Читать книгу Out There: A Romance Of Australia - James Edward Muddock - Страница 9

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"WE understand each other," was Gordon's parting remark to his friend, but probably he would have been nearer the expression of a truth had he said instead, "I understand you, but are you sure you understand me?"

Harold Preston wore his heart upon his sleeve, Oliver Gordon masked his from prying eyes. Those who would understand Gordon must subject him to a critical study, and even then the student would probably be baffled by the subtleties of his character, and the fine nuances of his temperament. Within the limitations in which his life, so far, had been set he had displayed qualities of mind which might have enabled him to have held his own among the tricksters of politics, or the bluffers of diplomacy. He had travelled, and had spent two years drifting about the continent of Europe before coming to Australia. He had a dual personality, one in which a surface suavity and a winsome plausibility enabled him to secure a certain amount of popularity. The other was the hidden fierceness and savagery of the brute beast. This can be illustrated by a little incident: he had a reputation of being fond of animals, but was known to have whipped a dog to death because it disobeyed him, and to have shot a horse because it failed to win him a race upon which he had set his heart. He professed a belief in fatalism, and that made him materialistic, and by nature being gross he was essentially a sensualist. Oliver Gordon loved to rule, for he was far too stiff-necked to bow to authority, but not the least significant of the traits in his varied and complex character was a secretiveness which baffled even those who were most intimate with him, whilst his imminent will-power enabled him to wait patiently, ruthlessly to gain an end; he could be as the tiger that crouches and watches for its prey.

Such a man was not likely to be understood by Harold Preston, with his artistic temperament, his confiding nature, his refinement and altruistic tendencies. Harold was, by circumstances to which he could offer no resistance, a farmer. That is, a farmer in the Australian sense, which has a somewhat more comprehensive application than it has in England. But by temperament he was an artist with all that it implies. Men understood him, and women could read his soul like a book, whereas women with all their powers of penetration would have found themselves at fault where Gordon was concerned. Gordon was by nature hypocritical, but his hypocrisy was not transparent, and so was dangerous. Preston, on the contrary, was unsophisticated; he had the spirits and enthusiasm of the boy, with the courage and resolution of the man. His life has been passed near the great heart of Nature; he had heard its pulsing, he had felt its influence to the innermost chambers of his soul. Gordon was indifferent to Nature; he had no ears for her voice, he seemed to be without the sensuousness which is necessary to him who would understand Nature and fall under the sway of her mystery. He was a voluptuary, whereas the animalism in Preston was over-powered by an idealism which gave him clear eyes to see the spiritual beauty of life. Though he sometimes dreamed, he was capable of a practical application of his theory that the dreamer is out of place in the material world, and he toiled honestly that he might live. His daily routine was regulated by the common sense desire to make money, because money was indispensable to the wants of the grosser side of life. He ad no vulgar desire to acquire money for money's sake, but he was proud, with the pride of his race, he loved independence, to hold his head high, to have the wherewithal to gratify his tastes. If wealth had come to him, an altruistic nature like his would have found its happiness in an endeavour to impart some happiness to others, and money is a powerful means to that end.

Gordon had no ideals; he loved money because money gave him power; he was ambitious. He aimed at ruling, not serving, and his theory of life seemed to be "the end justifies the means." Being unscrupulous, he was not particular as to the means. It was difficult to understand love in Gordon's case, being governed by anything but animalism, but hate might become such a powerful passion that it would stop at nothing. With Preston, love was so pure a passion that its association with sensualism would have made his very soul sick, nor was it easy, when one looked into his soft gazelle-like eyes, to imagine hatred dominating his being. And yet as he could love strongly, so he might be able to hate strongly under extreme provocation.

No. Harold Preston did not understand Gordon, but Oliver Gordon did understand Preston.

On the morrow Gordon left for Melbourne. Harold went clown to see his friend at the Coach Office for a few parting words. On his way back he dropped in to the hospital to have a chat with Blewitt. The old man was sitting up in a chair near a window, the outlook from which embraced a wide stretch of country. Although very ill, he had improved a little, and insisted on getting out of bed. He manifested great pleasure on seeing Preston.

"I'm glad you've come, boss. The Doc.'s been giving me plenty of good things. He says as you told him."

"Yes, I said you were to have anything you desired."

