Transcriber's Note:
Obvious typographic errors have been corrected.

PELICAN POOL

PELICAN
POOL

A NOVEL
BY

SYDNEY DE LOGHE

Author of
"The Straits Impregnable"

SYDNEY
ANGUS & ROBERTSON LTD.
1917

Printed by
W. C. Penfold & Co. Ltd., 183 Pitt Street, Sydney
for
Angus & Robertson Ltd.

TO
M. L.
WHO, AT SUCH A PLACE AS SURPRISE, HAS
BORNE THE HEAT AND BURDEN OF THE DAY

CONTENTS

CHAPTER I Where to Find Surprise Valley Camp

Where the equator girdles the earth, the Indian Ocean and the amorous waters of the Pacific have their marriage bed. Afire with the passions of the tropics, excited by breezes from a thousand islands of palm, of spice, of coral, of pearl, jewelled for the ceremony with quick-lived phosphorous lights, the oceans move to each other, and mingle hot kisses under high red suns and fierce white moons. They have begotten many children; and one of these—the Sea of Carpentaria—leans deep into the northern coast of Australia, and wears itself against a thousand miles of barren shore.

As a young girl, dreaming her dreams, spends affection careless of the cost, so these romantic waters woo the stern northern land with warm and tireless embrace. And, as a man, busy on his own affairs, cares nothing for such soft entreaty, so the north land gives no sign; but remarks in silence the passage of the years.

Yet who shall say that passion has no place there—because a giant broods, dreaming a giant's dreams? Who shall say—because long waiting may have brought crabbed age—that the north land has not its sorrows? Morose countenance it keeps, yet freely can it spend. Its pulse beats no feeble strokes. Fierce suns travel across it, the heavens are torn for its rains, its floods laugh at restraint, the drought is slave of its ill-humours.

Its face is rough with frequent ranges where scanty vegetation climbs, where barren rock-faces catch the sunlight, and clefts run in, and shadowy cave-mouths open out. Here the wallaby finds harbourage, the bat hangs himself in the shadows, the python unrolls his coils, and the savage stays a space for shelter.

Its face is smooth with dreary plain. Stunted trees find living there, and hold out narrow leaves to cheat the suns. The spinifex battles with the thrifty soil, and porcupine grass weaves its spikes for the unwary. Score of miles by score of miles the country rolls away, brown or red where shows the bare earth, grey or yellow or smoky blue where the sun weds the dried grassland, shining white where the quartz pushes out of the ground. Through half the hours the sun stares from the centre of the sky, the leaves hang unmoved, the grasses are unstirred: silence only lives. The savage is dreaming of the feast to come, the kangaroo has taken himself to the roots of a tree in the dried water-course. The sun passes to the journey's end: life again draws breath. The kangaroo seeks the tenderer grasses; the dingo rises in his lair to stretch, and loll his tongue; the parrot screams from the tree-top; tiny finches, in splendid coats, swing among the bushes; a brown kite takes high station in the sky. Yet the waste seems empty, and the white ants only may boast of conquest where their red cones rise everywhere about the plain.

A belt of greener timber stands out bravely from the faded vegetation to mark the river on its passage to the sea. To the parching waterholes the pelican comes at dawn to fish and to pout his breast: snowy spoonbills and divers splash in the lonely shallows. The alligator comes up to sun himself; the turtle bubbles from the hot mud; and the quick striped fishes play at hide and seek among the languid weeds. The kingfisher busies himself along the bank, and with evening the ducks push their triangles about the sky.

The conquest of this northern land will bring the fall of one of savagery's last fortresses. Already the outposts of South and East press in. The ramparts are crumbling, and soon the gates must tumble to a victor who never yet has been denied. The white man has turned here his covetous gaze. Vainly the burning winds and angry rains shall beat at the ashes of his first fires and shall scatter his first solitary bones. The silences shall not fright him, nor the lean places turn his purpose. Though he fall, yet will he come on again, for this foe is fashioned of stern stuff. In ones, in twos, already he toils over the face of the wilderness, seeking the kindlier ways for his herds: in ones, in twos, he passes about the hills and watercourses, wresting from their bosoms the objects of his avarice. Alike he invades the sternest and gentlest retreats, raising his shelters to mock at sun and storm. His long fences are breaking the distances, his beasts of burden trample the virgin waterholes, his iron houses defile the hermit vales. Not easily does he work his will. Lean and brown he becomes, and his women grow haggard before their time. But children patter upon the bitter places, and them the wilderness has less power to hurt.

The Sea of Carpentaria woos the north land. The north land gives no sign.

. . . . . . .

The mining camp of Surprise Valley lies in the folds of those ranges which break the long plains of the Gulf country. Ten years ago it grew along the bottom of a cup of the hills, and since that season neither has waxed nor waned, being nothing troubled by the wilderness which marches to the door-ways of its tents and humble iron houses.

