Читать книгу Collected Short Stories Volume 5 - Edward S Sorenson - Страница 3

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A couple who were sweethearts in their youth are thrown together again under pitiful circumstances. The woman is tied to a loafer and drunkard, whose death causes her no regret. Her former lover looks forward to winning her for his wife, but when, in accordance with an agreement, he returns at the end of a year, it is to realise that she has played him false.

* * *

It had been raining pitilessly all the morning, and already there was a rise in the Warrego.

Near Gowrie Crossing a man and a woman crouched miserably under a sheet of bark. There was no fire, and the woman was wet and hungry. The water dripped on to her shoulders, and soaked under till the bottom of her dress was sopping. Her husband, with more than his share of the meagre shelter, was dry. He leaned back on the half-opened swag and puffed at his pipe.

Nearer the crossing was a bagman, snug and dry in a 6 x 8 tent, with a little fire burning on a piece of galvanised iron. He had seen the pair move up the [illegible]nulla-road the evening before, the man carrying a swag and billy, the woman a bundle over her shoulder, and the "nosebag" [illegible word]. He had pitied her then, he pitied her more now. She was young and good-looking, with brown hair and grey-blue eyes; but she was poorly clad, and want and misery showed in her face. It was hopeless—the face of a woman whose heart was dead. For four hours he had watched them through the rain, and he had summed up the man as a lazy, worthless brute. He set his teeth and swore under his breath as his eyes wandered from the man to the shivering form of the woman. At last he threw a bag across his shoulders and went over.

She was poorly clad, and want and misery showed in her face.

"This is a pretty bad wicket you're on, mate," he said.

"It's a bit in favour of the bowler, all right," the other admitted. "Better let the missus go over to the tent," his visitor suggested.

The man sat up and grinned.

"With you?" he said.

"I'll get a sheet or two of bark for myself."

"An' stick it up convenient," the other sneered.

"Look here, mate," said the bagman. "There's no hanky-panky about me. My name's Mat Burkett, an' they know, me from one end o' this Warrego to the other. There's nothing o' the lizard about me, old man."

Mat was considerably put out at the reception of his good intentions, and only for the woman's sake he curbed the more bitter words that rose to his lips. She had risen, and standing in a pool of water, with the rain now pouring on her unchecked, he saw her eyes wander towards the tent.

"You go over there, missus, an' make yourself comfortable," he advised. "There's no points in perishing here. There's a fire inside, an' you'll find tucker in the bag, an' some tea in the billy."

She thanked him, while she glanced at her husband.

"Well, why don't you go?" asked the latter.

She picked up a little bundle and went.

Then Mat turned to the indolent husband.

"Better give me a hand to strip some bark, an' we'll rig a caboose over there for ourselves. This shower may last a week."

The man looked lazily at the sky.

"Don't think so," he said.

"Well, what about the bark?" asked Mat.

"Too wet to go strippin' now," the other answered. "I'll do here."

"Right!" said Mat, and presently they heard his axe strokes among the dripping trees.

At first Mat had not recognised the woman to whom he had given up his snug quarters; but when she told him her husband's name was Josh Canty, he knew her for the daughter of a well-to-do selector on the Balonne. The revelation for the moment stunned him, and he sat silently down, with the flood of a bitter past sweeping upon him. They had been sweethearts long ago, and he recalled one Sunday when they had ridden to where the Maranoa and Condamine join to form the Balonne. Their horses had got away while they rested in the shade, and they had tramped back to the Four-mile, where he carried her over the rocky crossing; and then they walked again through the lanes and paddocks home. The memory of the tired little girl he had kissed that night brought an oath to his lips now, and vehemently he cursed the man who married her.

Josh Canty was a "remittance man." He told her he would come in for a lot of money when his uncle died. He showed her occasional letters and small drafts he got from "home," and she believed him. Mat had been slow, and while he was down-country she married Canty.

Soon she discovered that her fine gentleman was a callous brute; the remittances ceased, and poverty and its consequent worries encompassed them. The furniture was seized, and they drifted into an outshed, where she kept herself and him by taking in washing. At length came a lawyer's letter stating that the uncle was dead; his property was heavily mortgaged, and when everything was squared there would probably be a few pounds to come to him. That was the end of their dreams of a resplendent future.

