Читать книгу Old Blastus of Bandicoot - Miles Franklin - Страница 7

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Love is a duel more oft than a jewel,

So I have heard them tell, my dear,

So I have heard them tell.

And 'tis Dan Cupid's merry jest,

'Twixt enemies to give it zest

It lacks where all is well, my dear,

It lacks where all is well.

Dora quickly disappeared from the tea table, thankful to have escaped her father's curiosity. She played and sang in the best room under the aegis of the aristocratic merinos. She was delighted with a new song, "Whisper and I shall hear," but early tired of singing to herself. She longed for an audience other than those of her own household, or Tom and Mick, and went to her room to dress her hair in some new fashion and to try on her new dress, and dream of what might be.

She was ambitious to go to the socially pretentious races and wear ravishing dresses. "Miss Dora Barry on the lawn!" "Miss Dora Barry in the saddling paddock!" What could she do as a kick-off? If only she could sing as well as that girl who was such a rage two or three years ago, and now in Paris studying!

Dora scarcely felt of prima donna weight. Neither did she feel capable of writing a book as that other girl, about whom everyone, even the old bushwhackers, made such a fuss. She was more practical than artistic. If Father would permit her, she could ride at the Shows, not only in Yass and Queanbeyan and Goulburn, but in Sydney as some of the other up-country girls had done, who were not nearly such good riders, as she was. Or if she had a chance to dance she could undoubtedly eclipse that giraffe of a Rose Ann Slattery, who had no ear for music and must wear No. 9 shoes like, "Oh, my darling, Oh, my darling, Oh, my darling Clementine," in Arthur's silly ass of a song; but Father was quite cracked about dancing.

She blew out her candle early with the fervent wish that something would happen, preferably something delightful and eventful, but barring that, something—anything, it did not matter what so long as it relieved a monotonous and prosaic routine.

Something to happen was her last thought as she fell asleep.

Her wish was speedily to be answered generally and particularly.

That very evening, as she slept, things were moving on the general score at Chesham Park.

Old Smithers, the sitting member for the Weeowera district of the State Parliament, in which were situated the holdings of Lindsey, Slattery, McTavish, Barry and others, had whispered that at the next general election, about a year distant, he was to retreat upon a safe metropolitan seat which would not entail such hard canvassing on his ancient bones. Blackett was desirous of having Lindsey put forward as the candidate. A man of the district for the district would be a good cry. Thus Lindsey was likely to have another honour thrust upon him, and this meeting at Chesham Park was a first and secret move among his supporters.

The possibilities were discussed when Mrs. Lindsey went to bed, and her daughter Kate was flirting with a neighbouring squatter, who bored her, but flirting was one of the few diversions open to her. Ross was absent at a dance in Queanbeyan.

Up and down the gullies were a number of "cockies" who could turn the election if they voted solidly. The big landholders were sure to stand by one of themselves. Old Barry was the reason for caution. His enmity was so bitter that he could not be expected to vote for Lindsey, but if he would keep quiet and merely abstain from voting as a protest, all would be well. If he would come out on Lindsey's side it would be a walk-over. The danger was that he would create an uproar, and, by sheer obstinacy, vote and canvass for the other side. There was an even deadlier possibility that he might oppose Lindsey himself. That would finish Lindsey's hope of election and be a joke for the wags. Old Blastus had money and energy and by his sheer ingenuousness would be a riot on the hustings and capture every little man on the land in the electorate. Hence the circumspection lest the Lindsey caucus should be prematurely defeated.

"Shure we'd betther wait till we're ready," observed old Slattery, "and the first gun be foired by Mr. Blackett, and you and me, Mr. McTavish, as the two most important neeburs, could act next."

"You're richt," said McTavish solemnly. "Wi' auld Blastus on his side 'twould save us much money."

