CHAPTER III
The sun was glinting in the tree-tops. A flock of yellow-crested cockatoos awoke the echoes with their chatter. Magpies scattered the dewdrops in the grass, and sang love songs to their mates. Bell-birds rang their morning chimes, and the whip-bird cracked its lash, as Alec rode up the hill with bent head and heavy heart. What a contrast to yesterday evening, when he had ridden down with the air of a conqueror! Now he was going up vanquished. Life is all ups and downs. To make the simile correct he ought to have been going down hill, but the physical map is not laid out always according to the fitness of things.
His horse had a weary climb to the top of the hill, grunting and groaning at every step, while his rider sighed like a north wind on a sultry day. At last the highest point on the track was reached, and the horse stood still to rest, as he gave a snort of satisfaction because the worst part of the road was over, and Glengo, with its cool stream and juicy grass, lay at the foot of the hill.
Alec turned round to take a last look at Borombyee homestead, but he could only see the top of the chimneys.
"Appropriate," he said; "all ended in smoke. Good-bye, Elsie. I shall never see you again."
He took off his hat, and let the breeze, which rustled up from the south, ripple through his hair. The cool air was refreshing, and he felt better. He wouldn't think of his troubles, but let them blow off and be carried away for ever. He felt soothed for a minute or two; but they would come back to roost, and brood, and hatch, in spite of all he could do.
"Confound Bond!"
He had just got the words out, when a snake glided across the track and caused his horse to shy. Alec made a savage cut with his stock-whip at the reptile, and left it writhing in the dust with a broken back.
"Wish it were Bond!" he said.
He dug his spur into the horse, and went cantering down the hill, with a flush on his face; for he was ashamed of his evil thoughts, and repented of his violence to the horse.
"Poor fellow, poor fellow!" he said, patting the beast's neck, "I am sorry."
He felt better now. The fit was going off. He hoped for the best, and trusted time would cure him of the distemper. If only Bond did not cross his path all would be well. He would be as a red rag to a bull, and he would shun him as a mad dog shuns water.
He arrived at Glengo about nine o'clock, glad to be home again. He tried to wear a smiling face, but could not succeed. His mother met him at the door, and threw up her hands.
"Why, Alec! You must have been early afoot. Are they all well at Borombyee? What's amiss that you are home so early? Has pleuro broken out among the cattle, or scab in the sheep, or is the country on fire?"
"They are all well at Borombyee. There is no pleuro, or scab, or fire."
"Thank goodness! I was afraid something had happened." She saw something was amiss—something lurking in his eyes. She guessed her guess, and made a cast with her sweep-net of questions and caught him in the meshes. She knew now; the secret was revealed; it lay in the depth of his eyes. There is not much that can be hid from a mother.
She watched him at breakfast, and kept the conversation going to cover his retreat within himself. He ate little, and said less. His father, good, easy man, listened to his wife's talk, which rippled and flowed like a brook in the sun. He had the gift of silence, like many bushmen who have been much alone—who have communed with the great mountains, the wide-spread plains, the quiet clouds, and the silent stars.
"I can't get a word in edgeways," he said, laughing.
"You've got one in flat, at last," she said, "but it will be a long time before you can coin another;" and she rattled on with her bright talk.
After breakfast Alec's father rode to the drafting-yards, where some fat sheep were on the point of starting for the Melbourne market. Alec strolled down the creek on pretence of going to the killing-yard. He wanted to be alone. He would fill up the day somehow, by "topping up" a fence here, by straining a wire there, and by straightening a post anywhere.
He did not go home to luncheon; he was not hungry. The longer he kept from the search-light eyes of his mother the better it was for him. In the dusk, or lamplight, he would be all right. He could run in under the battery with lights out and masked fires.
At dinner he was more at ease. His mother did not appear to watch him, excepting in the most casual way. His father told him, in the briefest, jerkiest sentences, that he had drafted a flock of sheep for Melbourne, picked out four lame ones, skinned one that was smothered in the yard, and spliced a broken leg.
When Alec had gone to bed his mother had a long talk with her husband. She hinted that their son was not looking well. She thought the hard work of shearing-time had been too much for him, and that he required a change.
"Hoots! do I ever get a change, or need one? No. Alec's all right; right's a trivet. If a man thinks he wants a change, make him work. If he wants more change, give him more work. If he wants a spell after that, more work still. Work never killed a man. Work while it's day is scripture an' sense."
"Yes, John; but all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy!"
"I say, all play and no work makes Jack as bad as a Turk!"
"Oh, John, you are the sweetest and best boy in the world, and the best worker; but every one is not like you. Besides, you know, you have had several changes. You went to Melbourne just before the fat sheep were sold. You went after shearing to see your agents, and Alec has not been in sight of the sea for years."
"Well, wife, you are about right, or as near's may be." Here he relapsed into silence. "I was just thinking," he resumed, "that Alec might get a bit o' a holiday, and do some business as well."
"Yes, John."
"What say ye to him goin' to Melbourne to see the flock o' fats sold at the Flemington Yards?"
"That is a very wise suggestion, John."
"It will do the laddie good; he's sharp enough. There's a lot of hanky-panky about horse dealers an' sheep buyers, I can tell ye. I wouldna trust a wheen butchers an' buyers. They hae what they ca' a 'knock-out' among themsel's—that's lettin' each other buy at their ain price, an' robbin' the seller."
"A good idea, John! It will give Alec some experience and insight into business. Also, you might give him some messages to the agents. The interest they charge you is too high. Ten per cent. is rather steep, as you say, sometimes. He might get money cheaper."
"A grand idea, wife! You've hit the right nail on the head a clapper."
"You might give Alec a letter to your friend the Hon. James McClure. He is a good man, and a leading light in the Kirk. I would not wonder but he would let you have the money at eight per cent."
Mr. Keryle spoke to his son next morning, and told him what he wished him to do in Melbourne. Alec jumped at the idea. It just suited him exactly. He only wanted a decent excuse to go away for a time. Besides, the visit to Melbourne would make Elsie believe that this was the cause of his hurried departure from Borombyee.
This unexpected turn of affairs put Alec in better spirits. The wheel of fortune favoured him. He was more like himself to-day. In a day or two he would turn his back on the country, which reminded him of Elsie, and lead a new life, not thinking of her any more.