Читать книгу Out There: A Romance Of Australia - James Edward Muddock - Страница 4

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HAROLD PRESTON sprang to his feet and hurried to the veranda, followed by Jim, as a handsome young man in a white duck suit was helping a young lady out of the buggy.

"By Jove!" cried Preston as he wrung the hand of each in turn, "you come like manna from heaven to me in the wilderness. But whatever has brought you up to this furnace?"

"Phew! What heat," exclaimed Oliver Gordon. "It's been like driving through the realms of Hades. But give us to drink or we perish. Here, Jim, haul that case out of the trap, then get the horse into the stable and rub him down. I've brought plenty of feed for him in the buggy."

The case was carried into Harold's room. It contained an assortment of bottles of spirits, wine and soda-water. Harold's old housekeeper Betsy was summoned and ordered to conduct Miss Gordon to the bedroom and provide her with the means of removing the white dust of the road from her garments and face.

When the two men were alone Harold turned to his friend, and again asked:

"What in the name of all that's wonderful has induced you to come up here in this blistering heat?"

"You may well ask! But I'm choking with dust; my mouth is like a fiery furnace; I must have a drink before I can talk." He produced a corkscrew from his pocket, opened the case, took out a bottle of brandy and some soda-water, while Harold produced glasses from his cupboard.

"Well, here's to you, old chap; and may God be merciful and send rain," said Oliver as he drained a tumbler of brandy and soda. "Ah, that's refreshing, hot as it is." He threw himself on to the couch, pulled out his pipe and rammed it full of tobacco, and as he puffed out a cloud of smoke said, "Now I begin to feel more like a respecting Christian. Upon my soul I think that drive from Gordonstown here in weather like this is about the limit. And I don't believe any other horse I have in my possession but the roan gelding would have stayed it. Forty odd miles in this heat is a staggerer."

"What! do you mean to say you've driven Kangaroo?"

"Why of course. Didn't you recognise him?"

"No, I was so surprised to see you and Mary I had no eyes for anything else."

"Dear old Kangaroo," mused Oliver. "Do you remember my riding him last year in the Gordonstown sweepstakes, and beating you on Charioteer by a head, and Charioteer was a beauty."

"Of course I do."

"And Charioteer was as good a bit of horse flesh as ever was bred. By the way, what's become of him?"

"I had to sell him," answered Harold with a lump in his throat.

"The devil you did. Why was that?"

"I wanted money, old chap, or you may bet your life I wouldn't have parted with him. There will be no more racing for me for some time to come, I'm afraid."

"Good God, are things as bad as that?" gasped Gordon.

"Yes. I'm broke."

At this announcement a peculiar expression came into Oliver Gordon's face, and he glanced at his friend out of the corners of his eyes.

"Don't make ghastly jokes, old fellow," he said with a little short laugh. "You broke! No—I—"

"I assure you it's no joke, my dear friend. I got a mail this morning from Frampton & Heathcote to say their client had instructed them to foreclose. I wonder who their mysterious client is."

"I wonder!" muttered the other, while his eyes seemed bent on vacancy.

"I wonder too. It's like hitting a man when he's down, eh?"

"Yes," assented Gordon still with the vacant expression.

"It isn't cricket, but it's business," said Preston with a disdainful shrug of his massive shoulders. "Business! Good Lord! Business to take advantage of your fellow-men to feather your own nest. When a fellow is hard up and he owes you money, crush him body and soul. Get your pound of flesh whether you kill him or not. That's smart business. The laws of business decree that you must have no bowels of compassion. The bond. The bond, that's the only thing to be considered. Let the bond-giver go to Hades and be damned. It's business. Well, thank heaven I'm not a business man in that sense. A man who can pay and won't should be made to pay; he who would but can't should be dealt with mercifully."

"It's everyone for himself, old chap, in this strangely constituted world," remarked Oliver as if for the sake of saying something.

"Let's change the subject," said Preston with a show of irritation. "You haven't told me yet the cause of this unexpected visit."