"Any thing's good enough for a dingo like me; but I don't like being here, boss, I ought ter a' died in the wilderness, but I wouldn't until I had made my discovery known to you, and I tramped across them barren lands and the thirst was hell, but every day I humped my swag, and carried them billy-cans, because I swore to myself as I wouldn't die until I got back to civilisation and found you. My chums' bones bleach out there; three on 'em, and they was strong men too, but the fever grips two of 'em and they went. The third chap was lost in the mountains, and only the 'Almighty knows where his bones are. It was a big price to pay, boss, for our discovery, and them chaps might a bin allowed to have had a burst in the towns. Not as they'd a stayed long. A town spree's all right for a bit, but you soon tires of it, and when once you've got bitten with the bush you can't get away from it. And you keeps on going back, until one day you're bowled over with thirst or the sun, or maybe the fever; or a death adder or black-snake gets you, and you hand in your checks. I hears the call of it night and day, and I can't abear the idea of handing in my checks in this 'ere place. It ain't that I'm afeared of dying, boss, don't you make no mistake about that. I've played the game fair and square, and I've done my bit, but I want to die out there, boss, where the hot winds blow and the sky's the roof. It ain't fit as an old dingo like me should be in a swell place like this, and have them nurses awaiting on me. It ain't woman's work to be looking after a helpless old chap like me. I say it ain't right, boss. It makes me feel ashamed of myself. The nurses is angels, and the Doc., he's a good chap, but he don't understand. When I tells him I'm going out, he says, angry like, What have you got to complain about? Ain't you got all you want?' I says, 'Yes, Doc., but I ain't used to it; I'm happier when I have my swag on my back, on the tramp under the blue sky—'"

The poor old man seemed disposed to rattle on airing his grievance against the fate which had made him a hospital patient, interminably, but Harold broke in on his outpouring, and stopped it.

"Now look here, Blewitt my friend," he said, "you must be patient, and don't forget that after all you are only mortal. You have much to be thankful for, that you were able to suffer and endure as you have suffered and endured, and reach this haven at last."

"That's all right, boss," cried the old man querulously; "it isn't as I'm a complaining about the nurses or the Doc. or any of 'em. I'm a complaining about this 'ere weakness as prevents me doing anything for myself and—"

"Well, well, Bill, you must bear with it," said Harold cheerily. "What cannot be altered must be endured, you know. Your powers of endurance have been strained to breaking point, but your vitality is evidently great, and if you'll only have patience and don't fret, your strength may come back. I look forward to having you as my chum when we start for the Ranges."

The old chap stretched out his worn sunburnt hand and grasped Harold's with a strength that seemed prophetic, whilst his eyes were misty as he answered:

"That's the talk as I likes to hear, boss; it does me good."

Further conversation was prevented by the appearance of the doctor and the head nurse. He greeted Blewitt with a cheery good morning.

"Why, you're looking better, my friend. Umph, pulse stronger too. Did you enjoy the port wine and the fruit?"

"Yes, Doc., they're all right, but you see I'm—"

"Never mind what you are," said the doctor, who knew what was coming. "Be thankful for the mercies vouchsafed you; don't dwell too much on our bad treatment of you, in making you take soup, port wine, fish, and fruit, and other delicacies, and you will pull through all right, and be off on another prospecting expedition."

The old man broke into a laugh that augured well, and promised the doctor that he wouldn't grumble any more. When Doctor Blain had finished his rounds he invited Harold to lunch with him at the Club, and they walked over together.

"He's a marvellous old chap is that," the doctor remarked, "and I quite expect now that he will pull through. He has certainly taken a turn for the better. These old gold seekers are a pretty tough lot and take a lot of killing. Blewitt has a tremendous amount of will-power, and that's a great factor in his favour."

The luncheon finished, the doctor and his friend adjourned to a shady, flower-covered corner of the veranda for their coffee and cigars, and Oliver Gordon became the subject of conversation, by the doctor saying:

"I understand that Gordon's gone off to Melbourne."

"Yes, I believe he has some business to attend to there."

"Cherchez la femme," said the doctor, with a merry twinkle of the eye and a little laugh that indicated what was passing through his mind.

"Well, possibly there may be a lady in the case, but Oliver doesn't tell me anything of his private affairs."

"No, I suppose not. He's devilish close, I should think. He has never appealed to me. There is something about the fellow I don't like. He's a difficult chap to understand."

"What is it you don't like?" asked Preston, gazing steadily at the doctor.

"Well...between ourselves...I should say he could be very treacherous and an unforgiving enemy."

Preston's brow contracted a little, and his face wore a troubled look. He could not bear to think Gordon was treacherous.

"What is your reason, Doctor Blain, for that opinion?" he asked pointedly, and with just a suspicion of annoyance.

