand. My son, he said, not without pride. Marnie would have coaxed the child to him, but it ran to its mother, hid its face in her lap. Forgetting the bell, John struck an attitude. What a picture, he exclaimed. What a picture! In love I positively must carry out my intention of having you painted in oils with the children round you. Mr. Marnie, sir, have you ever seen anything to equal it? Though his mental attitude might have been expressed by a note of exclamation set ironically, Marnie felt constrained a second term as enthusiasm. And it was, indeed, a lovely picture. The gracious golden-haired woman whose figure had the amplitude restures the almost sensual languor of the young nursing mother. The two children, falling at her knee, both ash-blonde with vivid scarlet lips. It helps one, thought Marnie, to understand the mother-worship of primitive peoples. The nursemaid summoned, and the children borne off, Mrs. Emma exchanged a few amiable words with the visitor, then obeyed with an equally good grace her husband's command to rest for an hour before dressing for the ball. Having escorted her to another room, Ternum came back rubbing his hands. I am pleased to be able to tell you, Mr. Marnie, that your suit has my wife's approval. You're highly favoured. Emma is not free with her liking. Then, in a sudden burst of effusion, I could have wished you the pleasure, sir, of seeing my wife in evening attire. She will make a furor again. No other woman can hold a candle to her in a ball-gown. Tonight is the first time since the birth of our second child that she will grace a public entertainment with her presence, and, unfortunately, her appearance will be a brief one, for the infant is not yet wholly weaned. He shut the door and lowered his voice. You have had some experience of doctoring, you say. I should like a word with you in your medical capacity. The thing is this, my wife has persisted, contrary to my wishes, in suckling both children herself. Quite right, too, said Marnie, in a climate like this their natural food is invaluable to babes. Exactly quite so, said Ternum, with a hint of impatience. And in the case of the first child I made due allowance, a young mother—the novelty of the thing you understand. But with regard to the second I must confess I— How long, sir, in your opinion can a mother continue to nurse her babe without injury to herself? It is surely harmful if unduly protracted. I have observed dark lines about my wife's eyes and she is losing her fine complexion. Then you confirm my fears. I shall assert my authority without delay and insist on separation from the child. Ah, women are strange beings, Mr. Marnie, strange beings, as you are on the high road to discovering for yourself. Marnie returned to town on foot the omnibus having ceased to run. As he walked, at a quick pace in keeping a sharp look out for the road was notoriously unsafe after dark, he resolved his impressions of the interview. He was glad it was over and for Polly's sake that it had passed off satisfactorily. It had made a poor enough start. At one moment he had been within an ace of picking up his hat and stalking out. But he found it difficult at the present happy crisis to bear a grudge, even if it had not been approved idiosyncrasy of his, always to let a successful finish erase a bad beginning. Nonetheless he would not have belonged to the nation he did had he not indulged in a caustic chuckle and a pair of good-humoured pitchers and pashaws at Ternum's expense, like a showman in front of his booth. Then he thought again of the domestic scene he had been privileged to witness and grew grave. The beautiful young woman and her children might have served as model for a holy family. Some old painter's dream of a sweet benign Madonna, the trampling babe as the infant Christ, the upturned face of the little John adoring. No place this for the scoffer. Apart from the mere pleasure of the eye there was ample justification for Ternum's transports. Were they not in the presence of one of life's sublimest mysteries that of motherhood? Not alone the lovely Emma, no, every woman who endured the rigours of childbirth to bring forth an immortal soul was a holy figure. And now for him too, as he had been reminded, this wonder was to be worked. Little Polly is the mother of his children, what visions the words conjured up. But he was glad Polly was just Polly and not the peerless creature he had seen. John Ternum's fears would never be his, this jealous care of a transient bodily beauty. Polly was neither too rare nor too fair for her woman's lot, and please God the day would come when he would see her with a whole cluster of little ones around her—little dark-eyed replicas of herself. She, bless her, should dandel and coset them to her heart's content. Her joy in them would also be his. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. He sawed plained hammered, curly shavings dropped, and there was a pleasant smell of sawdust. Much had to be done to make the place fit to receive Polly. A second outhouse was necessary to hold the surplus goods and do duty as a sleeping-room for long gym and ample. The lean-to the pair had occupied until now was being converted into a kitchen. At great cost and trouble Marnie had some trees felt and brought in from Warren Heap. With them he put up a rude fence around his back-yard interlacing the lopped boughs from post to post so that they formed a thick and leafy screen. He also filled in the disused shaft that had served as a rubbish-hole and chose another further off, which would be less malodorous in the summer heat. Finally a substantial load of firewood carted in and two snakes that had made the journey in hollow logs dispatched. Long gym was sent down to chop and split the wood into a neat pile. Polly would need but to walk to and from the wood-stack for her firing. In doors he made equal revolution. That her ears should not be polluted by the language of the customers he ran up a