Читать книгу The Other Man - Mary Gaunt - Страница 8

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Before the week was out Ruth felt that she, too, would gladly have welcomed back Roger Marsden. The weather was depressing. It was raw and cold; and the rain—it rained every day. But the weather made no difference to the Grant family. Mrs. Grant and Ann and Lily and auntie, went out driving every day. Each day in the week saw them set off in pairs to some small hamlet or township where they taught Scripture in the state schools, held mothers' meetings, prayer meetings, temperance meetings, and indeed, did their best to do good after their own fashion. Mr. Grant, Willie, and the two station experience young men were out on the run all day, and the nine children left at home to their own resources ran riot and worked their wicked will on everything, doing exactly as they pleased, and setting the maid servants at defiance. Not that the servants took much notice of them. They, too, did much as they pleased in the absence of their mistress, and the way in which the work of the household was done often made Ruth, who prided herself on being a good housekeeper, hold up her hands in horror. The two girls had nothing to do, and found time hang very heavily on their hands. Almost since she could remember, Ruth had kept her fathers house. He had been crotchetty, particular, and unlovable, but the effort to keep things nice and to please him had kept her mind and hands employed. They had been allowed few acquaintances and no friends, but Dolly had helped her sister and they were on the whole not unhappy. But now all this was changed. The very atmosphere of Kooringa was uncongenial, the living was coarse and rough, the elders were absent all day and their only company was the nine children ranging between the ages of fifteen and five, who, in spite, of the advantages of being brought up in a godly household, were veritable imps of darkness and demons of mischief. Their governess had left the week before the girls arrived, but though Mrs. Grant said every day she must get another, as yet she made no move in that direction. There were no books to be had—at least none except tracts and mildly religions stories—for the modern novel was not admitted into the house, and even Dickens and Thackeray were kept under lock and key and only given out by Mr. Grant himself with solemn words of admonition and warning. There were rows upon rows of sermons available, but Ruth did not yet feel equal to tackling sermons, and the newspaper only reached her in an expurgated form, for her uncle very much doubted the wisdom of allowing women to read the papers at all, and in any case took care that the women of his household only saw it after he had ruthlessly cut away what he called "anything objectionable." They had never gone on these expeditions with their aunt and cousins, partly because no one had expressed a desire for their company and partly because neither of the girls cared to go.

But meanwhile, with nothing to do but needlework and nothing in the world to look forward to, they both found it terribly dull, and the ten days that had passed over their heads since they had come to Kooringa might have been ten months or ten years so long did they seem.

Dolly said as much one dull afternoon, as she sat stitching over the fire in the big untidy dining room, listening to the racket which the younger sons and daughters of the family were making in the nursery next door. Only Vera stayed with them sitting on the hearthrug gazing pensively into the fire.

"Oh," sighed Dolly, "how long's this to go on, Ruth? I feel as if I'd been here years and years and years. Do you see any grey in my hair yet? If you don't it'll be there soon. You don't know how old I feel."

"I wis I was old," sighed Vera. "When I's old I's going to mawwy Woger."

"Oh, dear; so matrimony's the end you have in view. Well it strikes me forcibly that we'll be old maids, eh Ruth? It seems we're born to blush unseen. It's a pity, too, for, Ruth, you really are a very pretty girl, you know. Don't you wish somebody'd come along, somebody nice, you know, and make love to you and marry you?"

"Oh, hush, Dolly. You shouldn't talk like that. If we are to be married, we will be, I suppose."

"To a major in the Salvation Army or the local preacher at Gaffer's Flat, who's a grocer by trade. I thought he turned an appreciative eye on you last Sunday. You'll let Kooringa have sugar and tea cheap, of course—at cost price, I suppose. But really I don't think I'd like the grocer—he's got a red nose."

"Dolly—please."

"He samples his schnapps too often, I expect. But who shall I marry? It's a matter for serious consideration."

"Hush, Dolly, don't be silly. Of course you'll marry some day—some nice good man I hope."

"I hope sincerely he won't be too good, but, my dear, where's he to come from?"

"Oh, down the chimney if he can't come any other way."

