‘Good-bye, Mrs Baker,’ he said, holding on to her hand. ‘And don’t you fret. You’ve—you’ve got the children yet. It’s—it’s all for the best; and, besides, the Boss said you wasn’t to fret.’ And he blundered out after me and Miss Standish.
She came out to the gate with us, and Andy gave her the packet.
‘I want you to give that to her,’ he said; ‘it’s his letters and papers. I hadn’t the heart to give it to her, somehow.’
‘Tell me, Mr M’Culloch,’ she said. ‘You’ve kept something back—you haven’t told her the truth. It would be better and safer for me to know. Was it an accident—or the drink?’
‘It was the drink,’ said Andy. ‘I was going to tell you—I thought it would be best to tell you. I had made up my mind to do it, but, somehow, I couldn’t have done it if you hadn’t asked me.’
‘Tell me all,’ she said. ‘It would be better for me to know.’
‘Come a little farther away from the house,’ said Andy. She came along the fence a piece with us, and Andy told her as much of the truth as he could.
‘I’ll hurry her off to Sydney,’ she said. ‘We can get away this week as well as next.’ Then she stood for a minute before us, breathing quickly, her hands behind her back and her eyes shining in the moonlight. She looked splendid.
‘I want to thank you for her sake,’ she said quickly. ‘You are good men! I like the Bushmen! They are grand men—they are noble! I’ll probably never see either of you again, so it doesn’t matter,’ and she put her white hand on Andy’s shoulder and kissed him fair and square on the mouth. ‘And you, too!’ she said to me. I was taller than Andy, and had to stoop. ‘Good-bye!’ she said, and ran to the gate and in, waving her hand to us. We lifted our hats again and turned down the road.
I don’t think it did either of us any harm.