"Now if a deputation of prominent min loike you and me, Mr. McTavish, and wan or two others, with Mr. Blackett and Mr. Smithers at our head, was to put it to owld Bandicoot as a public matther that his ill will is an obsthruction of public affairs, do ye think 'twould hilp anny?"

"'Twould need thinking on, Muster Slattery," cautiously responded McTavish.

Lindsey being called to the telephone, discussion took a personal turn.

"Shure, the only way to settle that now would be for the young feller here to take up wid the gurrl."

"And I don't see how he could help himself," said the Federal Member gallantly. "I never saw a prettier girl; and the way she handled that horse!"

"And a power o' Biller. Auld Bandicoot is the richest mon i' the distreect if you get down to solid assets."

"Sure the young feller couldn't do betther. Do you think now, Mr. Blackett, that Lindsey would cotton to that?"

"I haven't an idea. Mr. Lindsey has never said a word."

"Ach, Sondy's the deep one. You'll never know what he'd be thinkin' gin you'd wait till he tellt you."

As a result of their conclave it was agreed that Slattery and McTavish should cautiously mound certain souls in the electorate. They did not ascertain what Lindsey might think of a conjugal way out of the feud. His manner did not invite sufficient familiarity.

Magnetism, youth, romance, Cupid or what not was moving more forcefully than political wire-pulling, and on the very next afternoon.

At Bandicoot it was the hour when Father, awakened from siesta, was scanning the roads or doting on his woolly darlings with the aid of his binoculars. Mother was teetering with her equally beloved pot plants. Dora was laying the tea on the back veranda. Arthur, unable to restrain his appetite was spreading honey and butter mixed on a slab of bread and devouring it. Mabel was thumping resoundingly with a ten-pound sad iron. The elaborate garments hung on a line to air testified to her industry and skill as a laundress. She was neat and clean, but patently paid no other attention to appearances. Her mousy hair, like her mother's was drawn back severely and carelessly from her thin temples. She was slightly bent, sunburned and wrinkled, and her hands were as horny as a navvy's.

It was mail day once more and Mick had brought the bag. He turned Governor out without subterfuge before coming in, as he was to remain some days at Bandicoot and construct new stables for the prize merinos. He was wearing a snake-skin belt, significant to no one but Arthur, who instantly demanded one similar and then secured some more bread and honey.

Dora snatched a gun from the wall and ran out. While observation was on a hawk in the heavens, Concertina approached Mabel and handed her a small parcel.

"What's that?" she demanded in a brusque whisper.

"Chocolates."

"I never take presents."

"It ain't exactly a present. I won 'em in a in a raffle and thought you might have a sweet tooth. If you don't want 'em, you can sling 'em to the chooks."

Mabel disappeared under excuse of a hot iron. It was so long since she had been tendered chocolates that she was upset. A bifurcated frilly garment fell on Mick from the line. He picked it up and waggishly proceeded to examine it. His were days of much humbug about women's underclothing. Mabel, returning, recovered her self-possession by seizing the garment.

"You're a great ironer, Mabel," drawled Mick. "If you perked-up in some of them fal-de-rals yourself you could hold your own yet."

"How do you mean—hold my own?"

"To ketch a man, er course."

"Humph! About as useful as an alligator when he is caught. It's the women who are caught, if you ask me."

A shot sounded from behind the kitchen and Mick moved away to investigate, not without observing from the corner of his eye that Mabel hid the box of chocolates amid the linen.

Dora returned swinging a dead hawk by its wing and stood the gun beside the post. "There! I upset his duck house just as he was swooping on Mother's turkeys."

"Mind where you put that gun!" aclmonished Father.

"It's not loaded."

"Hang it up at once. It's always the unloaded gun that kills, mark my words."

Mick had taken down his accordion and was tuning-up.

"That sounds like the tune the old cow died of," said Dora. "Take some tea and see if you feel better."

"Dora likes blokes to play the peanner," said Mick as a reprisal. "I hear Ross Lindsey is takin' lessons again. I see him as I come along—makin' this way. Oughter reach here just about tea."