"Mary."

"Mary?"

"Yes. She informed me yesterday when I happened to meet her at the Pioneer Club that she must see you on an urgent and pressing matter, and that she intended to ride over here to-day. I urged the madness of so long a ride in weather like this, and offered to drive her in the buggy. She protested. I insisted, so here we are."

"You're a brick, Oliver. But what's the urgent and pressing matter?"

"Don't ask me. Mary doesn't take me into her confidence," answered his friend with something very like a sneer. "She's a Gordon and has got a will of her own. A Gordon can give a mule points in stubbornness."

Preston laughed.

"Don't forget that you are a Gordon, old fellow."

"By the Lord Harry I don't and won't," exclaimed Oliver with what seemed unnecessary vehemence, and a look of fierceness as if some memory of an old wrong had been suddenly revived. The eyes of the men met, Harold's spoke of the astonishment he felt at his friend's outburst. Before he could make any reply the door opened and Mary entered.

"You dear, plucky little woman, to risk coming to this fiery furnace," cried Harold with admiration as he placed a chair for her.

"Risk! there is no risk," answered Mary with a sweet girlish laugh. "Besides, I've come on a most important errand that would admit of no delay."

"Yes, so Oliver tells me; an urgent and pressing matter, he says. Pray don't keep me in suspense. What is it? 'Urgent and pressing' sounds rather alarming."

"You will have to nurse your curiosity," she answered with a smile, "until such time as—well until I've cooled down and an opportunity occurs." Her sparkling brown eyes were fixed on Oliver's face, as if looking for signs.

"Oh, if I'm de trop," he snapped irritably, "I—"

"No you won't, Mr Hoighty-toighty," she chided pleasantly. "You'll stop where you are. What I've got to tell Harold is in the first instance for his ears alone. But it will keep for a little while; in the meantime one of you give me a bottle of soda-water. I'm choking."

Oliver made no movement, he had stretched himself on the couch, but there was fire in, his eyes as he replied with ill-concealed irritation:

"You command, I obey of course." He laughed, but it lacked the soul of true laughter. "I'm only the tertium quid, that is the one too many."

"Now don't be a snarly bow-wow," replied the girl with an entrancing smile, her eyes dancing with good humour.

"No, I'm only the silly poodle," he said acidly. "Harold's top dog; lucky beggar."

"Now no wrangling," exclaimed Harold as he filled a glass with soda-water and handed it to Mary, who took it, and with a glance of approval at each of the men drank a deep draught, and sighed gratefully. She was a picture of womanly beauty. Her fawn-brown eyes, her healthy pink and white complexion, her wealth of brown-gold hair shimmering in the sunlight that filtered through the screened windows, were points calculated to arouse the enthusiasm and stir the blood of the dullest of men. Whilst allied to this physical attractiveness was a quick wittedness, a keen intelligence, not to speak of a self-possessed manner and a certain masterfulness that commanded respect. Mary Gordon was Australian born, she came of good stock on both sides, and the free open life of the bush had developed in her the highest qualities of womanhood and self-dependence. Her mother was a Miss Howard, a lineal descendant of the Howards of England. Oliver Gordon was her kinsman by consanquinity although they were only distantly related, but they regarded themselves as cousins. At one time there had been some girl and boy love passages between her and Oliver, but Harold Preston had won her heart, and Oliver had remained the chum of both, although at the time he bitterly reproached Mary for "throwing him over."

"Well, this is a scorched-up, blighted spot," she said as she leaned back in her chair and fanned herself with her handkerchief. "It's bad enough in Gordonstown, but occasionally heavy rain and thunderstorms freshen us up, and keep the temperature comparatively cool."

"It has scorched and blighted me," said Preston thoughtfully, "and to-day I have learnt that I am ruined."

Mary searched his face with a keen glance, and placing a hand on each of the arms of the chair she leaned forward, and in an eager tone said:

"Bosh! Don't talk about being ruined, Harold. A man of your resource and energy and splendid youth is not likely to go under. You've got to fight. You are too optimistic to be easily knocked out."