"To begin with, I flatter myself that I am not a bad judge of character," answered Blain. "Then of course in this little gossipy place one hears a good deal about one's neighbours. And, moreover, I have had some personal experience of Mr Gordon in his capacity of a governor of the hospital. When I came up here from Sydney a few years ago I learnt in the course of time that I was one of six candidates for the post, and that I had got in by one vote only. But the point is this, one of the candidates was a nominee of Gordon's, and Gordon it appears had set his mind on securing his election. The choice lay between me and the nominee, and the nominee was defeated. For anything I know to the contrary it was a fair fight, and one would have thought that Gordon would have taken his defeat gracefully. But his vanity was wounded; he is not a man who can endure defeat, and though I was an utter stranger to him, he evidently regarded me as his enemy. Ever since he has tried to make my position as uncomfortable as he could, and has subjected me to a good many petty annoyances. Don't you think now, that I have a pretty good reason for my opinion of your friend?"

Preston grasped his chin with his left hand and pondered for many moments, then turning suddenly to his companion, he asked sharply:

"Blain, have you any particular motive for telling me this?"

The doctor took time to consider his answer, and he reflectively watched the smoke from his cigar gracefully dissipate itself on the languid air.

"No, I had no specific motive. Subconsciously, perhaps, I desired that you, as a subscriber to the hospital, and a friend of, and great believer in Gordon, should know that only a man of weak character would take up the attitude that Gordon has displayed to me. Frankly, I would not trust Gordon beyond a very short range of vision. I've never had an opportunity of saying so much to you before."

"Do you think he's dishonest?"

"I think he's treacherous. Wound his vanity or defeat him in any way, and you make a deadly enemy of him."

Preston leaned back in his chair and smoked hard. "What the doctor had told him evidently affected him deeply. When he spoke it was as a man who has come to a decision after much weighing of facts.

"You will appreciate my feelings in this matter, Doctor Blain, I am sure. The information you have given me throws a new light on my friend's character, and it reveals a flaw, if what you say is correct."

Blain started forward, clutching the chair arms, and stretching his neck out. There was a gleam of fire in his eyes. "If what I say is correct! What do you mean by that?" he asked warmly. "Do you suggest that I have lied to you? Or that I am paltry enough to attack Gordon without justification, because I don't happen to admire him?"

"By heaven, no," answered Preston with a pathetic earnestness. "I apologise if my clumsy remark has led you to believe that I doubt your veracity. I am labouring under a sense of mental shock. The sudden shattering of an ideal confuses and distresses a man. I have admired Gordon and had faith in him; I cannot bear to think that I have been deceived. That he is self-willed I am not prepared to deny, and it is no less true that he likes to obtain his ends, but I have always regarded him as a fair fighter. Why he should bear you any ill-feeling because he failed to secure the election of his nominee puzzles me, and—don't be offended with me—I am inclined to think you are perhaps unduly prejudiced against him."

Doctor Blain shrugged his shoulders, leaned back in his chair, and purled at his cigar. These little actions were indicative of his feelings. After reflecting for some long moments he let his eyes follow the cigar-smoke, and said with an air of abstraction:

"Friendship that is worthy of the name should have faith. Your faith is very strong, Preston. I hope it won't receive a rude shock." He changed his position slightly, and met his companion's gaze. "You live out in the wilderness," he continued, "and you hear the voice of Nature oftener than you hear the voice of man. We are only a small community here, but the evil that is in us shows itself pretty plainly at times. Your creed, I know, is to think ill of no man—"

"Unless I have unmistakable proof that he is bad," interposed Preston ardently.

"Ah, just so. I claim equality with you in that respect. Now I should not have expressed myself so freely about Gordon if I had no evidence of his insincerity. I am sorry now that I mentioned the matter since it has hurt—"

Preston again interposed a remark.

"You need not regret it. I quite understand that you are justified in your opinion from your point of view."

"I rather think my justification does not rest on my own personal little Grievance. Gossip and rumour, even in a small place like this—"

"Why attach importance to gossip and rumour," snapped Preston with undisguisable irritation, "have no patience with the poisonous tittle-tattle of silly people to whom scandal is as the breath of their nostrils."

"Nor have I," said the doctor with perfect composure. "And in order that you may exclude me from your category, I shall have to say more than I had any intention of saying. I am not a casuist, but I have my own views with regard to the acts and deeds of men. You and I have always been very friendly ever since I came here to take up my appointment. You and Gordon are very friendly, yet you are men of such different qualities of mind and heart that I am somewhat at a loss to understand how it is you have such unbounded faith in him."