"He tan't tum that way," put in Vera, "there's ony a teeny, teeny hole up there, and Woger's goin' to mawwy me when I'm growed up. I wis I was old," and the little damsel sighed again heavily.

"Never mind, dear," said Dolly, pulling the long fair curls, "the years 'll soon mend that and Roger's sure to wait."

"You can mawwy him, too, if you like," said Vera condescendingly.

"Thank you very much, Vera. Then that matter's settled. Ruth, do you hear. I'm going to marry Roger Marsden by express permission of Vera Grant, and now its only half-past 3, and what on earth am I to do with the rest of the afternoon?"

Ruth crossed the room, and stood tapping on the window looking out on the gloomy prospect.

"It's not raining now," she said. "Suppose we go for a walk. Vera, will you come, too."

But Vera declined. The cosy fire, and the peace and comfort ensured by the absence of all elders was not lightly to be foregone, and the two girls set off by themselves. The air was damp and raw, and underfoot it was like a sponge. Still there was no wind, and they were well shod and well wrapped up, and the brisk walk round the still grey lake put Dolly in a more amiable frame of mind by the time they reached the little creek which formed its outlet on the other side from the house.

Coortnong Creek was the only picturesque bit of scenery about Kooringa for the plains opened out here in a steep gully, at the bottom of which flowed the creek amidst rocks and ferns and mossy stones, while here and there grew patches of stunted lightwood, always pretty trees—more especially here on these plains where trees were conspicuous by their absence. It was cold and bleak now on this wintry day, but they went down to the banks of the creek and in mere idleness flung stones into the foaming muddy waters.

"I believe," said Dolly, "I could cross quite easily. Look at those stones sticking up out of the water."

"Well, they look rather slippery, I think," said her sister. "Besides, where's the use of risking a wetting? There's nothing to be seen there."

"Two dead sheep, and I believe there's another behind those trees."

"But you don't want to look at dead sheep, or, if you do, I daresay we can find plenty on this side."

"Well, there's a man just coming over the rise there behind those trees. It's Mr. Marsden, I'm nearly sure. I'm going to cooey——"

"Nonsense, Dolly, don't do any such thing. What will he think of you?"

"It's all right," and Dolly with a sigh of relief. "He sees us; he's coming. That's best after all. There! See how easily he crosses the stones. Oh, Mr. Marsden, how do you do? I'm so glad to see you."

Young Marsden shook hands with both girls and seemed equally delighted to see them.

"Who would have thought of meeting you out on such a day!" he said.

"Well, we were tired of being in the house—that's the truth, and I was so bad-tempered, poor Ruth insisted on my coming out just to give her a little peace."

Marsden looked unbelieving, for Dolly's face was wreathed in smiles now, and Ruth said—

"Oh, she wasn't quite so bad as that. Only we do have a lot of spare time on our hands. Aunt and the others have gone to a prayer meeting."

"They generally are at a prayer meeting, aren't they?" asked Roger with a twinkle in his eyes that made the girls laugh.

"Well, I believe they have some faint hope that in the dim future I may be brought into the right path, but Dolly's the stumbling-block, she's so terribly flippant."

"Yes," said Dolly. "But, Mr Marsden, how is your hand?"

"My hand, thanks to you, is quite well."

"I'm so glad," said Dolly.

"Do you want to cross the creek?" asked Marsden.

"Well, we were thinking about it," said Dolly, "only Ruth's afraid of falling in. And really I don't know that there's anything to be gained by crossing. What are you going to do?"

"A horrid unsavoury job I've got on hand. Do you see those dead sheep over there? Well, all of them have to be skinned, and if they're too far gone to be skinned the wool has to be plucked off."

"Oh, how horrid!" said Ruth, while Dolly suggested—

"Help us across the creek, and let's see how you do it."

Accordingly he helped first one and then the other across the slippery stepping stones, and then went to work, the two girls settling themselves down among some stones to windward of the sheep to be operated on.

"You see," said Marsden, settling to work somewhat unwillingly, and rapidly filling a sack with the dead wool, "one of the pleasures of a roustabouts life."

