Читать книгу Aunt Jo - A Love Story of the Cedar Scrubs - Edward S Sorenson - Страница 4

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Though ignored by Dumboon society, and treated as a nobody by most people, young Mark Keaton was well received by the few families among the hills—with one exception. Mr M'Gurren could not tolerate him, despite the fact that he was handsome, prepossessing in manner, and clever in many ways. He was twenty-one, tall, slightly built, and fairly well educated. His father, Hugh Keaton, had made his pile in the cedar trade when the timber was handy, was easily got out, and brought a big price on the bank. With this he had purchased Gimbo. His predecessor was Patrick Monaugh, whose relict was the present Mrs Lethcote, who presided at Fairymede. Hugh had since pegged his claim in Necropolis, leaving his widow comfortably well off.

Besides Mark, there were two younger sons, Luke and Eustace, who had left their books for the teams and the scrubs when they had barely entered their teens. The lushful shadowlands were enchanting then but when the father died they sold out and went west. How they got on, or what they were doing there, no one on the Yeerong knew. Like most men who wander into the bush to look for work, they "never troubled to write."

Mark had always been a favourite with his father, and as he lacked the robust physique of his brothers, and was thus less fitted for the hardships of the cedar getter, he was allowed to follow his natural bent—"book learning." He was a perfect philomath compared with the others. He read and wrote, was always thinking, and never had much to say. That he had talent, that he was a colt of some promise, was admitted by his friends, though none accredited him with being a genius. Some of his poetic efforts had experienced the glare of print in the local paper, and those M'Gurren had sneered over, and cited Bobbie Burns, and snickered. He had also written three or four novels of enormous bulk, and teeming with hair-bristling incidents and utterly impossible things. The want of funds, he said, prevented his becoming famous on the spot, and those who had plenty held tight to it, and refused to recognise his claims. Mark was sorely wounded by this apathy and diffidence.

"If I could only get money enough to publish my first book," he exclaimed, "I would surprise some of these scurrilous cynics of Dumboon."

"Why don't yer go an' work for it?" his mother snapped. "D'yer 'spect to sit down an' whistle an' see it come rollin' up to yer?"

"Aint I working day and night!" Mark retorted.

"Phugh!" said his mother. "Th' most yer do is to sit in there, cooped up like a sittin' hen on wooden eggs, scribblin'. What in the name o' Patience's th' good o' that? You don't get nothing for it. An' yer call it work! Look at Luke an' Eustace, how they use ter buckle to it in the scrubs an' on the road. You work!"

"Mental work is harder than ordinary labour," said Mark, humbly.

"Get out! Can't I see the difference with me own eyes? Look how tired they use to come 'ome—regular knocked up. An' th' way they use ter sweat. Lord bless' me, when did I ever see you sweat. No," she iterated, " 'taint work at all simply a continyel worryin' o' the brain that'll put yer in Collan Park, or Yarra Bend, or Tarbon Crick, or Woogaroo. That's what bookworms come to. They go crazy."

That, Mark complained, was another handicap. He had, from a literary point of view, a bad mother. However much he studied and struggled, he got nothing but snubs and sneers for his pains. There were some who took an interest in him, and were sanguine that a prosperous future awaited him. These were mostly impecunious persons, who had nothing to give but advice. They made no charge for the advice. He confided in them, but never wholly in his mother. There was a time when she was his confidant, before she knew of the many difficulties a scribe has to contend with in his first attempts. She thought he was a wonder at that time, and rushed around, showing the neighbours what her boy wrote out of his own head. The utter failure of Mark's initial effort opened her eyes, and henceforth his productions were "useless rubbish." She was a querulous woman, a pessimist who found fault with the universe and the inscrutable ways of the Almighty; a selfish woman, who had an insatiable greed for money, coupled with a relish for scandal and gossip. This often caused Mark, a modest and sensitive young man, much embarrassment and confusion when in company of people of cultivated tastes. This occurred only at the races, however, when they stood in a crowd.

When the "Dumboon Express" began to blazon, his soulful effusions before the public eye, he thought his mother's prejudices would be swept away. He was disappointed.

"What's th' good o' writin' po'try?" she demanded. "There's enough o' that maudlin stuff writ to supply all creation till doomsday. If you was paid for it 'twouldn't be so bad, but yer never get a cent."

"The money will come by and bye," Mark protested.