Dora had her father's complexion and turned a fiery red. She loathed Mick and was exasperated to feel herself blushing. Mick was triumphant to see his shafts go home. His gifts would have been of infinite service to a fortune teller.

"Making here," said Father. "What would he be doing coming this way?"

"Short cut," replied Mick with a sly wink at Dora. It was at least seven miles out of the way to come by Bandicoot to get to Chesham Park. Father turned his glasses on the road. Mick did not need glasses. His eyesight would have made a telescope envious.

"It looks like the cut of that flash weedy colt of his," observed Barry with the glasses.

Arthur added the testimony of his sharp eyesight. Dora's heart quickened. She busied herself with tea.

"Put his foot in a rabbit hole," drawled Mick.

"Golly! The horse went right on top of him," yelled Arthur.

"Some circus trick to get in here, I'll bet me boots," said Father, lowering the glasses with feigned indifference. Dora adjusted them hastily to her vision.

"His horse has got away from him," shouted Arthur.

"He's lying quite still. He may be killed." Dora's voice was cold and dead. It sounded far away to herself. She laid down the glasses and ran through the big white gates in the direction of the road. Arthur bounded after her. Mick too sprang up with more agility than his bowyanged knees promised, and pursued, all three heedless of what Barry was roaring.

"Has there been an accident?" inquired Mother, placidly turning from her pots.

"If there is, it's a judgment of God and nearly time."

"Hush! I don't think you ought to talk about God that way. Think of his poor mother."

"There's plenty hot water if it's wanted," said Mabel, looking into the kitchen. She set down her iron and came to where she could get a view. As Father disdained the glasses, she picked them up. "He's lying quite still," she remarked.

Mother claimed the glasses now. Mabel, feeling nervous and unhappy, went back to her work, her unfailing refuge. In work alone had she found refuge for more than seventeen hard years. Father took down his whip and skelped an innocent dog to ease himself.

"Arthur is there now. The horse is galloping over beyond the creek. It oughtn't to be let go home to startle his mother. Couldn't you go after it, Father?"

Father growled like an old Hereford. No one knew what he said. He did not know himself.

"He still does not move," reported Mother. "Mick and Dora are picking him up and carrying him this way. You ought to go and help them, Father."

"There's nothing the matter with him! I won't have him here if there is. Never shall a Lindsey cross my doorstep and I know it."

"That's all right in its place, but you couldn't turn away from an injured man, if it was the devil. He may be dying. We must get ready."

"Everything is spick and span in the spare room," said Mabel. "I've only got to put the sheets on the bed."

"We'd better remove some of the things."

Mother and Mabel hurried into the house and began to remove surplus furniture from the spare room. Mother in casual tones called for Father's aid in shifting a wardrobe to give better access to the bed. Father rumbled like a Hereford bull but acted as obediently as a trained dog. He was very much master in his own house. Mother never disputed his governance: she upheld it, but managed to be heroine of her own domain.

When the room was ready, they went out to see the progress of the first-aid party. Unskilled in carrying a limp form, the weight was almost too much for Dora. Mabel went to the gates and laid them open.

"Shut those gates," bellowed the Hereford now. "I won't have him here."

Mabel's impulse to relieve Dora was checked, but she left the gates open. Dora and Mick approached slowly step by step with the slender, dark-haired form. It was quite limp, eyes closed, arms dangling. Dirt encrusted the top boots and the smart grey corduroy breeches like tights with the pearl button decoration that so disgusted old Barry. One of the spanking long-necked spurs was twisted.

"Don't bring that blasted son of a viper here!"

"Oh, Mother, do come quick. I think he's dead!" cried Dora, overburdened and distressed, her face flaming with emotion and exertion.

"No Lindsey crosses my doorstep—dead or alive!" It was Father's final gesture.