"Never mind," said Dolly, consolingly, "there's bound to be something disagreeable in everybody's life. I was growling over mine most abominably just now, and yet you see there are consolations. Ruth made me come for a walk much against my will, and Providence directed that we should meet you."

"Thank you." The young man blushed and smiled. "It's kind of you to put it that way."

"If it's not being rude," remarked Dolly, "what made you come here?"

"Poverty," said Marsden, "bitter, grinding poverty."

"You needn't be ashamed of that," put in Ruth, "that's just our case. We're very nearly as poor as church mice. We've got about enough to dress ourselves, and that's all."

"I thought your father was a well-to-do man," said Roger, and then blushed and was angry with himself for what he called prying into other people's affairs, but to the girls the remark seemed quite natural, and Ruth merely answered—

"Oh, yes, so he was, but most that he had died with him; but I thought your father was a rich man."

"And left you a fortune which you dissipated in riotous living according to our uncle," put in Dolly.

Marsden smiled grimly.

"And am worse off than the Prodigal in consequence. I'm sure I'd rather tend swine than pluck dead sheep. My father did leave me between four and five thousand pounds, but I unluckily invested it in shares in a big squatting company in Queensland and thought I was going to treble it. I didn't gamble and I didn't drink, but the drought came and the sheep died, I suppose; anyhow, I haven't seen a penny of income, and since my father didn't give me a profession, I'm reduced to this unsavoury occupation for a livelihood."

He spoke very bitterly, and both girls felt sorry for him; but Dolly, as usual, found her tongue first.

"Never mind," she said, cheerily, "better days'll come soon. I suppose it sounds awfully ungrateful to our relations, but we really are worse off than you, because we can't do anything to earn our own livings. But who, then, on earth are those men on horseback?" she exclaimed. "I hope it's not Willie or uncle. Somehow, I fancy they mightn't quite sympathise with our interest in sheep plucking."

They were on a little rise on the banks of the creek, just slightly elevated above the surrounding plain, and in the distance, just entering the big paddock, two horsemen were plainly to be seen.

Marsden looked round at them.

"I think it's Dr. Finlayson and Maitland, from Mullin's Hill. I expect they've come to look for me. May I introduce them?" he asked; adding, as he saw a shade of doubt on Ruth's face, "Indeed, I would not ask you but they are gentlemen and good fellows."

"Introduce them, of course," said Dolly. "It'll be great fun. Now, Ruth, what are you looking so anxious about? I want to meet that beer-drinking engineer. I've heard so much bad about him."

"But he isn't bad," said Marsden, eagerly. "I shouldn't ask you to know him if he was. He's a very nice clever young fellow, and he isn't beer-drinking—at least, of course, I mean——"

"Oh, we understand," said Dolly, "he isn't temperance, thank goodness. Now we'll have to mind our propers. Ruth, put on your Sunday-go-to-meetings manners to meet Mr. Marsden's friends."

The two men rode up at a brisk trot.

"I say, Marsden," began the foremost, and then catching sight of the two girls, raised his eyebrows in astonishment. They both dismounted, however, and coming forward were introduced in due form by Marsden. The doctor, Alick Finlayson, was a tall, raw-boned Scotchman, with lantern jaws and red hair, and a painfully shy manner. He blushed and stammered like a schoolgirl, and soon dropped out of the conversation, while his companion, Dick Maitland, the engineer, seated himself on a stone by Ruth and was soon chatting away with her, as much at his ease as if he had known her all her life. He was a marked contrast to his friend, for while the doctor was an undoubtedly plain man, all the world voted Dick Maitland, with his regular features and beautiful dark eyes, a handsome fellow. True, his mouth showed signs of weakness and vacillation, but it was hidden by his moustache, and as a pleasant smile showed a row of milk-white teeth the defect was lost on Ruth, who truly thought him the best-looking man she had ever seen.

They had come over, he explained, to fetch Marsden back to have dinner with them. They had been at the Melbourne Church of England Grammar school together as boys, and felt it their bounden duty to look after him, because if he joined the Salvation Army he would be lost to them for ever.