"Phugh!" said his mother. "Fancy I see Bill Sooley an' Abe Watts an' Kilfloggin givin' their cedar away to anybody as would take it for the askin', an' say th' money 'ill come by an' bye. They're not such fools. They make sure o' the spons fust."

"One has to make a name in literature," Mark explained. "Any hoodlum can cut and sell cedar."

"He can't sell rubbish though," his mother retorted. "He can't sell mahogany for cedar. An' seems to me, your books is all mahogany, while them printer coves wants genuine cedar. 'Taint names they want to buy. It's quality stuff. I know. I've seen books with no names on 'em. An' yours 'ud go, name or no name, if they was the genuine cedar."

She picked up a mat and shook it viciously, then carefully replaced it.

"I see by th' last paper that cedar's riz, an' it's likely to go up more," she resumed. "Abe Watts an' Bill Sooley's makin' a good thing out of it these days. They know which side their bread's buttered. My word! An' here's you, stuck in the house day in an' day out, maunderin' like a lovesick fool about a girl's lovely blue eyes, an' her sweet red lips, an' her rosebud cheeks, an' her beautiful brow, an' her swan neck, an' her musical voice, an' her silken hair, an' her snow-white bosom—Yah! Can she bake a batch o' bread that yer ken eat, or make a shirt to put on yer back? You give me th' pip, you do."

Mark shouldered his gun, which he had been cleaning, and departed hurriedly. What was the use of talking? He could never make her understand. He felt that a crisis was approaching, and already in spirit he was wandering over the broad wild lands that spread around him, knowing that, like Luke and Eustace, he would soon be far away. And once away, he would be prepared to tackle any kind of work, and work hard; but here, where every child and every dog knew him, having set out on the inky way with a blare of trumpets, he could not bring himself to throw down the pen now and take up the tools of the cedar getter for such would be an admission of failure. Foolish pride! But Mark was only a stripling yet.

With his old dog for mate, he cut across to Druton Hill on the pretence of getting a duck. In reality the duck he was thinking of was known as Ethel Lethcote. He was so wrapped up in thoughts of her that all else was a blank; and presently when his foot and his eye lit simultaneously on what appeared to be the sinuous body of a snake, he leaped into the air with, an involuntary cry. Stepping cautiously back, with gun in readiness, he saw that it was only the thick part of a broken bullock whip, which had been placed reptilian fashion' across the track. As he kicked it into the grass, a low laugh from the road brought a flush to his cheeks. He was at the teamsters' camping grounds, and Abe Watts, lying in the bunk under the tail of his waggon, had been, watching him for some minutes.

"Seem to 'ave th' jumps purty bad t'day, Mark," he said, sitting up and wiping his eyes.

"Thought it was a, snake," answered Mark shamefacedly. "Didn't notice it till I was on top of it."

"Reminds me o' Kilfloggin," laughed Abe. "Come home purty late one night, half sprung as usual. Th' door of his hut (wot is Thompson's now) was open, an' as he steps in he stumbles agin something big an' hairy. It sed 'hee-haw,' tremenjus loud an' sudden, an' as George sprawls out, it bumps him in th' stomick an' purty nigh knocks th' roof off with him. 'Fore he ken drop back, a pesky old rooster makes a spring off o' some tin cans he was roostin' on, an' hits him agin, with th' gol-darndest clatter yer ever heard. Soon's George got his feet he cut for Cadby's pub like a barrel down a hill. He was purty wopsy for a week after, an' he wouldn't sleep in that hut agin for three beers. They told him 'twas only Thompson's donkey what'd fetched him one in th' bread-basket. But George couldn't swaller that yarn—not by a long sight. He punched that donkey though one day 'when it smelt at him through th' fence. 'Twarnt because he believed the critter 'ad anything to do with it but he jes' punched him on genrel principles."

"One gets a daddy of a scare at times from things that would hurt him no more than his own shadow," said Mark. "I'll never forget the time I went to get a drink at the Horseshoe Lagoon. I was lying on a big gum log, and stretching far over to reach the water, when up pops something wet and hairy right under my eyes. It gave me such a start that the bit of dead bark I was holding on to broke, and I shot head-first into the lagoon. I was out again as quickly as ever a man left water, not knowing yet what kind of aquarian horror I had encountered. Didn't even want to drink. When I'd been on dry ground long enough to get my breath back, I saw it pop up again under the reeds. It was the celebrated ornithorhynchus paradoxus, whose everyday name is platypus.