Her fine gentleman was a callous brute.

The man who owned the shed now began to call round to inquire if Canty had got a job yet. Then Canty decided to shift. He knew a squattage on the Warrego where he thought he could get a married couple's billet. The boss was a young man, and would like being waited on by a young and pretty woman like Laura. He might take a fancy to her, as lonely bosses sometimes did in such cases. Then Canty might get to be storekeeper or overseer and have easy times.

Laura wanted to return home until he was settled; but he said he couldn't get that good billet without her, and with more promises of a brighter future, he induced her to shoulder her share of the dunnage and go with him on the wallaby.

Thus after weeks of wandering and camping about, chance had led her again to Mat Burkett.

The rain had eased off, but still there was a drizzle and a cold wind next morning. The woman was ill in bed, and when he took her in a warm breakfast, Mat had to tell her that Canty was gone. He did not regret it himself, he knew she was better without him; but the woman was loth to admit that she was deserted.

"He will come back," she said. "He is expecting a letter and money here, and I suppose he has gone to the post-office to inquire."

When night did not bring him back, Mat asked:

"Do you think he would clear out and leave you?"

"I think he's got the money," she said, evasively. "He drinks, you know, and I shouldn't wonder if he's on the spree. He may come yet."

Mat sat down near her to keep her from feeling lonely till she went to sleep. Next day she asked frequently if there was any sign of Canty; and in the afternoon she called him into the tent.

"I have no one but you, Mat," she said, piteously. "I'm sorry to be giving you so much trouble—"

"No trouble at all, missus," he answered. "I wish I could do more for you."

"I'd like you to go up to town, Mat," she continued, "and see if he's there. If he's drinking, you will know he's got the money. Try and get it from him, or he'll squander it all. You know, Mat, I'm destitute."

Mat left her with a muttered oath.

From Gowrie Crossing to Charleville was only a little more than a mile. But it was a mile of mud and water, and Mat had to walk into the main street with his boots in his hand. At the first pub he found Canty making a ludicrous attempt to perform a jig on the verandah. Three or four carriers sat on a form, laughing and egging him on. Mat stood watching him until, staggering round, Canty discovered him.

"Hulloa, swaggy; how's the ole woman?" he cried cheerily. "Hope yer gorra dry. Keep hot bottles to her feet if she's cold. Ole girl's tremenjus partial to hot bottles 'gin her feet." With his hat in his hand he backed to the wall, chuckling. Then he addressed the company. "Wotcher think of swaggie, chaps? Shook my bloomin' missus from me yesterday. S'elp me Bob. Wouldn't think he 'ad it in him, would yer? How yer gettin' on with her, ole chap?"

The men laughed uproariously as Mat, flushed and indignant, walked into the bar.

From the publican he learned that Canty had received a sum of £70, most of which he had still on him. Then he called Canty into the little parlour, and told him that his wife was dying, and that the police were looking for him for deserting her. Canty was at heart a coward, and he was in a fit condition, besides, to believe any mulga the other might tell him. They had some drinks together, and in a few minutes £50 had changed pockets. Canty thought he was giving him twenty; but Mat did the counting. Afterwards he endeavoured to persuade him to return to the camp.

"No," said Canty. "I done with her—gorra a good thing without her. She left me of her own accord, an'—you can keep her."

"Don't be a fool. Go back to your wife."

"Haven't I sold her to you? Look 'ere, berrer give me receipt for Laura—just to show all's square."

Mat thought to humour him.

"It wouldn't be any good without her signature," he said. "Come down to the camp an' M we'll fix it up."

"You go an' fix yerself up. Wantsh ter get me stuff, dontcher? I'm up to you."

"Mat slipped out by the back way and, making a few purchases for the sick woman, returned to his camp. The woman looked up expectantly; and when he came to her side she looked beyond him.

"He's on the bust, missus," Mat told her, "Better let him have it out, an' then he'll come back."

"Did you get the money from him?"