"It's true, Mary, my dear, all the same," he answered sadly. "This two years' drought has beggared me, and to-day I have received a letter from Frampton & Heathcote informing me that their client intends to foreclose on the mortgage. That spells utter and absolute ruin for me."

Mary sat straight up and stared at him with a pondering and thoughtful expression that made her look years older.

"Foreclose on the mortgage," she echoed.

"Yes."

"Who is their client?"

"Ah, that I don't know. I was recommended to the solicitors, who told me they had certain money of a client to invest, but the client did not want to be known nominally. The solicitors are the mortgagees."

Mary leaned her elbow on the chair arm and her head on her hand, in an attitude of deep reflection.

"Does foreclosing mean that they can take your property?" she asked pointedly.

"That is exactly what it does mean. They collar everything mentioned in the bond; every acre, houses, stock, all I possess in the world. Possibly they would take the flesh off my bones if they thought it was worth anything; or even my soul if they could realise on it."

Oliver sat bolt upright on the couch, took his face in his hands, and puffed at his pipe.

"Can't something be done?" he asked, staring at the floor like a man lost in thought.

"Can't you do something?" Mary queried sharply.

He rose to his feet, thrust one hand in his breeches pocket, and held his pipe in the other.

"I don't know," he said, still pondering. "I've been pretty hard hit myself, and what trifle I've got is so tied up that I find it difficult to keep my head above water."

"My dear old chum," cried Harold huskily as he grasped his friend's hand, "I know that you've got your own worries and difficulties, and I'll be hanged before I pile mine on top of you. Life's a game. I've had a run of rotten luck, but I must just begin again, that's all."

Gordon appeared to be deeply affected.

"It breaks a fellow's heart," he said, "to have to stand helpless and see his chum go under. But don't despair, old chap. Something will turn up. It's the dark hour before the dawn, you know. I must look into my affairs and see just where I stand. You know that if I've a loaf half of it is yours."

Harold's feelings and acknowledgments were expressed by a hand grip, he could not voice them, while Oliver seemed a prey to emotion that overcame him, and catching up his felt hat, he rammed it on his head, saying:

"I'll leave you two together for a bit. I'll take a turn round and have a look at the horses; we'll talk matters over later on."

As soon as the door had closed upon his retreating figure Mary sprang up, and throwing her arms round her lover's neck, she said with soul-felt sympathy:

"Poor darling boy! I had no idea things were so bad as that. But Gordon must do something. I don't believe him when he says he's hard up. He—"

"I am afraid, sweetheart, that Oliver really is in straits himself, he surely wouldn't lie to me," said Harold as he took the girl's face in his hands and kissed her. "He has been an extravagant beggar, and, as you know, his passion for horse racing has landed him in difficulties, at least that is what he says."

"I didn't quite understand that," answered Mary thoughtfully, "though I know he's pretty reckless. But now let us sit down and talk things over. Never mind Gordon. He hasn't your big-heartedness." She resumed her seat, he drew his chair up to hers and held her hand. "Of course it's all nonsense," continued Mary, "about your going under. You will not go under if I can help it. Dear old Aunt Margaret, who has been a mother to me, has managed the bit of property my father left me so well that I can help you and will. You are my affianced husband, and what is mine is yours."

"My God, Mary, you are a woman worth dying for, but you unwittingly torture me. This is the second time to-day my feelings have been stirred to their depths. Just before your arrival old Jim Dawkins offered me his life's savings, a thousand pounds. He's a pal, Gordon's a pal, and you are a saint, but I'm going to work out my own salvation or perish." His face was tormented, his eyes misty. He sprang up and paced the room. There was an impressive silence. Mary was a tactful woman. She watched and waited. She saw that her lover's soul was tortured, and understood that it was better to let the paroxysm subside. Presently he swung round and faced her. "No, Mary," he continued. "I am not going to risk your little fortune, nor Dawkins', nor Gordon's. I'm winded but not beaten. Fate has dealt me a heavy blow, but I am young. I have health and strength, those are qualities that count in this country, and I'll face my difficulties like a man."