"I had a ripsnorter of a fright myself last week," said Abe. "Was comin' down with an extra big load on, an' jes' past Black Gully I pulled up to give th' cattle a blow. Was squattin' in th' shade, with me back agin a coolabah, when something limp an heavy comes whack on to me head an' begins to claw an' scratch about like fightin' tomcats. I got the bends out o' me, an' hollered, an' lit into new territory, all in one spontan-eous act. Then I sees a long black streak scratchin' gravel like billy-o for th' next tree an' 't 'adn't gone far up when down it comes slap-bang agen, through hookin' on to a bit of loose bark that give way. That blamed critter was th' celebrated varanus varius, which his everyday name is goana."

"I saw M'Gurren in a terrible funk one day with a goana," Mark rejoined. "It was about twelve months ago. He'd been putting a rail in his bottom line, and on the way home his dog flushed one from the grass, and there being no tree handy, it circled round M'Gurren and scurried up on to his shoulders. And there was the dog springing and barking at it, and Mac skipping about kicking at it and yelling to it to lay down. The goana had him clutched by the shoulder and by the nape of the neck, and Mac daren't lay hold of its tail to haul him off in case he took some shoulder and neck with him. He sidled around for about five minutes, squinting cautiously round, left and right, and perspiring like a cheap waterbag. The nearest tree was a hundred yards off, and at last, keeping the dog in front of him, he backed slowly towards it feeling his way, and wincing and screwing his neck up when the sharp claws pricked a little more than usual. When he got to the tree, he put his shoulder carefully against the trunk, and invited his goanaship to get aloft. As soon as it did, Mac rushed home for his gun, and pretty soon there was one goana less on the Yeerong."

There' d 'ave been another missin' at next summer's congress if I'd spotted that pet fright o' mine when I went back that way," said Abe. "Took th' rifle for that, special. But th' carrion 'ad removed an' left no address."

"Well, I must remove, too," said Mark. "Getting late."

He tucked the gun under his arm, and continued his way to Druton Hill. Reaching the crest, he paused awhile under a big ironbark, and looked wistfully towards the homestead. It was some satisfaction to see the duckhouse, even if the duck wasn't visible. Just then, however, the report of a gun echoed through the scrub below him. He ran down, and, picking his way through the underbush, came suddenly upon the man who had fired the shot. It was Kilfloggin. Mark had noticed his team on the road near Gimbo, where he had unyoked for the night. He had conceived a mild feeling of animus towards the pot-famous gentleman, and this inimical sentiment was unstintedly reciprocated by the Herculean bullock driver.

He was singing—

"Oh, what would you do if the billy boiled o-ver?

Molly, O Molly, my lo-ver—"

"Hulloa!" cried Mark. "What are you doing here?"

"What's that ter do with you?" Kilfloggin demanded, calmly tucking a pigeon under his belt.

"It's a lot to do with me," Mark answered. His ears began to burn. "You're in Lynton's paddock, and he allows no one but me to shoot here."

"Well, that's his affair, not yours," said Kilfloggin, reloading.

"You mind yer own bizness, young un."

"I'll make it my business to report you. You're trespassing on our preserves."

Mark was angered. The man's insolence and sangfroid stung him.

"You're a bit sudding, young feller. Better mind yer aint too sudding," Kilfloggin returned as calmly as before.

"What do you mean by that?" asked Mark, mastering his temper. The other was a big man.

"I've got es much right ter bang around 'ere es you 'ave," the latter replied. "Who th' jumpin' adder are you, enyway? Jes' you get along, young 'un, an' hold yer gab. I don't want ter do yer eny injury—barrin' yer force me. Be a pity ter spile yer good looks. That bit o' skirt over th' hill wouldn't like it for one. Kinder 'urt her feelin's."

"It might be your own looks that would suffer," Mark retorted. The man took a step forward, and, leaning on his gun, said: "Look 'ere, me cockshaver, you come th' crawlin' informer bizness with me, an' by th' jumping Jemima, you'll fall in. I'll bundle you out o' yer home neck an' crop; see if I don't."

"You will?"

Mark regarded the big man with a new interest.

"Yais, I will. I ken do it, mind yer. There's no bloomin' gassin' about it. So don't be too sudding."

He turned abruptly and plunged through the scrub, with another burst of song:—

"My old bay 'orse run down th' hill;

If he hasn't come up he's down there still"

Kilflogsin was a bit of a mystery on the Yeerong, and for a moment after he had left him Mark wondered what power he could have over him or his. Then he laughed scornfully and walked away. Soon he had forgotten the incident.