"Look here, doctor," exclaimed Harold with vehemence, "unless you have some definite charge to proffer against Gordon, I beg of you to let the subject drop."

The doctor was not in the least disconcerted. "I could present a catena of facts before you, but will content myself with two or three, in order to justify myself and to put you on your guard; to be forewarned is to be forearmed. You compel me to this. It is known, for instance, throughout the town that you and Miss Mary Gordon are engaged. Some time ago in this very Club; there had been some races during the day, and there was rather a noisy and excited gathering in the evening; Gordon was not quite sober, and he and Mr Cartwright, the town surveyor, got into a heated argument about a disputed bet. Gordon made some offensive remarks to Cartwright, who retorted by reminding him that it was not policy to throw stones when one inhabited a glass structure. One thing led to another, and Gordon boasted of always succeeding in anything he undertook. Whereupon his opponent, in good-natured chaff, as it seemed to me, reminded him that though he had tried to win Mary Gordon, you had cut him out. I shall never forget the expression that this brought to Gordon's face. It seemed to me the expression of a man who had a devilish nature. It passed almost immediately, and he broke into a laugh, but the laugh was devilish; what he said in reply clung to me, and I resolved that if ever a favourable opportunity presented itself I would let you know it. To-day the opportunity has come without my seeking it."

"Well—what was it?" asked Harold with strained eagerness, his face aflame, as the other paused.

"He said that Mary Gordon did not know her own mind; that she was simply amusing herself with you, and he offered to bet Cartwright a hundred pounds, that Mary would never become Mrs Preston, but Mrs Gordon."

Harold sank back in his chair, and the flame gave place to a ghastly pallor.

"My God!" he gasped.

The doctor looked at his companion searchingly, but still maintaining his composure said:

"I am sorry that I should have felt compelled to tell you so much. If you need corroboration I refer you to Cartwright. There is no doubt he will remember the incident. And now there is one more fact to strengthen my case. Although I did not know Gordon personally when I was in practice in Sydney, I had a friend, manager of one of the Sydney Banks. He was a married man with a charming family of five daughters and a son, who was the baby. The second daughter was a sweet and beautiful girl of nineteen. Gordon was an honoured visitor to my friend's house. He betrayed the trust by seducing that daughter. The poor girl, when she knew she was likely to become a mother, begged and implored Gordon to marry her. Presumably he refused, for in a fit of horror and despair she shot herself. The cowardly betrayer of the girl would have paid for his crime with his life, for the father made a vow to kill him, but he fled. As is now known, he went to Scotland. My friend brooded over the tragedy of his daughter so much that his heart broke and he died. Your friend, Oliver Gordon, is still a free man; still lives his boastful and empty life. If what I have told you puts you on your guard my purpose will be served."

Preston had leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and, burying his face in his hands, he remained in that attitude for some minutes, until the doctor rose and touched him on the shoulder.

"Look here, my friend, don't take this revelation too much to heart. I know that it's a painful thing to be disillusioned, to have one's ideals shattered. But, after all, Gordon is only a detail in your life. It has been my painful duty I must regard it as a duty—to put you on your guard. And, believe me, I have been actuated by a sincere desire to serve you, for I like you. You are a white man, but your life has been passed in the wilderness, and your knowledge of human nature is comparatively limited. Well, I must go. I hope our friendship won't be shaken by what I have told you. I had no intention when we sat down here to make this revelation, but it has come out as such things often do without premeditation."

Preston rose up as a man rises when he has been knocked down by a partially stunning blow. The mental shock he had received had deprived him of some of his physical power. His tortured face was pale despite the sun-brown. He emitted a hollow, cynical laugh that was more like a spasm of pain, and put out his hand to the doctor.

"It is something like an ordeal of fire, Blain, when a man suddenly realises that his faith and trust have been misplaced. No one likes to be deceived, befooled. I appreciate the motives which have prompted you to make this painful revelation. You would hardly have been a true friend if you had not told me. I am afraid I am apt to be a little too confiding, to take too much for granted. As you say, forewarned is forearmed. However, for the present let the matter rest where it is. Good-bye. By the way, bring all the skill that is yours to bear on Bill Blewitt's case. I want that man to live."

They shook hands and parted, and as Harold Preston went out into the sunlit street he was conscious of having undergone some great change, and that the sweetness of his life had turned a little sour. Something had broken.