partition between living-room and store, thus cutting off the slab-walled portion of the house with its roof of stringy bark from the log and canvas. He also stopped with putty the worst gaps between the slabs. At Ock Ock's auction-rooms he bought a horse-hair sofa to match his armchair, a strip of carpet, a bed, a wash-hands stand and a looking-glass, and tacked up a calico curtain before the window. His books, fetched out of the wooden case, were arranged on a brand-new set of shelves, and when all was done and he stood back to admire his work, it was born in on him afresh with how few creature comforts he had hitherto existed. Plain to see now why he had preferred to sit out of doors rather than within. Now no one on the flat had a trimmer little place than he. In his labours he had the help of a friendly digger, a carpenter by trade, who, one evening, pipe in mouth, had stood to watch his amateurish efforts with the jack-plane. Otherwise the Lord alone knew how the house would ever have been made ship-shape. Long Jim was equal to none but the simplest jobs, and Hempel the assistant had his hands full with the store. Well, it was a blessing at this juncture that business could be left to him. Hempel was as straight as a die, was a real treasure, or would have been, were it not for his eternal little bark of a cough. This was proof against all remedies, and the heck heck of it at night was quite enough to spoil a light sleeper's rest. In building the new shed Marnie had been careful to choose a corner far from the house. Marriages were still uncommon enough on Ballarat to make him an object of considerable curiosity. People took to dropping in of an evening, Old Ock Ock, the postmaster, a fellow storekeeper ex-steward to the Duke of Newcastle to comment on his alterations and improvements, and over a pipe and a glass of sherry he had to put up with a good deal of banter about his approaching change of state. Still it was kindly meant. We'll have to get up a bit of company for night's fear-lady when she comes," said Old Ock Ock, and spat under the table. Purdy rode from Tarangawa where he drifted. Hooray, old dick, golly for you, old man, didn't I kick up a bobbering when I heard the news? Never was so well-pleased in my life, that's all you needed, dick, now you'll turn into a first-rate colonial. How about that five an hour, I'd like to know. You can tell Polly from me I shall pay it back with interest on the fatal day. Of course I'll come and see you spliced, togs or no togs, to tell the truth my kicksies are on their very last legs, and there's nothing doing here. All the loose stuff's been turned over. There's oceans of quartz, of course, and they're trying to pound it up in dollies, but you could put me to bed with a pickaxe and a shovel before I'd go in for such tomfoolery as that. Damn it, old dick, to think of you being coched at last. I can't get over it, and it's a bit of a risk, too, by dadadis for a girl of that age as a dark horse if ever there was one. Marnie's answer to this was a couple of pound notes, so that my best man shall not disgrace me. His heart went out to the writer, dear old dicky bird, pleased as punctured the turn of events yet quaking for fear of imaginary risks. With all Purdy's respect for his friend's opinions he had yet an odd distrust of that friend's ability to look after himself. And now he was presuming to dark Polly, too, like his imperance. What the dickens did he know of Polly? Keenly relishing the sense of his own intimate knowledge, Marnie touched the breast-pocket in which Polly's letters lay. He often carried them out with him to a little hill on which a single old blue-gum had been left standing. Its craggy top-notch of leaves drooped and swayed in the wind like the few long-straggling hairs on an old man's head. The letters formed a goodly bundle, for Polly and he wrote regularly to each other. She once a week, he twice. His bore the queen's head, hers as befitted a needy little governess, were often as delivered by hand. Marnie untied the packet, drew a chance letter from it, and mused as he read. Polly had still not ceded much of her early reserve, and it had taken him weeks to persuade her even to call him by his first name. She was, he thanked goodness, not of the kind who threw maidenly modesty to the winds directly the binding word is spoken. He loved her all the better for her wariness of emotion. It tallied with a like streak in his own nature. And this, though at the moment he was going through a very debauch of frankness. To the little black-eyed girl who poured over his letters at Bemish's family hotel, he unbosomed himself as never in his life before. He enlarged on his tastes and preferences, his likes and dislikes. He gave vent to his real feelings for the country of his exile and his longings for home. Told how he had come to the colony in the first instance, with the fantastic notion of redeeming the fortunes of his family, described his collections of butterflies and plants to her using their Latin names, and Polly drank in his words and humbly agreed with all he wrote, or at least did not disagree, and from this, as have done lovers from the beginning of time, he inferred a perfect harmony of mind. On one point only did he press her for a reply. Was she fond of books? If so, what evenings they would spend together, he reading aloud from some entertaining volume, she had her fancy work. And poetry? For himself he could truly say he did not care for poetry, except on a Saturday night or a quiet Sunday morning, and that was because he liked it too well to approach it with any but a tranquil mind. I think if I know you are right, as I believe I do, my Polly, you too have poetry in your soul." He smiled at her reply, then kissed it. I cannot write poetry myself, said Polly, but I am very fond of it, and shall indeed like very much, dear Richard, to listen when you read. But the winter ran away, one cold wet week succeeding another, and still they were