It was a seat she rarely enough occupied. But then the parlour of her frame home had no appeal for her. She somehow felt she belonged to other spheres, to another life than that to which the adventurous genius of her daughter Claire had so suddenly elevated her. Still, she did her best staunchly enough for all there were times when she wondered, times when she had been almost terrified at the thought of the crash in their fortunes which must inevitably come. But perhaps the greatest strain of all was her thought for Claire herself, her dread for her moral undoing. Hers was the mother’s lot when the reins pass from her hands, and advancing years bring the slow decay of her authority.
Her black silk gown left her feeling wholly self-conscious. Never in her hard-lived life had she possessed anything quite so splendid. And somehow the rustle of it was pleasant to her simple mind, and she hoped fervently that a prolonged sitting would not completely “muss” it. A silk workbag was beside her on the couch, and her hard-worn hands were busily plying knitting-needles whose homely click afforded her no small measure of encouragement.
Len Stern was talking from a highly polished chair opposite her. He had been talking for some time, and seemed to be addressing her particularly. The play of his dark eyes was vividly expressive of the thrilling details of the long story he had had to tell to the mother of his dead friend, while the two others in the room seemed, for the time being, to have no claim upon him.
Ivor McLagan was standing at a window with his back turned, labouring under a feeling that his presence was something of an intrusion upon that which should have been sacred to the bereaved mother. But he knew he must be there for clear and definite reasons, and so he persisted. Claire was near to him. There could be no question of her greed for the story she was listening to. Her blue eyes were wide with almost painful interest. Her hands, those slender hands which were the admiration of all at the Speedway, were tightly clasped in her lap. She was leaning forward eagerly, and hanging intently upon every word the man uttered.
Len Stern had told all the story of the gold discovery, and of the drear life of that fever-ridden coast. He had told of his desperate journey to secure a man and a ship to serve their purpose. He had told of the great day when the shipment was made, and he bade farewell to the loyal creature, who was thrilling with the thought of all that their wealth would mean to his women-folk at home, and had reached the point of his narrative where he was standing on the beach watching the breaking out of the vessel’s sails as she put to sea.
“It was a great day, ma’am,” he said, with a smile that was deeply reminiscent. “You just can’t think the greatness of it. That boy, he was good grit. Gold? Yes, he wanted that gold, his share. But it was only for the folks at home. The mother and the sister he’d left behind. His whole thought, ma’am, all the time was for you.”
The mother sniffed violently, and a work-worn hand brushed aside a tear that blurred the stitches of her knitting. The next moment the click of her needles came more rapidly.
“I got back to work—alone,” Len went on. Then he drew a deep sigh which ended in an expletive. “Gee! How I worked.” He laughed. “It’s queer how hard a boy can work when he’s alone, an’ trying to keep from going crazy. That’s how it was with me. Why, I must have got out an’ washed a million dollars of stuff before it happened. Gold? Why, the whole of that river bed was gold from end to end. There’s the gold of the world there, an’ one day some bunch’ll get around and clear out the fever, and just snow the world’s market right under with the stuff. But it wasn’t for me—or Jim. That fever hit me within two weeks of Jim’s quitting. It came slow, it made me sick, and I was wise to it. You see, the Chink had told us. Well, it didn’t take me two jumps to reckon the thing I must do. I knew I must get out right away. I must beat it in that shell of a smack of ours down the coast to Perth, the same as I’d done before. I’d just have to get there and wait around for Jim to get back. It was a big chance, I was getting sicker every hour. But I had to take it. So I loaded all the dust I could take, cached the rest, stowed my kit, and—drove out to sea.”
He drew a deep breath as the memory of things stirred him. McLagan had turned regarding him. Even Claire, who had sat almost immovable, stirred restlessly. Then he went on to the accompaniment of the click of the mother’s needles.
“Maybe it saved me. I don’t know. Y’see, the sea air’s clean, and likely it helped. Anyway I was full of fever and pains, and wanted to lie around all the while, but I didn’t. I had to make the course I knew, and the will of it all drove me. I can’t reckon even now how long it was, or how I ever reached Perth right. But I reached it in the end after storm, and calm, and sickness. But I’d lost a big bunch of my stuff. You see, I had to fight myself as well as the weather. I was swamped out and nearly plumb wrecked a dozen times. When I did get in I was nigher dead than alive, and they set me right into hospital.