Читать книгу The Belle of Toorak - E. W. Hornung - Страница 4

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It was not Theodore, however. It was a man whom Moya was thankful not to have seen before. Nor was the face more familiar to Rigden himself, or less unlovely between the iron-grey bristles that wove a wiry mat from ear to ear, over a small head and massive jaws. For on attracting their attention the man lifted his wideawake, a trick so foreign to the normal bushman that Rigden’s eyebrows were up from the beginning; yet he carried his swag as a swag should be carried; the outer blanket was the orthodox “bluey,” duly faded; and the long and lazy stride that of the inveterate “sundowner.”

“Eureka Station, I believe?” said the fellow, halting.

“That’s the name,” said Rigden.

“And are you the boss?”

“I am.”

“Then Eureka it is!” cried the swagman, relieving himself of his swag, and heartily kicking it as it lay where he let it fall.

“But,” said Rigden, smiling, “I didn’t say I had any work for you, did I?”

“And I didn’t ask for any work.”

“Travellers’ rations, eh? You’ll have to wait till my storekeeper comes in. Go and camp in the travellers’ hut.”

Instead of a thank-you the man smiled—but only slightly—and shook his iron-grey head—but almost imperceptibly. Moya perceived it, however, and could not imagine why Rigden tolerated a demeanour which had struck her as insolent from the very first. She glanced from one man to the other. The smile broadened on the very unpleasant face of the tramp, making it wholly evil in the lady’s eyes. So far from dismissing him, however, Rigden rose.

“Excuse me a few minutes,” he said, not only briefly, but without even looking at Moya; and with a word to the interloper he led the way to the station store. This was one of the many independent buildings, and not the least substantial. The tramp followed Rigden, and in another moment a particularly solid door had closed behind the pair.

Moya felt at once hurt, aggrieved, and ashamed of her readiness to entertain any such feelings. But shame did not remove them. It was their first day together for two interminable months, and the afternoon was to have been their very very own. That was the recognised arrangement, and surely it was not too much to expect when one had come five hundred miles in the heat of January (most of them by coach) to see one’s fiancé in one’s future home. This afternoon, at least, they might have had to themselves. It should have been held inviolate. Yet he could desert her for the first uncleanly sundowner who came along! After first telling the man to wait, he must needs show his strength by giving in and attending to the creature himself, his devotion by leaving her alone on a verandah without another soul in sight or hearing! It might only be for the few minutes mentioned with such off-hand coolness. The slight was just the same.

Such was the first rush of this young lady’s injured feelings and too readily embittered thoughts. They were more bitter, however, in form than in essence, for the notorious temper of the Australian Bethunes was seldom permitted a perfectly direct expression. They preferred the oblique ways of irony and sarcasm, and their minds ran in those curves. A little bitterness was in the blood, and Moya could not help being a Bethune.

But she had finer qualities than were rife—or at all events conspicuous—in the rank and file of her distinguished family. She had the quality of essential sweetness which excited their humorous contempt, and she was miraculously free from their innate and unparalleled cynicism. At her worst she had warm feelings, justly balanced by the faculty of cold expression. And at her best she was quick to see her faults and to deplore them; a candid and enthusiastic friend; staunch at your side, sincere to your face, loyal at all costs behind your back.

It was this loyalty that came to her rescue now: she stood suddenly self-convicted of a whole calendar of secret crime against the man whom she professed to love. Did she love him? Could she possibly love him, and so turn on him in an instant, even in her heart? Oh, yes, yes! She was a little fool, that was all; at least she hoped it was all. To think that her worst faults should hunt her up on the very heels of her frank confession of them! So in a few minutes sense prevailed over sensibility. And for a little all was well.

But these minutes mounted up by fives and then by tens. And the verandah was now filled to blindness and suffocation by the sunken sun. And there sat Moya Bethune, the admired of all the most admirable admirers elsewhere, baking and blinking in solitary martyrdom, while, with a grim and wilful obstinacy, she stoically waited the pleasure of a back-block overseer who preferred a disreputable tramp’s society to hers!

The little fool in her was uppermost once more. There was perhaps some provocation now. Yet a little fool it indubitably was. She thought of freckles. Let them come. They would be his fault. Not that he would care.

Care!

And her short lip lifted in a peculiar smile; it was the war-smile of the Bethunes, and not beautiful in itself, but Moya it touched with such a piquant bitter-sweetness that some of her swains would anger her for that very look. Her teeth were white as the wing of the sulphur-crested cockatoo, and that look showed them as no other. Then there was the glitter it put into her eyes: they were often lovelier, but never quite so fine. And a sweet storm-light turned her skin from pale rose to glowing ivory, and the short lip would tremble one moment to set more unmercifully the next. Even so that those who loved and admired the milder Moya, feared and adored her thus.

But this Moya was seldom seen in Toorak, or, for that matter, anywhere else; and, of course, it was never to show itself any more, least of all at Eureka Station. Yet it did so this first, this very afternoon, though not all at once.

For the next thing that happened she took better than all that had gone before, though those were negative offences, and this was a positive affront.

It was when at last the store door opened, and Rigden went over to the kitchen for something steaming in a pannikin, and then to his room for something else. He passed once under Moya’s nose, and once close beside her chair, but on each occasion without a look or a word.

“Something is worrying him,” she thought. “Poor fellow!”

And for a space her heart softened. But it was no space to speak of; intensified curiosity cut it very short.

“Who can the horrid man be?”

The question paved the way to a new grievance and a new resolve.

“He ought to have told me. But he shall!”