apart. Marnie urged and pleaded, but couldn't get Polly to name the wedding day. He began to think pressure was being brought to bear on the girl from another side. Naturally the beamishers were reluctant to let her go, who would be so useful to them as Polly, who undertake, without scorn, the education of the Huylem Shepherd's daughters. Still they knew they had to lose her, and he couldn't see that it made things any easier for them to put off the evil day. No, there was something else at the bottom of it, though he didn't know what. Then one evening, pondering a letter of Polly's, he slapped his forehead and exclaimed aloud at his own stupidity. That night into his reply he slipped four five-pound notes, just to buy yourself any little thing you fancy, dearest, if I chose a gift I might send what would not be acceptable to you. Yes, sure enough that was it. Little Polly had been in straits for money. The next news he heard was that she had bought and was stitching her wedding gown. Taxed with her need Polly guiltily admitted that her salary for the past three months was owing to her, but there had been great expenses in connection with the hotel, and Mr. B. had had an accident to his leg. From what she wrote, though, Marnie saw that it was not the first time such remissness had occurred, and he felt grimly indignant with her employers. Keeping open house and hospitable to the point of vulgarity, they were it was evident pinch-fists when it came to parting with their money, still in the case of a little woman who had served them so faithfully. In thought he set a thick black mark against their name for their cavalier treatment of his Polly, and extended it to John Turnham as well. John had made no move to put hand to pocket, and Polly's niceness of feeling had stood in the way of her applying to him for aid. It made Marnie yearn to snatch the girl to him then and there to set her free of all contact with such coarse-grained, miserly brutes. Old Ockock negotiated the hire of a neat spring cart for him in a stout little cob, and at last the day had actually come when he could set out to bring Polly home. By his side was Ned Turnham. Ned, still a lean, jowled wagesman at Rotten Gully, made no secret of his glee at getting carried down thus comfortably to Polly's nuptials. They drove the eternal forty-odd miles to Geelong, each stick and stone of which was fast becoming known to Marnie, a journey that remained equally tiresome whether the red earth rose as a thick red dust, or whether as now it had turned to a mud-like bird-lime in which the wheels sank almost to the axels. Arrived at Geelong they put up at a hotel where Purdy awaited them. Purdy had tramped down from Tarangawa, blanket on back, and stood in need of a new rig out from head to foot. Otherwise his persistent ill luck had left no mark on him. The ceremony took place early the following morning at the house of the Wesleyan minister, the Anglican pass and having been called away. The beamishers and Polly drove to town, a tight fit in a double buggy. On the back seat Ginny clung to and half supported a huge clothes-basket which contained the wedding breakfast. Polly sat on her trunk by the splash-board and tilly, crowded out, rode in on one of the cart-horses, a coloured bed-quilt pinned around her waist to protect her skirts. To Polly's disappointment neither her brother John nor his wife was present, a letter came at the eleventh hour to say that Mrs. Emma was unwell and her husband did not care to leave her. Her clothes, however, were ten pounds for the purchase of a wedding-gift, and the pleasure Polly felt at being able to announce John's generosity helped to make up to her for his absence. The only other guest present was an elder sister, Miss Sarah Turnham, who, being out of a situation at the moment, had sailed down from Melbourne. This young lady, a sprightly brunette of some three or four and twenty, without the fine regular features of Ned and Polly, with tenfold their vivacity and experience caused quite a sensation, until his audible raptures at beholding her Purdy again were of short duration, for Purdy had never met the equal of Miss Sarah and could not take his eyes off her. He and she were the life of the party. The beamishers were overawed by the visitor's town-bread heirs and the genteel elegance of her dress. Polly was a mere crumpled rose-leaf of pink confusion, Marnie too preoccupied with ring and license to take any but his formal share in the proceedings. Come and see you, echoed Miss Sarah playfully, the knot was tied, the company had demolished the good things laid out by Mrs. Beamish in the private parlour of a hotel, and emptied a couple of bottles of champagne, and Polly had changed her muslin frock for a black silk's travelling gown. Come and see you, why of course I will, little silly! And with her pretty white hand she patted the already perfect bow of Polly's bonnet-strings. Miss Sarah had no great opinion of the match her sister was making, but she had been agreeably surprised by Marnie's person and manners, and had said so, thus filling Polly's soul with bliss. I confided, of course, little goosey, you have a spare room to offer me, for I confess, she went on turning to the rest of the party, I confess I feel inordinately curious to see with my own eyes what these famous diggings are like. For more one hears they must be marvellously entertaining. Now I presume that you, Mr. Smith, never touch at such rude out-of-the-world places in the course of your travels. Polly, who had discreetly concealed the fact that he was but a poverty-stricken digger himself, quibbled a light evasion, then changed the subject, and offered his escort to the steam-packet by which Miss Sarah was returning to Melbourne. And you too, dear Tilly, urged little Polly, proceeding with her farewells, for mind you promised, and I won't forget to—you know what? Tilly, sobbing noisily, wept on Polly's neck that she wish she was dead or at the bottom