"Most of it." He handed her the £50, in full.

"Thank you; he'll come back for the money if not for me."

Mat's face set hard.

"If Canty comes here, it's to be for you or nothing. You understand?"

"Yes."

"If you part a single John Dunn, an' he leaves you—?"

"Yes?"

"So will I."

She was silent; but there was a faint smile on her lips.

He made her some soup with preserves and essences; then he fixed a candle by her bedside, and left her some papers to read. He hoped she would soon be well, for the position was awkward. He could not forget his old love; her face and voice kept the past before him. The thought of winning her from her allegiance to Canty and taking her out west would obtrude itself at times in spite of him, but he would cast it from him with a shrug of his broad shoulders and an imprecation on his own momentary weakness. If she were free he would try his luck again; as it was, he would not tempt her; he would try and forget her.

Laura wondered why he did not refer to old times, and ask her to make it up and pier (sic) with him; yet he treated her like a sister.

He went often to the pub to try to coax Canty away from the drink; and on [illegible word] day, when Laura had left her bed, he came home excited and pale, and told her that she was a widow. Canty had wandered off in the night, and that morning they had fished his body out of the backwash above the town. But for a momentary look of horror in her face at the mention of death, Laura betrayed no signs of emotion. She was a little greyer in her deportment, afterwards, and talked less, but there was no indication, to the watchful eye of the man, that any love had lingered for Josh Canty.

He had no regrets to offer; he looked upon it rather as an occasion for rejoicing, not from selfish motives, but because of the wretched life the man had led her.

"You'll return to your people now," he said; "and the sooner the better. People will talk. You can take the train from here to Mitchell, then coach it to St. George. In a few days you'll be home."

There were surprise and disappointment in her face.

"And you?" she asked sadly.

"I'll go west. But I'll come back by-and-bye," he answered. "You won't forget me, if I'm long?"

"No," she said, speaking in a dispassionate, even tone, and looking at him as though he puzzled her. "I'll never forget you."

On the platform, when he went to see her off, she asked indifferently, "When may I expect you?"

"A year from to-day," he answered.

She waved her hand to him, as the train moved away, and her lips were smiling.

It turned out a year of disappointments for Mat Burkett. He found himself drought-bound out west, waiting to get down with cattle. Month after month he fretted there, thinking always of the little widow whom he never doubted would be looking for him. At last the the rain came, and he started down with the mob. As he neared Panunda, he decided to write from there, and explain matters to Laura Canty. He thought it possible he could come back to a job there. He knew the Kreffords of Panunda. Young Arthur, he heard, had lately been married, and was busy managing the squattage for his father.

>It was sundown when he reached the homestead. The girl told him that the men were all away mustering and would not be back for a day or two. He was disappointed, but after a moment's hesitation, he asked to see Mrs. Krefford. Some minutes later a well-dressed, refined-looking woman appeared. She started slightly and the colour left her face as he turned towards her. He also showed surprise; but he spoke with gladness.

"Laura!"

A look of fear came into her eyes, and her lips seemed to harden.

"I beg your pardon," she answered coldly; "I am Mrs. Krefford."

"What!" he cried, while a cold chill seemed to strike through him—"you Krefford's wife?"

She looked at him helplessly; but her eyes flashed.

"You forgot, then—an' so soon!"

"I think you're making a mistake," she said hoarsely.

"Have you forgotten the promise you made on the Warrego?"

"What do you mean?" she asked.

Then bitter anger seized him.

"You hypocrite! You know me—good heavens, woman, you could never forget—"

You hypocrite! You knew me—good heavens, woman, you could never forget—

"You are evidently mistaking me for someone else," she said coldly. "What is it you want?"

A feeling of defeat came over him.

"Nothing much," he answered bitterly. Then, defiantly, "Just a shelter for the night."

"I am sorry," she returned, "but Mr. Krefford never allows travellers to camp at the station.

"Thank you, madam!" He turned away, but looked back once, and said: "I hope you'll be dry when it rains. Good-bye!"

With her face to the window pane, she watched him until he had faded away into the grey distance. Then she sat down, and cried.