Читать книгу Aunt Jo - A Love Story of the Cedar Scrubs - Edward S Sorenson - Страница 5

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Mark beat round so that his way home would take him by Fairymede House. Ethel was in the garden and saw him coming. As he approached a side gate that was well screened by trees from the house she came across the lawn and met him. He raised his hat with stiff formality. Ethel hated formalities.

"Good sport," she said, her eyes on the gun. "But where's the game?"

"Only had two shots," said Mark, "Didn't, hit anything, though."

"You are a duffer," she commented, laughing. "Reminds me of Abe Watts."

"How did you know him?" asked Mark.

"He used to be a rouseabout on Fairymede. Earned his team here. He was awfully fond of shooting, but could never hit anything he fired at. One day father was driving home from town, and met him in the paddock. Abe had nothing, as usual, though he said he had wounded some fine ducks and they dived. He always wounded something when no one was with him. Father twitted him. 'D'yer think you could hit un haystack, Watts?' he said. 'You throw your cady up,' says Abe, 'an' see if I can't hit it.' Father had a brand new white helmet on. He got out of the dogcart and threw it into the air. Abe squinted along the barrel as it went up and covered it while it came down, and when it lay on the ground—just a few feet in front of him he fired and blew a great tunnel through it. Abe has worn that helmet bullock-driving ever since, with the holes patched up with brown paper. They call him 'The General.' "

"Didn't he pay for it?" asked Mark.

"Not he," said Ethel. "Abe thinks no end of that helmet. When the bullookies chaff him about his shooting Abe pulls off the old helmet and shows the holes as proof that he can shoot. When he tells the yarn, though, the helmet's in midair when he 'plunks it.' 'You ask old Myles didn't I,' he says, as a clincher."

"Bill Sooley's a goot shot, I've heard," Mark observed, by way of saying something.

"Oh, he's ratty," said Ethel. "He shoots bees and beetles on the wing with bullets. When he goes fishing and wants bait he shoots his grasshoppers whilst they're flying—also with bullets."

"I've heard of that kind of shooting," said Mark. "Never saw it, though. There was Stamps our postmaster in Dumboon. According to his talk, he never missed a shot once in a blue moon. His greatest ambition was to shoot the first snipe at the opening of the shooting season. Leonard Lynton swears that he used to crawl about the moorlands from midnight till sunrise to catch the early bird. He gained the distinction for three years in succession, but the fourth year Leonard, bent on beating him, potted his bird the day before, and hung it in a bush. A bare-legged youngster, with a bridle on his arm, observed the manœuvre, and, awaiting his chance, took the bird and presented it to Stamps. The latter was out early as usual next morning, deposited the dead bird in a tussock, and then concealed himself behind a log to watch. About dawn, Leonard came along, fired at the bush, and, with a comically-set face, searched around for the game that wasn't there. Suddenly another echoing report rang out, and Stamps came forward with a triumphant smile. 'Beat you, Lynton, old chap!' 'Where?' asked Leonard shamefacedly. 'Fell in that tussock.' Leonard rushed it; but at the tussock he stopped, and his face became radiant. Stamps pulled up a second later with a sickly grin. The first snipe was stiff and cold, and covered with a regiment of ants!"

"I saw Leonard the day before yesterday at Murrawang," said Ethel. "I was spending the day with Mrs Battye, and Leonard was over for the mustering. Leila Battye and I helped to muster one paddock in the afternoon, and then we helped in the yard, perched up on the cap, working two of the drafting gates. It was great fun. When I was coming home, I saw Amelia Jane in the Ironbark Paddock. She was riding full gallop after a dingo, her hat hanging from her neck, and brandishing a long stick. Poor dingo was cutting for his natural, his long red tongue lolling out, and his eyes glaring; but he hadn't pace enough. The pony would rush up with its ears back, and then you'd hear that stick whiz; but he'd dodge under the pony's neck and make off in another direction. He'd get about twenty yards start before she could haul round, then down on him she'd ride again like a charging lancer. At last he plunged into Long Swamp, and Amelia Jane plunged in after him. It was deep, too, and weedy. So you can imagine the state she was in. She caught him half way over, and brained him in the water. Then she towed him ashore by the tail, and hacked off his scalp with a tomahawk she had in a pouch hanging to her saddle. 'What a glorious chase you've had, Amelia,' I says to her. 'And what a glorious pickle you're in!' 'Oh, that's nothing,' she says. 'You should a seen me when I collapsed with the emu eggs.' 'How did that happen?' I asked. 'Had half a dozen or 'em stowed in the bosom o' me dress,' she says, an' was joggin' along home quite pleased, when th' pony puts its hoof in a hole an' soused me. I dropped right on them eggs. Talk about squash! Th' blessed yolk run all over me. An' sticky! I tried to scrape it off with a bit o' shell, but that only spread it about more. Had to get in th' crick, clothes an' all, when I got home.' "

"Wonder that girl doesn't break her neck," said Mark.

Ethel laughed. She was a pretty girl of eighteen, with dancing blue eyes, and long brown hair, and she had a brisk, piquant style that was pleasing. Often had young Keaton looked with longing and admiration upon her sweet face, and he was enraptured when she smiled upon him. She was one of the smiling sort; her pleasant countenance was like a sunbeam. Yet her life was not a happy one, the consequence of her father's second marriage. She was but a mere child when her mother died, and her father, Myles Lethcote, worried with the care of his daughter and his house, and haunted with financial difficulties, became fascinated with the happy future pictured for him by the widow Monaugh, who, though ungainly, and horribly ignorant, was endowed with a fair fortune. Still he dangled a long while at the bait, but ultimately he was hooked and landed. He regretted the step ever afterwards, for Biddy soon got the upper hand of him, and at Fairymede her word was law. The fortune for which he had married her he never saw, but he very soon lost sight of the little he had left of his own.