of the sea, and Polly, torn between pride and pain at Perdy's delinquency, could only kiss her several times without speaking. The farewells buzzed and flew. Good-bye to you, little lass. Beg pardon, Mrs. Dr. Marnie. Mind you right, Polly, I shall die to ear. Tuck to our little silly goosey and au revoir. Mind you don't pitch you out of the cart, Polly. Good boy, Polly, my duck, and remember I'll come to you in a wink and hiff and win—which speech on the part of Mrs. Beamish distressed Polly to the verge of tears. But finally she was torn from their arms and hoisted into the cart, and Marnie, the reins in his hand, began to unstiffen from the wooden figurehead he had felt himself during the ceremony and under the whirring tongues and whispered confidences of the women. And now Polly, for home, he said exultantly, when the largest pocket-hanger chip had shrunk to the size of a knit, and Polly had ceased to twist her neck for one last, last glimpse of her friends, and then the bush and the loneliness of the bush closed around them. It was the time of flowers, of fierce young growth after the fruitful winter rains. The short-lived grass, green now as that of an English meadow, was picked out into patterns by the scarlet of the running postman. Purple sars-parilla festooned the stems of the scrub, though a vast natural paddocks, here of yellow everlastings, there of heaths in full bloom. Compared with the dark, spindly foliage of the she-oaks, the tea-tree's waxy flower stood out like orange blossoms against furs. On damp or marshy ground wattles were aflame, great quivering masses of softest gold. Wherever these trees stood the fragrance of their yellow puff-ball blossoms saturated the air, one knew before one saw them that they were coming, and long after they had been left behind one carried their honey's sweetness with one. Against them no other scent could have made itself felt. And to Marnie these waves of perfume, into which they were continually running, came in the course of the hours to stand for a symbol of the golden future for which he and Polly were making, and whenever in after years he met with wattles in full bloom he was carried back to the blue spring day of this wedding journey, and jogged on once more in the light cart with his girl-wife at his side. It was necessarily a silent drive. More rain had fallen during the night. Even the best bits of the road were worked into deep glutinous ruts, and the low-lying parts were under water. Marnie, but a fairish hand with the rains, was repeatedly obliged to leave the track and take to the bush, where he steered away as best he could through trees, stumps, boulders, and crab-holes. Sometimes he rose to his feet to encourage the horse, or he alighted and pulled it by the bridle, or put a shoulder to the wheel. But to-day no difficulties had power to daunt him, and the further he advanced the lighter hearted he grew. He went back to Ballarat feeling for the first time that he was actually going home. And Polly! Sitting motionless at her husband's side, her hands folded on her black silk lap, Polly obediently turned her head this way and that, when Richard pointed out a landmark to her, or called her attention to the flowers. At first things were new and arresting, but the novelty soon wore off, and as they went on and on, and still on, it began to seem to Polly, who had never been further afield than a couple of miles north of the Pivot City, as if they were driving away from all the rest of mankind right into the very heart of nowhere. The road grew rougher, too, became scored with ridges and furrows which threw them violently from side to side. Unused to bush driving, Polly was sure at each fresh jolt at this time the cart must tip over, and yet she preferred the track and its dangers to Richard's adventurous attempts to carve a passage through the scrub. A little later a cold south wind sprang up which struck through the thin silk mantle. She was very tired, having been on her feet since five o'clock that morning, and all the happy fuss and excitement of the wedding was behind her. Her heart sank. She loved Richard dearly. If he had asked her she would have gone to the ends of the earth with him. But at this moment she felt both small and lonely, and she would have liked nothing better than Mrs. Beamish's big motherly bosom on which to lay her head. And when, in passing a swamp, a well-known noise broke on her ear, that of hundreds of bell-frogs, which were like hundreds of hissing tea-keddles just about to boil, then such a rush of homesickness took her that she would have given all she had to know she was going back once more to the familiar little whitewashed room she had shared with Tilly and Ginny. The seat of the cart was slanting and slippery. Polly was continually sliding forward, now by inches, now with a great jerk. At last Manny noticed it. You're not sitting very comfortably, Polly, I fear, he said. Polly righted herself yet again and reddened. It's—it's my feet aren't long enough, she replied. Oh, why my poor little love cried Manny full of quick compunction. Why didn't you say so? And, drawing rain and getting down, he stuffed some of Mrs. Beamish's bundles, fragments of the feast which the good woman had sent with them, under his wife's feet—stuffed too many so that Polly drove the rest of the way with her knees raised to a hump in front of her. All the afternoon they had been making for dim blue ranges. After leaving the flats near Geelong the track went up and down. Grey-green forests surrounded them, out of which knobbly hills rose like islands from a sea of trees. As they approached the end of their journey they overtook a large number of heavy vehicles laboring along through the mire. A coach with six horses dashed past them at full gallop and left them rapidly behind. Did they have to skirt bull-punchers who were lashing or otherwise ill-treating their teams? Manny urged on the horse and bad Polly shut her eyes. Night had fallen