Gripped By Drought Page 6

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  From the hall voices drifted to Ethel Mayne and Old John. They became louder as their owners neared the drawing-room door. She recognized her husband’s voice, and heard also a strange voice that was musical and vibrant with strength–a voice that had a pleasant sound in her ears. The door was opened, and there stepped into the room a man she had not before seen. She noted how his eyes widened when they stared straight into hers. The light of the room softened with colour. Her husband said:

  “Ethel, meet Mr. Alldyce Cameron.”

  At pause just within the doorway stood a man six feet tall, with broad shoulders, slim hips, well-proportioned legs, and small feet. His evening clothes, of the latest fashion, fitted and became him to perfection. His square, clean-shaven face was tanned to the colour of mahogany, a colour that brought the brilliant blueness of his eyes into startling relief. Now the eyes were wide open. They bored into those of Ethel Mayne, speeding to her across the breadth of the room open, undisguised admiration. Her gaze was held–it seemed throughout an eternity–by the gaze of this stranger, so that but dimly conscious was she of his dark, wavy brown hair, and the flashing white of perfect teeth revealed between parted lips. Almost as a bird fascinated by a snake, she watched him cross the room to her, accompanied by her husband.

  “I am delighted to make your acquaintance, Mr. Cameron,” she found herself repeating parrot-wise.

  “My wife, Cameron,” put in Mayne, realizing that the introduction was not complete.

  “To meet you, Mrs. Mayne, marks a milestone in the life of any bushman,” Cameron said, his voice low and richly vibrant–the attractive voice she had heard coming from the hall.

  “As there are so few ladies in the district,” Cameron went on,

  “your coming is to be regarded as a most important event. I trust that you never will be disappointed in us.”

  There was slight emphasis on the last word. Ethel found herself mentally striving to prevent her gaze wandering about, his face, and to make her now semi-veiled eyes look directly into his. And then abruptly her habitual self-possession returned.

  “I am sure I will not, Mr. Cameron. Sir John, and now you, are both very kind in welcoming me to the bush. In a way, I feel like an interloper in this big, open-air world of yours.”

  “Rest assured, madam. You are one of us,” boomed Old John, also emphasizing the word “us”.

  “Ah! Evening, Sir John!” Alldyce Cameron, turning a little, smiled. “Thank you for seconding me. As an amendment, may I be permitted to point out that Atlas, now having gained a mistress, will be pre-eminent among the stations of the Western Division of New South Wales?”

  “Among the stations of the Continent, sir.”

  “Agreed! I stand reproved. Mrs. Mayne, tell me, do you not think Atlas a wonderful place?”

  Alldyce Cameron again was smiling on her, and at the back of her brain an imp whispered: “Look at his mouth–look at his mouth!”

  For the fraction of a second she did look at the firm, parted lips and at the smooth, chiselled chin. She said lightly:

  “The most wonderful place in the world. So far I haven’t been beyond the homestead boundaries, but Frank promises to take me out when lamb-marking starts. I went––”

  Tiny hands tugged at the hem of her gown, and the group, which had entirely forgotten the child, followed her gaze to see him pulling himself to his feet. His frail weight temporarily threatened to affect the fall of her dress, and, frowning, she stooped to put the boy from her. Then large, white, blue-veined hands swept into the arc of her vision, snatching the boy away; and, when she stood up, she saw him held by Old John.

  “You little rascal!” the old man exclaimed with laughter in his voice.

  “Coo! Daddy! Mine daddy!”

  Little Frankie began to struggle toward Mayne.

  “My! What a fine boy! How old is he?” Cameron demanded.

  “Just over eleven months. He walked for the first time this evening.”

  Cameron’s eyebrows lifted just a fraction. It was Old John who gave the information when he passed the energetic child to his father.

  Ethel, who saw the faint indication of surprise, felt annoyed, for did not Sir John take matters too much for granted?

  4

  Again the door was thrown open. Into the room came a vision in pale yellow, followed by the immaculate Feng, whose lid-shrouded eyes swept over the group about Ethel Mayne.

  “Hallo, Frank! Why, you haven’t altered a wee bit, in spite of all your travels. Later on, you must whisper to me the secret of youth. Welcome home, and all that!”

