Читать книгу Mistress Betty Carew - Mary Gaunt - Страница 6

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Gather ye rose-buds while ye may,

Old Time is still aflying,

And this same flower that smiles to-day,

To-morrow will be dying.

Then be not coy, but use your time;

And while ye may, go marry,

For having lost but once your prime

You may for ever tarry.

Betty had wandered away from the huts, and with her knitting in her hand was resting in the shade of the crest of the hill. Behind her stretched away park-like lands, away, away till they lost themselves in the great unknown wilderness that lay between her and all the civilised world. At her feet were the blue waters of the harbour, on her right hand, but hidden by a slight rise, the little town of Parramatta. The east wind fanned her cheek softly and brought a breath of the fresh ocean with it, and before it, coming up on the flowing tide, with white sails set, was the little colonial built launch that the people called the Rose Hill packet, or more familiarly "The Lump." She might be ugly and ungainly close at hand, but seen from this distance she lent the touch of life the picture needed. The sky was bright and blue, and the wonderful foliage, washed clean by the recent rain, showed to her eyes what varying tints the one prevailing green might put on. And then Betty sighed. It was beautiful, it was more than beautiful, but—but—why was she here? Her father had sent her away, he had given her no choice in the matter. She had been as much a prisoner as the other unfortunate wretches she had met on her way up here. True, she did not haul logs in harness, and she had thirty golden guineas a year, but she was lonely and far from her kith and kin. Thomas Rosen was kind and so was his wife, but, cousins though she called them, they did not belong to the class she had accounted herself as belonging to, and she was lonely, very, very lonely. She had crept away among the hills here to be out of the way of the clash of tongues and the splash and clatter that accompanied washing-day in the tiny mud-floored, thatched farm house. She stretched out her arms. The soft blue gingham dress she wore was folded softly over her rounded bosom, and, opening, showed her full white throat. Eighteen, and the blood of her passionate, loving mother was racing through her veins. What did she want? What does all lonely womanhood want at eighteen?

"I want, I want——" she sighed.

There was a rustle in the grass behind her, and she started to her feet, for she remembered the woods were lonely, and out of them might come all manner of unknown dangers, and the only sign of civilisation was the white sail of the launch. She wondered if they would hear her cry. White men or black, she hardly knew which she dreaded most.

Then the branches of the thick black currajong shrubs parted, and a tall man in somewhat travel-stained clothes stood bowing low before her.

"Mistress Carew," he said, "I hope I don't intrude on your privacy."

"Oh, you," she said with a sigh of relief and gladness he did not fail to note, "Mr. Bass," and she sat down again and he seated himself beside her, dropping his musket at his feet.

"How you frightened me!" she said.

"Frightened you! I would not do that for worlds, but is it safe for a young lady out here in the wild bush? There are the convicts, there are the Indians, and I know not what manner of wild animal. We have seen none as yet, but still——"

"And I didn't know whether you were an Indian or a convict, or a tiger, or—or—worse still." And she laughed lightly because she felt safe now.

"What does the worse mean?"

But she only laughed. "Never mind. Have you been shooting? Tell me what you have shot?"

"I have shot a big kangaroo and a brown bird with a beautiful tail something like a pheasant. Will you have the skin? I can cure it for you and the tail is beautiful."

"Will you? Oh, thank you. You are good. And what else are you doing? You can't shoot here. I have sat so still, and I have seen nothing but a little busy blue and black wren. And you mustn't shoot him. He is a tiny thing and he is under my protection."

"I will never shoot him nor any of his brothers for your sake. What else was I doing? I was going to your cousin's farm. I—I——" he stammered a little, "I wanted to see you."

"And you see me without going," smiled Betty, graciously.

"That is a bit of good luck for a poor sailor man who hasn't had much so far."

"And now you do see me?" asked Betty, with smiling happy eyes. She did not want anything now he had come, and she no longer wondered why her father had exiled her to a far distant land. She was more than content, though she did not know it herself.

"I came to say good-bye for a little," said Bass, thinking how softly pretty was the dark curling hair with the golden gleam in it that rested so lightly on her white forehead under her silken hood.

"Oh!" a little shadow came into her eyes and he noted it gladly.

"Will you welcome me back again?" he asked, eagerly, so eagerly she felt she had betrayed herself and looked away down the harbour.

"Why should you go?"

"It is an old promise. You would not have me break promises," he pleaded, as if she had the best right in the world to question his actions. "I promised Matt Flinders to go down the coast with him to look for a great river we have heard of, if he could get leave. I have looked for it anxiously till the last week or so, and now—and now he sends word all is ready, and——" George Bass stooped forward, took the slim white hand from which the knitting had dropped, and put his lips to it.