and a drizzling rain set in by the time they travelled the last couple of miles to Ballarat. This was the worst of all, and Polly held her breath while the horse picked its way among yawning pits into which one false step would have plunged them. Her fears were not lessened by hearing that in several places the very road was undermined, and she was thankful when Richard, himself rendered uneasy by the precious cargo he bore, got out and walked at the horse's head. They drew up before a public-house. Cramped from sitting and numb with cold, Polly climbed stiffly down as bidden, and Manny, having unloaded the baggage, mounted his seat again to drive the cart into the yard. This was a false move, as he was quick to see. He should not have left Polly standing alone. For the news of the arrival of Doc Manny and his bride flew from mouth to mouth, and all the loafers who were in the bar turned out to stare and to quiz. Beside her tumulus of trunk-bag bundle little Polly stood desolate with drooping shoulders, and cursing his want of foresight Manny all but drove into the gate-post, which occasioned a loud guffaw. Nor had long Jim turned up as ordered to shoulder the heavy luggage. These blunders made Manny very hot and curt. Having himself stowed the things inside the bar and borrowed a lantern, he drew his wife's arm through his and hurried her away. It was pitch-dark and the ground was wet and squelchy. Their feet sank in the mud. Polly clung to Richard's arm, trembling at the rude voices, the laughter, the brawling that issued from the grok-shops, at the continual apparition of rough-bearded men. One of these, who held a candle stuck in a bottle, was accosted by Richard and soundly raided. When they turned out of the street with its few dismal oil-lamps, their way led them among dirty tents and black pits, and they had to depend for light on the lantern they carried. They crossed a rickety little bridge over a flooded river, then climbed a slope, on which, in her bunchy silk skirts, Polly slipped and floundered, to stop before something that was half a tent and half a log hut. What! this the end of the long, long journey? This the house she had to live in? Yes, Richard was speaking. Welcome home, little wife! Not much of a place, you see, but the best I can give you. It's—it's very nice, Richard, said Polly staunchly, but her lips trembled. Warding off the attack of a big, fierce, dirty dog which sprang at her, dragging its paws down her dress, Polly waited while her husband undid the door, then followed him through a chaos which smelled as she had never believed any roofed-in place could smell, to a little room at the back. Marnie lighted the lamp that stood ready on the table and threw a satisfied glance around. His men folk had done well, things were in apple-pie order. The fire crackled, the kettle was on the boil, the cloths spread. He turned to Polly to kiss her welcome, to relieve her of bonnet and mantle. But before he could do this there came a noise of rowdy voices, of shouting and parlaying, picking up the lantern he ran out to see what the matter was. Left alone Polly remained standing by the table on which an array of tins was set, reserved salmon, sardines, condensed milk, their tops forced back to show their contents. Her heart was heavy as lead, and she felt a dull sense of injury as well. This hut, her home, to which she had so freely invited sister and friend. She would be ashamed for the meveter said eyes on it, not in her worst dreams had she imagined it as mean and poor as this. But perhaps, with the lamp in her hand she tiptoed guiltily to a door in the wall, it opened into a tiny bedroom with a sloping roof. No, this was all, all there was of it, just these two miserable little pokey rooms. She raised her head and looked round and the tears welled up in spite of herself. The roof was so low you could almost touch it, the window was no larger than a pocket handkerchief, there were chinks between the slabs of the walls, and from one of these she now saw a spider crawl out, a huge black tarantula with horrible hairy legs. Polly was afraid of spiders, and at this the tears began to overflow and trickle down her cheeks. Holding her skirts to her, the new dress she had made with such pride now damp and crushed and soiled, she sat down and put her feet in their soaked mud cake little pranella boots on the rung of her chair, for fear of other monsters that might be crawling the floor. And then, while she sat thus hunched together, the voices outside were suddenly drowned in a deafening noise, in a hideous, stupefying din that nearly split one's eardrums. It sounded as though all the tins and cans in the town were being beaten and banged before the door. Polly forgot the tarantula, forgot her bitter disappointment with her new home. Her black eyes wide with fear, her heart thudding in her chest, she sprang to her feet and stood ready, if need be, to defend herself. Where, oh, where was Richard? It was the last straw. When some five minutes later Marnie came bustling in, he had soothed the kettle-drummers and sent them off with a handsome gratuity, and he carried the trunk on his own shoulder, long gym following behind with bags and bundles. When he entered he found little Polly sitting with her head huddled on her arms, crying as though her heart would break. End of Part 1 Chapter 9 Part 2 Chapter 1 Over the fathomless grey seas that tossed between, deceivering the ancient and gigantic continent from the tiny motherland, unsettling rumours ran. After close on forty years fat peace England had armed for hostilities again, her fleet set sail for a foreign sea. Such was the news the sturdy clippishhips brought out in tantalising fragments, and those who, like Richard Marnie, were mere birds of passage in the colony, and had friends and relatives going to the front, caught hungrily at every detail. But to the majority of the colonists what England had done or left undone in preparation for war was