  “Neither have you altered, Ann’“ Mayne said, whilst holding her hands. “There is no need for me to impart to you the secret, because you have it too. Allow me to present to you my wife. Ethel, this is a friend of long standing, Ann Shelley, of Tin Tin.”

  Ethel found herself rapidly examined by dark-grey eyes, widely spaced and steady. In this fraction of time she knew she was being judged, and decided that she did not like Ann Shelley. The woman was familiar, and she detested familiar people.

  “Ever since I heard that old Frank was bringing home a wife I have been wildly curious about you,” Ann said, smiling but cool. “I have been guessing your colouring, and I’ve guessed right. I knew Frank would choose a brunette. Welcome to Atlas, Ethel! You will let me call you Ethel? And you will call me Ann, won’t you?”

  “I think we shall be friends–Ann. As neighbours we must be, must we not?”

  Again Old John noted the peculiarly precise enunciation. It was as though Ethel Mayne wished to show herself superior to the Australian bush girl. And then Ann Shelley saw Little Frankie, again on the floor where Mayne had put him on her arrival. “Oh!”

  For an appreciable space of time she stared down on the sturdy figure and at the upturned cherubic face in which wide blue eyes looked upward with baby directness. Feng’s eyes blinked. He knew what Ann Shelley was thinking and feeling now that she gazed on Mayne’s child.

  “Oh, you darling!” she cried, and fell on her knees before the boy, regardless of dress. “Why, you are a miniature angel!” Her hands flashed to the bosom of her blouse and produced a silver whistle shaped like a bird. A tiny ring was attached, and through the ring was run a narrow ribbon of gold silk. Gently Ann Shelley blew on the whistle, and hearing the liquid, throbbing note the boy left the supporting chair and with a short rush staggered into her arms. With one slightly trembling arm round the little boy, Ann Shelley taught Mayne’s son how to blow the whistle. Feng turned to Old John.

  “Children are much like puppies and chickens,” he said softly. “So very interesting whilst they remain young.”

  “They are, Feng, they are! They are interesting, too, when they approach man’s estate, for then their characters are forming.”

  “You will soon have to pick him out a pony’“ Cameron said laughing.

  A faint trilling announced Little Frankie’s first successful effort. Then there came a more sustained result, followed by delighted, gurgling laughter. The whistle occupied the baby’s mind to the exclusion of everything else, and Ann Shelley rose to her feet. Feng saw how her eyes were shining.

  “He’s the loveliest child I’ve ever seen,” she said. “Aunty Joe must be wild about him.” Her eyes were passing from one to another while she spoke, and she was quick to see the haughty gleam in Ethel’s dark eyes, and the troubled look in those of her husband. Old John went on talking with Feng, and Feng knew Old John talked with reason. Ethel said:

  “The aboriginal woman is not to be my child’s nurse. I cannot bear black people anywhere near me. They make me shiver, and I shall not feel comfortable until Frank has moved them on. I have a young girl coming up from Wentworth on the mail to-night.”

  “Ah well! We cannot help our antipathies. I have a horror of snakes. I hope you will get over your antipathy towards Aunty Joe, because she is a dear old soul. She was Frank’s nurse, you know.”

  “Yes. But I will not have
her, or any other black person, near me.”

  5

  A gong of Burmese brass sent forth its deep note. Mayne offered his arm to Ann Shelley. Cameron stepped forward to Ethel Mayne, but Old John was before him, bowing with courtly grace. She smiled up into his fine old face, yet was conscious of a feeling of disappointment. Whilst crossing the hall to the dining-room Ann Shelley noticed the tall, black-gowned figure of Mrs. Morton, the housekeeper, standing near the drawn curtains at the entrance to the covered way leading to the kitchen. Mrs. Morton now was relegated to the background. In former days, when Feng ruled Atlas, Mrs. Morton was treated as an equal.

  The dining-room was plainly furnished, more indicative of the owner’s character than was the drawing-room. The electric chandelier shed subdued yellow light on the napery and the silver and glass of a perfectly appointed table. Dark yellow velvet curtains masked the three pairs of french windows. An expensive Chinese carpet covered the floor. Above the high, wide mantle of one fireplace hung a coloured photographic enlargement of Old Man Mayne, and above the other a similar likeness of the late Mrs. Mayne. There were several oil paintings by Feng Ching-wei of pastoral subjects, and a spirited portrait of Pride of Atlas, the famous race-winning filly of the!912-13 season.