"That's all right, Father," said Mother diplomatically. "Take him in the side way, Mick."

"Mother, is he really dead?" demanded Arthur, gambolling about in the intoxication of the biggest adventure that had come to Bandicoot in his day. "He just looks like he always does, only his eyes are closed."

Welcoming diversion, Barry turned fiercely upon the boy. "You get away out of here or I'll skelp the pants off you."

"Gently, gently! Don't hurt him—oh, don't hurt him!" exclaimed Dora, as they were lowering the injured man on to the bed.

"Is that what people look like when they're dead? It's just like w'en they are alive," said Arthur, the threat not having penetrated his absorption.

"If you don't go at once and hoe those potatoes, mark my words, I'll, I'll..."

"Yes. Get away, boy. Go after his horse and don't let it get to Chesham to frighten Mrs. Lindsey. That's something for you to do."

"Yes, go at once," supplemented Father.

"Orl right. But if he's really dead, can I see him?" Mother and Mabel undid Ross's collar. Mick pulled off his boots. The work of first aid went ahead.

"He can't be dead. He doesn't feel dead, Mother," cried Dora, unnerved by this near approach of death to one but lately as vigorous as herself. "Don't let him die! I couldn't bear to see him dead like an old person."

"He's not dead!" reported Mother. "I expect it's concussion like young Turpey when he was pitched on his head and never spoke for three weeks. We must have the doctor at once."

"Let me go for him. I ride lighter than anyone here."

"There's no need for that. We can telephone from Turpeys'. At a time like this a telephone would be very useful in the house."

"I better git a horse saddled," said Mick.

"Yes. Mr. and Mrs. Lindsey must know at once. Father, will you see about that?"

The Hereford emitted one last bellow of protest to vindicate his prestige. "I'll do nothing," he said and followed it by a dramatic pause. "But go you, Mick Bell, take old Challenger. Don't girth him too tight, and ease him up the pinches. He's fat and rising ten but there's not another to match him within a hundred miles. I bred him meself, that's why! As for that Lindsey dunky tumbling on its nose and killing a man..."

Concertina enjoyably awaited the completion of the sentence. He knew the old man. He needed someone to see his dexterous and expressive wink. It was wasted on the masses of grape-like blossoms of the wistaria filling the sunset hour with ecstasy.

"Oh, Mother, I think his eyelids moved. He's not dead!" cried Dora. "Oh, Daddy!" she turned to her father, nervously excited and burst into sobs in his beard.

"He's not dead," said Mabel, halting in her work with sponge and basin. She too was nervously disturbed but rigidly suppressed. She left the room, turning at the door to remark: "He's not dead! It's to be hoped the day won't come when you'll wish he had been."

"There! There! There!" comforted Father, the last vestige of Hereford prestige relinquished by an affectionate and over-indulgent parent, a man moved by feminine tears. "There! There! He's all right with your mother."

"He can't help being a Lindsey, Daddy," said Dora, youthfully sentimental. "He hasn't a good father like you." Mick winked again communicatively. It was again lost on the wistaria, as his smile was drowned in his bushy beard.

"Go you Mick Bell to Turpeys' and get them to telephone for the doctor immediately. And telephone Lindsey's to come here. They'll be welcome. Tell them Ross can't be moved till the doctor sees him. Say it just as I tell you."

Mick hurried away with his commission. No old Mother Turpey's for him, when it was only three miles farther to Chesham Park, where the Lindseys could do their own telephoning, and Mick, hungry for events, could witness a much fuller and more stylish comedy.

"Oh, Daddy! I knew you'd think differently," exclaimed Dora triumphantly, as Mick disappeared.

"I don't think a jot different," maintained the old man. "Nothing is altered. A scoundrel is a scoundrel, and I never saw a worse one than that young man's father; but a neighbour is a neighbour, and no matter what the other fellow does, never yet have I, William Barry of Bandicoot, been a bad neighbour, so help me God!"