of small account. To them the vital question was, will the wily Russian bear take its revenge by sending men a war to annihilate us and plunder the gold in our banks, us, months removed from English aid? And the opinion was openly expressed that in casting off her allegiance to Great Britain and becoming a neutral state lay young Australia's best hope of safety. But even while they made it, the proposers of this scheme were knee-deep in petty local affairs again. All Europe was depressed under the cloud of war, but they went on belabbering hackneyed themes, the unlocking of the lands, iniquitous license fees, official corruption. Richard Marnie could not stand it. His heart was in England, went up and down with England's hopes and fears. He smarted under the tales told of the inefficiency of the British troops in the paucity of their numbers. Under the painful disclosures made by journalists, injudiciously allowed to travel to the seat of war. He questioned, like many another of his class in the old country, the wisdom of the Duke of Newcastle's orders to lay siege to the port of Sebastopol. And of an evening when the store was closed he sat over stale English newspapers and a map of the Crimea, and meticulously followed the movements of the Allies. But in this retirement he was rudely disturbed by feeling himself touched on a vulnerable spot, that of his pocket, before the end of the year trade had come to a standstill and the very town he lived in was under martial law. On both Ballarat and the Bendigo the agitation for the repeal of the licensed tax had grown more and more vehement, and Spring's arrival found the digging community worked up to a white heat. The new Governor's tour of inspection on which great hopes had been built served only to aggravate the trouble. Misled by the golden treasures, with which the diggers, anxious as children to please, dazzled his eyes, the Governor decided that the tax was not an outrageous one, and ordered license raids to be undertaken twice as often as before. This defeat of the diggers' hopes, together with the murder of a comrade and the acquittal of the murderer by a corrupt magistrate, goaded even the least sensitive spirits to rebellion. The guilty man's house was fired, the police was stoned, and then for a month or more deputations and petitions ran to and fro between Ballarat and Melbourne. In vain. The demands of the voteless diggers went unheard. The consequence was that one day at the beginning of summer all the troops that could be spared from the capital, along with several pieces of artillery, were raising the dust on the road to Ballarat. On the last afternoon in November work was suspended throughout the diggings, and the more cautious among the shopkeepers began to think of closing their doors. In front of the diggers' emporium, where the earth was baked as hard as a burnt crust, a little knot of people stood shading their eyes from the sun. Opposite on Bakery Hill, a monster meeting had been held, and the Southern Cross hoisted, a blue bunting that bore the silver stars of the constellation after which it was named. Having sworn allegiance to it without stretched hands, the rebels were lining up to march off to drill. Manny watched the thin procession through narrowed lids. In theory he condemned equally the blind obstinacy of the authorities who went on tightening the screw and the foolhardiness of the men. But, well, he couldn't get his eye to shirk one of the screaming banners and placards, down with despotism, who so basis to be a slave, by means of which the diggers sought to inflame popular indignation. If only honest rebels could get on without melodramatic exaggeration, as it is those good fellows yonder are rendering a just cause ridiculous. Polly tightened her clasp of his arm. She had known no peace since the evening before when a rough-looking man had come into the store and with revolver at full cock had commanded Hempel to hand over all the arms and ammunition it contained. Hempel, much to Richard's wrath, had meekly complied, but it might have been Richard himself. He would for certain have refused, and then— Polly had hardly slept for thinking of it. She now listened in deferential silence to the men's talk, but when old Ockock, he never had a good word to say for the riotous diggers, took his pipe out of his mouth to remark. A pack-a-tipperary boy spoiling for a fight, that's what I say, and yet blow me if I wouldn't have been glad if one of my own two had had spunk enough to join him. At this Polly could not refrain from saying pitifully, oh, Mr. Ockock, do you really mean that? For both Purdy and Brother Ned were in the rebel band, and Polly's heart was heavy because of them. Can't you see my brother anywhere, she asked Hempel, who held an old spy-glass to his eyes. No, ma'am, sorry to say I can't," replied Hempel. He would willingly have conjured up a dozen brothers to comfort Polly, but he couldn't swerve from the truth even for her. Give me the glass," said Marnie, and swept the line. No, no sign of either of them. Perhaps they thought better of it after all. Listen, now they're singing. Can you hear them? The Marcelles, as I'm alive. Poor fools! Many of them are armed with nothing more deadly than picks and shovels. And pikes, corrected Hempel. Several carry pikes, sir. Ah, that so! They've been hammering out bits of old iron all the morning, agreed Ockock. It's said they haven't a quarter of a far armour-piece, and the drill-in, Lord Lovia, half of them don't know they're right and from their left. The troops will make mincemeat of them if they come to close quarters. Oh, I hope not, said Polly. Oh, I do hope they won't get hurt. Patting her hand, Marnie advised his wife to go indoors and resume her household tasks, and since his lightest wish was a command, little Polly docilely withdrew her arm and returned to her dishwashing. But though she rubbed and scoured with her usual precision, her heart was not in her work. Both on