To begin her new state of existence properly, and in accordance with the dictates of social conscience, Biddy considered it necessary to have a lady's companion, and so brought her first husband's sister,' Johanna Monaugh, out from Dumboon. She was an antiquated spinster, not at all good-looking; indeed, in her natural state, she might be described as ugly; but, unlike Biddy, who had a brogue that would trip a donkey, she spoke with the accent of the native born. She possessed one good quality: she loved little Ethel, and the girl had learned to call her "Aunt Jo." This did not accord with the tastes and wishes of Biddy, who subsequently endeavoured to expel Miss Monaugh, but that good lady resolutely refused to be expelled.

"Lavinia Lethcote was my dearest friend, and I'm going to stay here to look after her daughter,'" she said, with a great many nods and twirling of fingers. "That was her wish."

"Ugh!" said Biddy, indignantly. "D'ye think now, Jo, I'm not able to look afther th' colleen just as well as you? Bedad, I'd ate me hat if I couldn't do that, anyway."

"You could if you liked, Biddy. But you know you don't love the child. And children want love—girls above all. They can't live without it. I've had an opportunity of judging."

Miss Monaugh almost invariably ended her arguments in this way. She knew exactly how things should be, or would be, from previous experience. It aggravated Biddy more than anything, but, for all that, she had to put up with it.

So this ill-assorted family continued to live together at Fairymede until Ethel had grown into the fine young woman that Mark Keaton saw her—in a loose, white dress and a broad sun hat, and a mass of wavy brown hair flooding her back.

"How have you enjoyed your holiday?" he asked her, rubbing an imaginary rust spot off the barrel of his gun.

"Didn't have one," answered Ethel. "Been working all day."

"What doing?"

"Helping Aunt Jo with her flounces, and tucks and pleats, and ribbons and laces, and goodness knows what not. It beats me why some people can't go out of doors without carrying a milliner's shop front with them. It makes such a lot of work and I don't particularly love work. However, tonight is my own."

"You are going to the dance?"

"Of course. Aren't you?"

"I don't think so—unless——"

"Well?"

"—Unless you are going—alone?"

"Alone?" cried Ethel. "Now, wouldn't I look well going alone. All through that dark bush, and running against some rough scrubber at every turn. That would be nice. If I could ride or drive like they can, and was used to their gipsy life like Amelia Jane, I might manage all right without a chaperone. But, you see, I can't. Another thing, I haven't Amelia Jane's brazen cheek."

"Then may I hope for the pleasure of your company?"

"Oh, Aunt Jo is going in. Mr M'Gurren will drive—"

"I see!" said Mark, with ill-concealed displeasure. M'Gurren was frequently in Ethel's company. Consequently, Mark didn't like M'Gurren. He would tell himself that the Scotchman was a moulty old bird, while Ethel was only a chicken; but the ugly thought would obtrude that wealth covereth many defects and forgiveth many sins, and he would be filled with resentment. M'Gurren, moreover, was a favoured guest at Fairymede. He dropped in at all times of the day—in fact, the dogs had ceased to bark at him. But Mrs Lethcote did not want Mark. Like M'Gurren, she had no liking for him. Though the warmest friendship existed between him and the other inmates of Fairymede, the despotic and unctuous Biddy was Governor-General, and that closed the portals against indigent persons. Still, it did not prevent occasional meetings between the young couple. Where there's a weakness there's a loophole.

"Of course, you'll be there," she added, after a brief silence.

Mark shook his head, tracing figures on the rail with his fingers.

"Everybody will be going," Ethel went on, "that is, everybody of any consequence."

"Well, I'm not of any consequence, it seems," he returned. "No one will miss me. And there's not much fun in dancing—unless you can take someone, you like."

He looked at her meaningly.

"What about Amelia Jane or Sarah from the Dairy?" asked Ethel, mischievously.

Mark threw the gun across his shoulder with savage energy.

"I hope you'll have plenty of fun," he said, doffing his hat again. "Goodbye!"

Ethel was annoyed, and leaned across the gate, gazing after him. They had known each other from childhood, and had tramped to school together. She had always liked him. He was kind and good-natured and so different from the brawling tatterdemalions who frequented their road. He had often carried her over the cowals and muddy places so that she would not soil her dainty shoes. He received no thanks for those little attentions from her stepmother; but her own little heart was filled with gratitude. They had gathered wild flowers together along the slopes of Fairymede's hills; had studied head against head under the sheltering gums, where he had coached her through difficult lessons with a patience that was inexhaustible, so that she might keep at the top of her class and pulled among the lilies and the moaning reeds on the lagoon in the evening. These were sweet memories now that the days were so far away. Though Ethel was to all appearances heart and pocket light, and fancy free, at eighteen, she often felt the same regret as Mark, and could murmur in chorus with him:—

The days we lived in the bygone

We'd live if we could again;

We'd pass once more into childhood,

That knoweth no ill or pain;

And we'd romp again as we used to,

So glad on the cool green lea,

And confide our thoughts to each other

In the shade of the old gum tree.