  Ann’s dress of rich yellow, Ethel’s of unrelieved black, and the men’s faultless evening clothes–all, without doubt, were repeated at hundreds of tables in London, Paris, and New York; but outside this warm, silent, and peaceful house lay stretched the vast slumbering bush, the bush with its body of beauty, its voice of music, and its soul of calm indifference to man and his efforts to subjugate it.

  Old English service custom was maintained, governed by convenience. The Atlas domestic staff was extremely good for a bush homestead, made possible only by high wages; yet Ethel Mayne was dissatisfied by the absence of a butler, the services of whom she determined to secure at all costs. At the head of the table Frank Mayne filled the soup plates that were set before the diners by the maid, Eva, the sweetheart of Tom Mace, the rabbiter. After the soup the host served cutlets of Darling cod, and later carved the roast mutton; dishes of potatoes, tinned peas, and asparagus being offered each guest in turn. It was not as Ethel Mayne would have liked it. Cameron guessed that.

  “Doubtless you find our bush ways unfamiliar, Mrs. Mayne,” he said, his gleaming eyes resting on her snow-white shoulders before rising to meet her own. “I trust that you will not become homesick for the slick service of hotel and restaurant. For myself, I prefer the more direct and personal service found in the Australian bush. Do you not think, Sir John, that when a host himself serves his guests it proclaims a warmer personal interest in them?”

  “Assuredly. The modem fashion places a host outside the link that joins his guests to his chef,” Old John agreed.

  “I have no sympathy with modern methods of service, or of governing an estate. In my time, when at home, I knew personally each of my tenants, the names of every child on the estate. Yes, and the names of their dolls and dogs. Nowadays a landlord leaves everything to his agent–he is too busy combating Socialism to look after the everyday welfare of his people.”

  “Changes which have come to the English countryside have also occurred here,” interjected Mayne. “Save for Atlas and Tin Tin, and three other stations, all, or nearly all, our present properties are governed through managers by boards of directors living in the luxury of a city and knowing little of the employee who produces the dividends. I know three managers who control absolutely the properties owned by individuals in Great Britain, but the others are merely mouthpieces. The unfortunate result is that there is everlasting niggling warfare between city employer and bush employee. Tin Tin and Atlas and those stations governed by real managers seldom suffer labour trouble, but the city director-controlled manager almost always has trouble, especially at shearing time, because he cannot–even if willing–act without his far-distant directors’ consent. It is a great pity the old-time squatter no longer exists.”

  “Well, this is a land of strikes, isn’t it?” cooed Ethel.

  “Not more so than any other country, I believe’“ Mayne replied. “Unfortunately for Australia, overseas newspaper editors appear to think that Australia can offer no subject of interest but a strike.”

  “Still, there are always strikes in Australia,” his wife persisted.

  “They call this country a Working-man’s Paradise, and I suppose it is thought that decent people should not live out here. The root of the trouble is that the upper classes here have permitted the working-man too much liberty. England is quickly going the same way. Presently we shall be expected to eat with our workers. Papa often says that he hopes there is not Socialism in heaven.”

  Old John’s sudden laughter, booming through the room, cut off the hint of bitterness. Chuckling, he said:

  “Then the Dean has not altered much since he was a boy, my dear Mrs. Mayne. He was always a theologian, even at school. I remember him expressing to me the same hope, adding: “If there is Socialism in heaven and a properly constituted monarchy in the other place, I may decide against heaven!”

  “Perhaps I, too, will make the same decision,” Ethel said more lightly. “What will you do, Mr. Cameron?”

  “Start a counter-revolution in heaven, dear lady.”

  “You may not be eligible,” Old John suggested dryly.

  “In that case I should start a general strike in the other place. I believe that any untroubled political system produces national degeneration.”

  “I do not agree with you, Mr. Cameron,” countered Ann. “Agitators ought to be killed off. If you and I should arrive at the same place, I shall certainly recommend your extinction.”