this day and the next she seemed to exist solely in her two ears. The one strained to catch any scrap of news about poor Ned, the other listened with an even sharper anxiety to what went on in the store. Several further attempts were made to get arms and provisions from Richard, and each time an angry scene ensued. Close up beside the thin partition, her hands locked under her cooking apron, Polly sat and trembled for her husband. He had already got himself talked about by refusing to back a reform league, and now she heard him openly declare to someone that he disapproved of the terms of this league from A to Z. Oh, dear, if only he wouldn't! But she was careful not to add to his worries by speaking of her fears. As it was, he came to tea with a moody face. The behaviour of the foraging party is growing more and more threatening. Marnie thought it prudent to follow the general example and put up his shutters. Wildly conflicting rumours were in the air. One report said a contingent of Crestwick daredevils had arrived to join forces with the insurgents. Another that the Crestwickers, disgusted at finding neither firearms nor quarters provided for them, had straightaway turned and marched the twelve miles home again. For a time it was asserted that Lailaw the Irish leader had been brought over by the government, then just as definitely that his influence alone held the rebel faction together. Towards evening Long Jim was dispatched to find out how matters really stood. He brought back word that the diggers had entrenched themselves on a piece of rising ground near the Eureka Leed behind a flimsy barricade of logs, slabs, ropes and overturned carts. The camp for its part was screened by a breastwork of firewood, trusses of hay and bags of corn, while the mounted police stood all day fully armed by their horses which were saddled ready for action at a moment's notice. Neither Ned nor Purdy put on an appearance in the night past without news of them. Just before dawn, however, Marnie was wakened by a tapping at the window. Thusting out his head he recognized young Tommy Ockock, who had been sent by his father to tell Doctor that the soldiers were a stir. Lights could be seen moving about the camp, a horse had nade. Father thought spies might have given them the hint that at least half the diggers from this decade had come down to Main Street last night and got drunk and never gone back. With a concerned glance at Polly Marnie struggled into his clothes, he must make another effort to reach the boys, especially Ned for Polly's sake. When Ned had first announced his intention of siding with the insurgents he'd merely shrugged his shoulders believing that the young vapor would soon have had enough of it. Now he felt responsible to his wife for Ned's safety. Ned, whose chief reason for turning rebel he suspected, was that a facetious trooper had once dubbed him Italian organ grinder and asked him where he kept his monkey. But Marnie's designs of a friendly interference came too late. The troops had got away, creeping stealthily through the morning dusk, and he was still panting up Specimen Hill when he heard the crack of a rifle. Confused chouts and cries followed, then a bugle blared, and the next instant the rattle and bang of musketry split the air. Together with a knot of others, who like himself had run forth half-dressed, Marnie stopped and waited in extreme anxiety, and while he stood the stars went out one by one as though a fingertip touched them. The digger's response to the volley of the attacking party was easily distinguished. It was a dropping fire and sounded like a thin hail shower after a peel of thunder. Within half an hour all was over. The barricade had fallen, to cheers and laughter from the military. The rebel flag was torn down, huts and tents inside the enclosure were going up in flames. Towards six o'clock, just as the December sun, huge and fiery, thrust the edge of its globe above the horizon, a number of onlookers ran up the slope to all that was left of the ill-fated stockade. On the dust, bloodstains now set hard as scabs, traced the route by which a wretched procession of prisoners had been marched to the camp jail. Behind the demolished barrier huts moulded as heaps of blackened embers, and the ground was strewn with stark forms, which lay about some twenty or thirty of them in grotesque attitudes. Some sprawled without stretched arms, their sightless eyes seeming to fix the pale azure of the sky. Others were hunched and huddled in a last convulsion, and in the course of his fruitless search for friend and brother an older instinct reasserted itself in Marnie. Kneeling down, he began swiftly and dexterously to examine the prostate bodies. Two or three still heaved, the blood gurgling from throat and breast like water from the neck of a bottle. Here one had a mouth plugged with shot, and a beard as stiff as though it were made of rope. Another that he turned over was a German he had once heard speak at a digger's meeting, a windy braggart of a man with a quaint impediment in his speech. Well, poor soul, he would never mow the invectives or tickle the ribs of an audience again. His body was a very colander of wounds. Some had not bled, either. It looked as though the soldiers had viciously gone on prodding and stabbing the fallen. Stripping a corpse of its shirt, he tore off a piece of stuff to make a bandage for a shattered leg. While he was binding the limb to a board, young Tom ran up to say that the military returning with carts were arresting every one they met in the vicinity. With others who had been covering up and carrying away their friends, Marnie hastened down the back of the hill toward the bush. Here was plain evidence of a stampede. More bloodstains pointed the track, and a number of odd and clumsy weapons had been dropped or thrown away by the diggers in their flight. He went home with the relatively good tidings that neither Ned nor Purdy was to be found. Polly was up and