Mary's sweet face was filled with an expression of admiration, and rising from her seat she clasped her hands about his arm, and asked softly:

"I admire your spirit of independence, but why are you so obstinate, dear? Think of the friends who love you; think of me. It's my duty to help you."

He caught her in his arms and held her in a passionate embrace.

"Do I not think of you, my beloved," he cried. "You are my life, my heart, my world. But the pride of my race burns fiercely in my veins, and I would rather die than bring anyone I love to ruin."

"That is foolish talk, dear," she answered with gentle chiding. "I cannot do very much, but such little as I can do, I say again, it is my duty to do. Should I love you if I acted otherwise. I have a few thousand pounds, and—"

"Mary darling, you don't understand," he cried distressfully. "It would take over ten thousand pounds to clear off the mortgage to begin with. Supposing I could raise that amount to-morrow, what then? Unless the drought breaks up suddenly, and there is no hope of that at present, I should be as bad as ever in a month's time. Even if rain came next week it would take months for the land to recover. The great drought of twenty-five years ago lasted four years, and this one seems likely to last as long. No, men who come to the wilderness take their fate in their hands. Fortune smiled upon me for a time, now she has pitilessly crushed me. I must abandon the struggle here and go elsewhere. I've no alternative. They'll turn me out."

"Go where?" the girl asked quietly.

"God knows," he answered despairingly.

Mary was distressed and her eyes were filled with tears, though she tried to control herself.

"I still think you should allow your friends to help you," she murmured appealingly.

"Now look here, little woman," he said firmly, "we are only making ourselves miserable. At the present moment the outlook is as black as it can be, and I cannot see a glimmering ray of hope. Our marriage has already been postponed through this infernal drought. In the glamour of more fortunate days I dreamed of the time when with you at my side I might win fortune here. But Nature can be cruel even to those who love her as I do. My dream is over, and I have no right to ask you to waste the flower of your youth, and miss your chances in life waiting for me—a broken, ruined man."

He buried his face in his hands, and his great chest heaved with a sob. Mary's white fingers closed about his wrists; she drew his hands down gently, and laying her dear face against his she said in a low sweet tone:

"Harold, the flower of my youth is yours; I am yours until death. Whatever fate the years may have in store for us hope and my heart will wait for you. Emotion choked him. He could only hold her in his strong embrace; and his silence was a thousand times more eloquent than words could possibly have been. At last the strong man's strength came back. He released her, sprang up, and laughed—but it was the laugh of a defiant and embittered man; he was not embittered against her, for her sake he would have sacrificed his life, but in his heart he railed against the fate that had ruined him.

"Sentiment is all very well, little woman, but we cannot live in a world of dreams, although I am afraid I've been given to dreaming," he said. "I am not a coward, I can fight as you say, and for your sake I'll fight, and by God I'll win. The weakness is over, and now tell me what the urgent and pressing matter is that has brought you here."

"Oh yes," she exclaimed, as her pretty lips parted, revealing her white teeth as she smiled sweetly. "You quite put the matter out of my head. It's rather curious. It appears that a few days ago an old bushman staggered into the town desperately ill, and was taken to the hospital. He was delirious for a time, but when he recovered his senses he asked Nurse Wood, who, as you know, is a great friend of mine, if you were still living at Glenbar Run. Of course Miss Wood told him that you were still here, and he said he must see you immediately."

"See me," Harold gasped, with a puzzled look.

"Yes. He said he would get up and come to you, but Doctor Blain wouldn't hear of it, and he asked me to see the old man. He told me his name was Bill Blewitt, and beseeched me to bring you to him."

"I don't know anyone of the name of Blewitt," said Harold, still puzzled. "What does he want?"