  “Ah! Then it is certain that–er–hell will finally receive me; because, arriving at the gates of heaven, I shall have to ask St. Peter if he has admitted you, and, learning that he has, it would not be wise for me to accept his invitation to enter. Of course, Miss Shelley, St.Peter might say that he had directed you elsewhere.”

  “Knowing you, Mr. Cameron, St. Peter would say to you: ‘Be pleased to step right in.’ And when you were safetly in, St. Peter would say to himself: ‘Now, Mr. Cameron, look out for Ann Shelley, who most certainly will keep an eye on your political manrœuvres.’”

  “Quite logical–as always, Ann’“ murmured Feng.

  The conversation veered to horse-racing, as it had to in this Australian home; but the subject was quickly dropped when it was seen to bore the hostess. It was Alldyce Cameron who first sensed that Ethel Mayne knew nothing of horses, and wished to continue to know nothing.

  “Have you subscribed to a library yet, Mrs. Mayne?” he inquired; and, receiving a negative answer, proceeded to argue the advantages of several in Adelaide and Sydney.

  “But can we obtain the books we want?”

  “Well, not always, unless one keeps to the best-sellers. There is nothing here to equal Mudie’s, you know. Still, the range of books is fairly large, and the postal service quite satisfactory.” “I must see about it,” Ethel concluded. “I shall so miss Mudie’s.

  Already I am feeling an exile, for it does seem so strange not having seen a Tatler, or a Graphic, for weeks.”

  “I shall be pleased to send along the Tatler. It comes to me every mail, posted by Lord Henry Lowther, whom I met during the War years:’

  “Were you in the Army?”

  “Oh yes! I had the honour to command a battalion.”

  “Did you?”

  And Alldyce Cameron found himself surveyed with fresh interest.

  The dinner proceeded to its destined end, and, after a quick glance at her husband, who nodded, Ethel addressed the company with what was really a short speech.

  “Having become an Australian by adoption,” she said gaily, I am going to suggest that Ann and I be permitted to drink our coffee with you gentlemen at this table. Do you not think, Ann, that that would be properly democratic? I do. While the men smoke their cigars, we will smoke a cigarette
and lounge in our chairs, and listen patiently to the masculine gossip.”

  “A great idea, Mrs. Mayne! Thank heaven that you, too, are a rebel against society’s conventions.” Turning directly to Ann, Cameron continued: “Surely you agree, Miss Shelley, that the custom of the ladies retiring while we men smoke and gossip is really prehistoric?”

  “It may be, Mr. Cameron. Thank you, Ethel, for your suggestion. If I cannot have my cigarette immediately after a meal, I become very nervy. I am afraid I am such an ordinary home-bird that real society would bore me to death.”

  Ann Shelley was the first to leave that evening, but before Feng escorted her to the powerful single-seater car she insisted on paying a visit to the sleeping Little Frankie. She shook hands with the mistress of Atlas, and nodded a laughing farewell to Mayne. Feng held open the door of the car for her, and tucked the rich fox-skin rug about her whilst she drew on her driving gloves. A black boy climbed into the open dicky. He was her gate-opener.

  “You are going to have a cold drive, Ann,” Feng told her, noting the steam of their breath in the reflection made by the brilliant headlights.

  “Nevertheless it is going to be lovely, Feng, old thing. What has become of Aunty Joe?”

  “She is camped with King Bill’s crowd at White Gate Bend.”

  “Then I am going to send for her to come to Tin Tin at once. It–

  it–– Oh, how could Frank have let her go from Atlas?”

  Feng’s voice was soft, yet even. He said:

  “Happy marriages are based on diplomacy, Ann. As time passes, Mrs. Mayne will become less antagonistic to the blacks.”

  “I trust so.” She pressed the starting-button, and the well-tuned engine broke into a hum. There was a catch in her voice when she spoke, leaning outward towards him. “She’s lovely, Feng, isn’t she?

  And the little boy! He–he is–– Good-bye, Feng !”

  The car shot away, leaving Feng Ching-wei gazing after the red tail-light, the pain at his heart stab, stab, stabbing; for Ann Shelley had gone with tears in her voice.