dressed. She had also lighted the fire and set water on to boil just in case. Was there ever such a sensible little woman? said her husband with a kiss. The day dragged by flat and stale after the excitement of the morning. No one ventured far from cover, for the military remained under arms, and attachments of mounted troopers patrolled the streets. At the camp the hundred-odd prisoners were being sorted out, and the maimed and wounded doctored in the rude little temporary hospital. Down in Main Street the noise of hammering went on hour after hour. The dead could not be kept in the summer heat, must be got underground before dark. Marnie had just secured his premises for the night when there came a wrapping at the back door. In the yards stood a stranger who, when the dog-pompy had been chidden and soothed, made mysterious signs to Marnie and murmured a well-known name. Admitted to the sitting-room he fished a scrap of dirty paper from his boot. Marnie put the candle on the table and straightened out the missive. Sure enough it was in Purdy's hand, though sadly scrawled. Have been hit in the pin. Come, if possible, and bring your tools. The bearer is square. Polly could hear the two of them talking in low, urgent tones, but her relief that the visitor brought no bad news of her brother was dashed when she learned that Richard had to ride out into the bush to visit a sick man. However she buttoned her bodice, and with her hair hanging down her back went into the sitting-room to help her husband, for he was turning the place upside down. He had a pair of probe-scissors somewhere he felt sure if he could only lay hands on them. And while he ransacked drawers and cupboards for one or another of the few poor instruments left him, his thoughts went back inopportunely enough to the time when he had been surgeon-stressor in the Edinburgh Royal Infirmary. Oh, tempera, oh, mores! He wondered what old sign that Prince of Surgeons would say could he see his Wileham student raking out a probe from among the ladles and kitchen-spoons, a roll of lint from behind the saucepans. Back in hand he followed his guide to where the latter had left a horse in safekeeping, and having lengthened the stirrups and received instructions about the road he set off for the hut in the ranges which Purdy had contrived to reach. He had an awkward cross-country ride of some four miles before him, but this didn't trouble him. The chance-touched spring had opened the gates to a flood of memories, and as he jogged along he relived in thought the happy day spent as a student under the shadow of Arthur's seat round the college, the infirmary and old surgeon's square. Once more he sat in the theatre, the breathless spectator of famous surgical operations, or as house-surgeon to the lying-in hospital, himself assisted in daring attempts to lessen suffering and save life. It was, of course, too late now to bemoan the fact that he had broken with his profession. Yet only that very day Envy had beset him. The rest of the fraternity had run to and from the tents where the wounded were housed, while he, behung with his shopman's apron, potted about among barrels and crates. No one thought of enlisting his services. Another, not he, would set or bungle the fracture he had temporarily splintered. The hut, it had four slab walls and an earthen floor, was in darkness on his arrival, for Purdy had not dared to make a light. He lay tossing restlessly on a dirty old straw-palias, and was in great pain, but greeted his friend with a dash of the old brio. Hanging his coat over the chinks in the door and turning back his sleeves, Arnie took up the lantern and stooped to examine the injured leg. A bullet had struck the right ankle, causing an ugly wound. He washed it out, dressed and bandaged it. He also bathed the patient's sweat-soaked head and shoulders, then sat down to await the owner of the hut's return. As soon as the latter appeared he took his leave, promising to ride out again the night after next. In spite of the circumstances under which they met, he and Purdy parted with a slight coolness. Arnie had loudly voiced his surprise at the nature of the wound caused by the bullet. It was incredible that any of the military could have borne a weapon of this caliber. Pressed, Purdy admitted that his hurt was a piece of gross ill luck. He had been accidentally shot by a clumsy fool of a digger from an ancient holster pistol. To Arnie this seemed to cap the climax, and he didn't mask his sentiments. The pitiful little forcible feeble rebellion, all along but a futile attempt to cast straws against the wind, all completely over and done with, and would never be heard of again. Or such, at least, he added, was the earnest hope of the law-abiding community. This irritated Purdy, who was spew me with the self-importance of one who was stood in the thick of the fray. He answered hotly, and ended by wrapping out with a contemptuous click of the tongue. On my word, Deque, look at the whole thing like the tradesman you are! These words rankled in Arnie all the way home, trust Purdy for not in anger being able to resist giving him a flick on the raw. It made him feel thankful he was no longer so dependent on his friendship as of old. Since then he'd tasted better things. Now a woman's heart beat in sympathetic understanding. There met his two lips which had never said an unkind word. He pushed on with a new zest, reaching home about dawn, and over his young wife's joy at his safe return he forgot the shifting moods of his night journey. It had, however, this result. Next day Polly found him with his head in one of the great old shabby black books which, to her mind, spoiled the neat appearance of the book-shelves. He stood to read the volume lying open before him on the top of the cold stove, and was so deeply engrossed that the store-bell rang twice without his hearing it. When, reminded that Hempel was absent, he whipped out to answer it, he carried the volume with him.