Meanwhile the dividing door was once more shut; and now the better part of an hour had passed; and the only woman on the station (she might remain the only woman) had carried tea through the verandah and advised Moya to go indoors and begin. Moya declined. But no one ever sat in the sun up there. Moya said nothing; but at length gave so short an answer to so natural a question that Mrs. Duncan retreated with a very natural impression, false for the moment, but not for so many moments more.

For presently through the handful of pines, red-stemmed and resinous in the sunset, there came the jingle of bit and stirrup, to interrupt the unworthiest thoughts in which the insulted lady had yet indulged. She was thinking of much that she had missed in town by coming up-country in the height of the season; she was wishing herself back in Toorak. There she was somebody; in Toorak, in Melbourne, they would not dare to treat her thus.

Her fate was full of irony. There she could have had anybody, and, rightly or wrongly, she was aware of the fact. No other girl down there—or in Melbourne, for that matter—was at once a society belle, a general favourite, and a Bethune. The latter titles smacked indeed of the contradiction in terms, but their equal truth merely emphasised the altogether exceptional character of our heroine. That she was herself aware of it was not her fault. She had heard so much of her qualities for so many years. But all her life it had been impressed upon her mind that the Bethunes, as a family, were in a class by themselves in the southern hemisphere. In moments of chagrin, therefore, it was only natural that Moya should aggravate matters by remembering that she also was a Bethune.

A Bethune engaged to a bushman who dared to treat her thus!

Such was the pith and point of these discreditable reflections when the jingle of approaching horse put a sudden end to them. Moya looked up, expecting to see her brother, and instinctively donning a mask. She forgot it was in the buggy that Theodore had been got out of the way, and it was with sheer relief that her eyes lit upon a sergeant and a trooper of the New South Wales mounted police, with fluttering puggarees and twinkling accoutrements, and a black fellow riding bareback in the rear.

They reined up in front of the verandah.

“We want to see Mr. Rigden,” said the sergeant, touching the shiny peak of his cap.

“Oh, indeed!”

“Is he about?”

Moya would not say, and pretended she could not. The sudden apparition of the police had filled her with apprehensions as wild as they were vague. The trooper had turned in his saddle to speak to the blackfellow, and Moya saw the great Government revolver at his hip. Even as she hesitated, however, the store door opened, and Rigden locked it behind him before sallying forth alone.

“Yes, here he is!” exclaimed Moya, and sat like a statue in her chair. Yet the pose of the statue was not wholly suggestive of cold indifference and utter unconcern.

“Glad to find you in, Mr. Rigden,” said the sergeant. “We’re having a little bit of sport, for once in a way.”

“I congratulate you. What sort?” said Rigden.

“A man-hunt!”

And there were volumes of past boredom and of present zest in the sergeant’s tone.

“That so?” said Rigden. “And who’s the man?”

The sergeant glanced at the young lady. Rigden did the same. Their wishes with respect to her were only too obvious. Moya took the fiercer joy in disregarding them.

“I’d like to have a word with you in the store,” said the sergeant.

“No, no!” said Rigden hastily. “Sergeant Harkness—Miss Bethune.”

It was a cold little bow, despite this triumph.

“Miss Bethune will be interested,” added Rigden grimly. “And she won’t give anything away.”

“Thank you,” said Moya. And her tone made him stare.

Harkness touched his horse with the spurs, and rode up close to the verandah, on which Rigden himself now stood.

“Fact is,” said he, “it oughtn’t to get about among your men, or it’s a guinea to a gooseberry they’ll go harbouring him. But it’s a joker who escaped from Darlinghurst a few days ago. And we’ve tracked him to your boundary—through your horse-paddock—to your home-paddock gate!”

Rigden glanced at Moya. Her eyes were on him. He knew it before he looked.

“Seen anything of him?” asked the sergeant inevitably.

“Not to my knowledge. What’s he like?”

“Oldish. Stubby beard. Cropped head, of course. Grey as a coot.”

“Height 5 ft. 11 in.,” supplemented the trooper, reading from a paper; “ ‘hair iron-grey, brown eyes, large thin nose, sallow complexion, very fierce-looking, slight build, but is a well-made man.’ ”

A dead silence followed; then Rigden spoke. Moya’s eyes were still upon him, burning him, but he spoke without tremor, and with no more hesitation than was natural in the circumstances.

“No,” he said, “I have seen no such man. No such man has been to me!”

“I was afraid of it,” said Harkness. “Yet we tracked him to the boundary, every yard, and we got on his tracks again just now near the home-paddock gate. I bet he’s camping somewhere within a couple of miles; we must have another look while it’s light. Beastly lot of sand you have from the home-paddock gate right up to the house!”

“We’re built upon a sandhill, you see,” said Rigden, with a wry look into the heavy yellow yard: “one track’s pretty much like another in here, eh, Billy?”

The black tracker shook a woolly pate.

“Too muchee damn allasame,” said he. “Try again longa gate.”

“Yes,” said the sergeant, “and we’ll bring him here for the night when we catch him. You could lend us your travellers’ hut, I suppose?”

“Oh, yes.”

“So long then, Mr. Rigden. Don’t be surprised if you see us back to supper. I feel pretty warm.”

And the sergeant used his spurs again, only to reign up suddenly and swing round in his saddle.

“Been about the place most of the afternoon?” he shouted.

“All the afternoon,” replied Rigden; “between the store and this verandah.”

“And you’ve had no travellers at all?”

“Not one.”

“Well, never mind,” cried the sergeant. “You shall have four for the night.”

And the puggarees fluttered, and the stirrup irons jingled, out of sight and earshot, through the dark still pines, and so into a blood-red sunset.