"He wouldn't say, but declared it was a matter of life and death. He made me promise not to mention the matter to a living soul except yourself. As the poor old man seemed in such deadly earnest I promised him I would let you know. I thought of writing to you, but as I longed to see you I decided to come myself. On leaving the hospital I ran against Oliver and incidentally mentioned I was going to ride out to Glenbar. He was very anxious to know the nature of my errand, but I refused to enlighten him. Anyway, he insisted on bringing me in his buggy. I would rather have come by myself, for though I am very fond of Oliver, he annoys me sometimes by saying things he ought not to say as your friend and my friend, and knowing that I'm engaged to you."

"Poor Oliver," said Harold with a laugh. "He has a heart of gold, and if I were out of the way he'd marry you if you would have him."

"Well, you see, you are not out of the way and I am going to be wife to you, so there is nothing more to be said on that point." She spoke with a decisiveness not to be gainsaid.

"You darling," exclaimed Harold, his face betraying the intensity of his feelings. Then he suddenly waxed thoughtful, and pulling his moustache he muttered:

"Bill Blewitt! Bill Blewitt! I can't place the fellow. What the deuce can he want to see me for?"

"Perhaps he has some secret that he wishes to impart to you," suggested Mary. "He is a strange old man, and very determined, I should think."

"Yes, but why make me his father confessor?"

"You know just as much as I do, Harold dear, but as Doctor Blain says the poor old fellow has a dog's chance of his life, humour his whim and see him."

"Of course I will, little woman. Anyway, I have to thank Bill Blewitt for your presence here, so I am grateful to him and you."

He threw his arms about her, their lips met, and at that moment the door was flung open and Oliver Gordon reappeared. They drew apart quickly.

"Oh, I'm sorry I've interrupted," he said, laughing. "But there, don't mind me, I'm only a cipher."

"We don't," replied Harold. "Why should we?"

"As you say, why should you. Spoon away to your hearts' content and I'll be deaf, dumb and blind. All the same I'm ravenously hungry; have you got any tucker in the place?"

"Yes, of a kind," answered Harold, who seemed to have quite recovered his good spirits. "I'll tell Jim Dawkins to make a damper, and we'll have a scratch meal. After that, when the sun's gone down, you'll drive Mary back, and I'll follow in the saddle."

Mary, who knew the place well, said she'd help the old housekeeper to prepare the food, and ran off.

"God bless that dear little woman," murmured Harold.

"She's a mascot; she'll bring you luck," Oliver remarked, as he proceeded to mix a brandy-and-soda.

The two men pledged each other and Mary; filled their pipes, and fell to chatting for a little while, until drowsiness stole upon them both. Outside the heat haze still quivered over the thirsty land like a gossamer veil of wind-stirred silver. The fiery sky was without a cloud, and the sun as it sank to the west threw never a shadow over the yellow plain. The silence was almost painful, now and again it was punctuated by the whinnying of a horse in the stables, or the drowsy drone of a buzzing bluebottle as it winged its flight about the house. The friends slept until the sun had sunk below the horizon, then Mary burst into the room with a cheery laugh and startled them into wakefulness.

"Now then, you lazy mortals," she cried, "the feast awaits you, a perfectly royal banquet."

They followed her to the so-called common dining-room, where the rough log table was covered with a white cloth, and the resources of Harold's establishment had been taxed to furnish the proper embellishments. Some old silver plated forks and spoons which had belonged to his people had been hunted out by Mary; the glasses had been polished, the cruets cleaned, fresh mustard made, clean salt provided.

"By Jove, Mary, you are a brick," exclaimed Harold. "It's a jolly long time since my table looked so spick and span."

"Oh, you men," sighed Mary, with a rueful expression, "you are such helpless creatures when you haven't a woman to look after you. You are all alike; just great careless children."

Jim Dawkins had turned out an excellent damper; he could hold his own with any chap at damper-making. Then there were eggs, stewed fowl, tinned corned beef, and other delicacies, and Harold declared it was a feast for the gods. Jim Dawkins plied his knife and fork with the rest, and the wine and spirits Oliver had brought served to enliven the feast, whilst sweet Mary Gordon sat at the head of the table, the Queen of the hour.