The touch of his lips sent a thrill through her veins, a flush to her cheek, and it brightness to her eyes.

"And now," she whispered. "And now?"

"I would give the world to stay here."

"How do you know you would be welcome?"

"I don't know. I only hope," and he kissed her hand again.

"But you won't be long?"

"No. In so small a boat we can carry so little, we must come back soon. That is the best of it." If Flinders could only have heard him.

"It—it will be dangerous," said Betty, with a sudden tightening at her heart that not a little surprised herself.

"No—no," he said, soothingly, tenderly, and there was a glow of delight and gladness in his heart he could not express. "We have been before. It is nothing—nothing. Worthless sailor-men are bound to turn up safe and sound."

"You are not a worthless sailor-man," said Betty, gravely. "You know I do not think so."

"Betty, my sweetheart, Betty, Betty." He had both her hands still; she looked away at the little launch that was in shoal water now, approaching its destination. "Betty, wouldst thou care if I never came back?"

She looked round then, and her soft brown eyes full of a growing fear looked straight into his piercing dark ones.

"Thou wouldst. Betty, my sweet love"—he had drawn her towards him till his arms were round her and her head on his breast—"Betty, Betty."

The shadows were growing longer and longer, and the sun had come right round till his long level rays were darting straight in their faces as if he would read the whole truth. A magpie on a big gum-tree overhead poured out his evening hymn, a flight of grass green parrakeets flew chattering across the narrow harbour, and George Bass gathered the woman he loved closer to him.

"I love thee, I love thee," he whispered.

"And I love thee," she answered back, so low he barely caught the words.

But he did catch them.

"My own little wife," he cried aloud, exulting.

Then another thought struck him.

"Oh, Betty! I am as poor as a church mouse," he said. "Dost thou mind? There should be plenty of chances of making our fortunes in this new country."

"I don't mind," she said, with the bravery of youth and love; "but what will Thomas Rosen say?"

"Has he any say in the matter? Your guardian——"

"He is my guardian. And he wishes—I know—he wants——"

"He doesn't want to marry you to anyone else, sure?"

Betty's hand tightened on his.

"He does," she whispered. "It will make no difference—but he does."

"Who? Who?" Bass's voice sounded stern.

"The worse," said Betty with a little laugh. "The thing I told you I feared worse than the tiger."

"Betty, my sweetheart!"

She certainly did not fear now with his arms round her.

"Lieutenant James Williams," she said. "You know—you saw—he has been up to the farm as often as you have—oftener, indeed, sir," she smiled roguishly, "and Cousin Rosen says I am to marry him."

"But, Betty, you will not. They cannot make you."

"No, no, indeed. They cannot make me. They will not do more than try and persuade. Besides, in a week you will be back."

"I will not go," said Bass, with a sudden premonition of evil; "when he knows how things stand Matt Flinders will let me off my bargain."

"And a fine lady love he will think you have gotten," said Betty, lightly touching his lips with her dainty fingers. "She begins by making you break with your friend, and cannot trust either herself or you for a week. A fine beginning, truly."

He found a way to stop her saucy lips.

"Then I am to go, Betty."

"Ah, dear, my dear," the sauciness was gone and her voice was all tenderness, "because I love thee, would I keep thee from thy duty. Besides, it is only a week, only a little week. God keep thee safe, dear, on the sea, and surely nothing can happen to me in a week."

"No," said Bass, thoughtfully, "what could happen? And yet I hate to leave thee."

"And I hate to let thee go. But go you must. You will love me better when you come back from the sea and find me safe and sound."

"I could not do that," he said fervently. "But I shall explain matters to Rosen to-night."

"We must go back," said Betty, looking at the sinking sun.

And they walked back through the darkening landscape together. Never before had George Bass appreciated its beauties so thoroughly, never before had he noted how gorgeous was the sunset, how sweet and tender was the drowsy croon of the little birds in the shrubs, how pure and musical the song of the black and white magpie, how shrill and joyous the skirl of the cicada in the bushes. A lovely land! A land where a man might build himself a home, a humble home maybe, but with his wife waiting in the doorway his coming at even, his children—his heart beat. He stooped and kissed her tenderly, reverently. Never was man happier than George Bass this autumn evening, never was woman more passionately loved than Betty Carew.

But that night when he was gone Thomas Rosen went down to Parramatta to the barracks, and there he found a soldier who for a consideration undertook to deliver a message to Lieutenant Williams before sunrise next morning.

"The doctor wants your ewe lamb," ran the message, and the man wondered that the settler should take so much interest in the farm stock of his neighbours. True, two lambs were valuable possessions in those days; anyhow, it was no business of his, and he was glad enough to earn a quart of rum.