"I don't think he'll join the army just yet," said Ruth with a smile, looking across to where Marsden was sitting listening intently to Dolly's graphic descriptions of life in her present home. "But were you at the Grammar school together? And Dr. Finlayson, too." She was sorry for the quiet man who stood aloof and tried to draw him into the conversation. "I should have thought he would have been a Scotch College boy, and would have hated you with a bitter hatred."

"It ought to have been so certainly, Miss Grant," said the doctor, "but my parents were oblivious of their duty, and sent me to school with these fellows. Consequently I'm an anomaly—Scotchman is written all over me and yet by all the traditions of my school I'm bound to hate the Scotch College."

"What a shame," laughed the girl. "It's just a matter of prejudice. Now my uncle thinks that the only place where a boy can get a really good education is a private school kept by a certain strict Plymouth brother of his acquaintance."

"Willie went there," said Dolly joining in the conversation.

"All the same, Willie is an awful young scamp," said Maitland. "He's eternally over at McShane's playing billiards, and a shanty of that description can scarcely be a safe place for a lad of his years."

"Poor boy," said Ruth, pityingly. "I don't wonder he wants a little excitement. He can't be always interested in prayer meetings and Sunday-school treats."

Dick Maitland, looking at her face, thought Kooringa would not be half a bad place to live in provided she were by his side, and though he did not say so, he exerted himself to entertain her and make her forget the flight of time with such success that the short day began to draw to a close before she thought about the time at all.

Ruth woke up to the fact at last, and started to her feet.

"Good gracious me," she said, "I quite forgot the time. It's nearly five, and it'll be quite dark before we get home."

"Don't be in such a hurry," murmured Maitland, "I haven't spent such a pleasant time in ages, and who knows when I may get the chance again."

Ruth blushed—she was unused to compliment, and the implied flattery pleased her.

"I'm glad we've met," she said simply, "and I hope we'll meet again, but indeed we must go home now. Come, Dolly."

"Bother," said that young lady with flattering emphasis; "I suppose we must. Mr. Marsden, are you coming in to prayers to-night?"

"Well, I was thinking of going over to Maitland's camp, but——"

"Oh, yes, do go," said Dolly. "You'll have fun, won't you; and you can tell us all about it next time we meet."

"And when will that be?" asked Marsden, and Maitland supplemented it, "Yes, when will that be?"

"I'm sure I don't know," said Dolly.

"Don't you think Mrs. Grant would take it as a delicate compliment if we called on her," suggested Maitland.

"Well, you might," said Marsden. "I'm her servant, you see, and she mightn't quite see the necessity of it if I did."

"Besides," said Ruth innocently, "she's so often away. Now to-morrow all four of them are going off to hold a prayer meeting at Dog-leg Flat."

"How far off is that?" asked Maitland. "It must be nearly twenty miles from here."

"Seventeen," corrected Ruth, and Maitland made a mental note that they would be away all day.

"Now," said Ruth, "we must really go. Mr. Marsden, will you help us over the creek again."

"Marsden's hands are dirty," suggested Dick Maitland, "you'd better let me," and Ruth went with him, but Marsden, not to be outdone, washed his hands in the running stream, and helped Dolly across while the doctor as usual stood in the background.

"Shall I see you home?" asked Marsden, holding her hand perhaps a trifle longer than was necessary.

"No," she said, "no, I think you'd better not."

"And when shall I see you again?"

"Come to prayers," she suggested mischievously.

"Thank you; and see how closely you attend to your devotions."

"Well, we go for a walk every day."

"To-morrow I have to go to Gaffer's Flat, worse luck; but the next day I have to be down at Davey's Swamp seeing after the lambs. It's not a mile from the house—do you think your walk might happen to be in that direction?"

Dolly looked at his eager face with a demure smile.

"That's making an appointment, isn't it," she said. "And, oh dear, I couldn't possibly do that. But if Ruth walks in that direction I can't help it, can I?"

Then she snatched her hand away.

"Ruth, Ruth, we'll be so late. No, Mr. Maitland, you mustn't come with us. The proprieties at Kooringa might be shocked if you did. Besides, we'll have to run. Good bye, good-bye." And catching hold of her sister's hand the two girls set off at a sharp pace through the deepening twilight towards the house.