The traveller, by circumstance brought thither from the East, with ill grace leaves his steamer at the coast, boards the casual train, and presently finds himself jerking forward on the second stage of the journey. He bumps westward for five hundred miles. He moves through plains which—right and left—push into the horizon. The ocean has not seemed to him more immense. A curtain of heat is about their edges, a haze dwells about them. The clamour of his coming scatters sheep at their grazing, alarms the kangaroo at matins, sends the wild turkey into the taller grasses. For a night, for a day, for half another night, he is held in thrall. He alone appears eager for the journey end. He smokes, he reads, he eats: a dozen ways he sets himself to hurry time. The cool of the evening takes him to the outside platform of the car to reflect and watch the darkening of the skies—to remark the first white stars. At such hour maybe he takes his lot in better part.

Sunrise renews the stale prospect, and the heated air of noon finds him with sticky collar and drowsy brain. He dozes, wakes, dozes again. Ever and anon the brakes grind, and the train jerks to a standstill. From the window he looks upon a siding, where a platform of blistered planks and an iron shed are emblems of railway authority. A dozen stockmen and loafers of the township crowd the patch of shade, to smoke and spit and await the train's advance. First to the eye comes the hotel, beside it lies the store; and haphazard stand the wooden houses, with iron roofs glaring back into the sun's fierce face. Never a church lifts up its cross as of old the tabernacle made signal in the wilderness. A dusty way leads into the plain, and along this presently the stockmen will turn their horses.

The second evening brings the journey-end. From his platform the traveller sees a township's lights grow upon the plain—lights closer and redder than the stars that meet them. The iron rails have ended. Thankfully he gets down to stretch his limbs in the cool, wide night.

But a hundred miles still frown him from the goal. With morning he clambers into a seat of the mail coach—a battered carriage. His luggage has been strapped behind. He sits solitary beside the driver, who accepts him with easy familiarity. The reins run slack to the horses' heads, and the five lean beasts draw him forward at even pace. The dust climbs up and hangs upon the air. All day he rolls over empty plain.

The second afternoon brings the ranges marching from the horizon, and by evening the coach rises and dips upon a see-saw roadway. As the sun leans down to the horizon, the driver draws taut his reins before Surprise Valley Hotel. Surprise Valley ends the coach journey—ends the direct mail service—ends the bush parson's endeavors—ends the travelling school-master's rounds—ends civilization—ends everything. When humour so inclines them—which is seldom—the people of Surprise Valley may walk from their doorways into the great unknown of the West.

Fortune has given to Surprise the greenest fold of the western ranges. Easy hills stand up about the camp, tracing a zig-zag rim against the sky. The camp lies in the hollow, as in the bottom of a cup. It clambers about the lower slopes, following the whim of the latest comer. The hotel boasts a roof and walls of iron, that much boasts the store, that much the manager's house. The staff barracks and the mine offices equally are favoured. Wooden piles lift the buildings high from the ground. Elsewhere stand weather-worn tents; and sometimes a bough shed, thatched with gum-leaves, serves its architect as parlour.

Towering over all rise the poppet-heads and bins of the mine. Goats take a siesta beneath the scrubby trees, explore the rubbish heaps, and clamber about the dump; fowls of more breeds than Joseph's coat knew colours, employ themselves in the dusty places, or keep the shade of the broken rocks. Here and there an optimist nurses a garden, and finds reward in a few drooping vegetables. Goats and fowls peer through the netting with evil in their hearts. This is Surprise Valley to the stranger eye.

Three score burnt men and a handful of shabby women here find living. They dig for the green copper hidden jealously in the bosom of the hills. From distant parts they have drifted, they stay awhile; again they drift; but the camp endures, and the wilderness is powerless to harm it. Forward and backward from the railroad, a hundred miles away, the weekly coach crawls on its journey, keeping open the track to civilization, and bringing such news and comforts as that world has leisure to send. The mail bags disgorge stale papers; the driver delivers stale news. Round and round turns the wheel of affairs. A whistle begins the day for this community: a whistle ends it. Deep in the earth the men labor with hammer and drill. Overhead the women bend at their pots and pans, and peg the weekly washings under cloudless skies. The children, untaught, unchecked, patter among the stones and tussocks, and send abroad their cries. Summer follows winter. The suns climb up; in season the rains roar down; the frost comes in its turn. But the men of Surprise Valley dig always in the bowels of the hills, and the women busy themselves about their doors.

CHAPTER II How They Pass the Evening at Surprise.

The last week of October was ending. At Surprise seven red-hot days had crowded after one another; six breathless nights had brought men and women gasping to their doors. The seventh evening had seen, an hour since, the moon come up, white, round and full, behind the Conical Hill; and with the moon arrived a flagging breeze—not cold, not even cool, but with life left to turn the narrow gum-leaves, to move the tent walls and the hessian blinds on the verandahs of the iron houses. The moon had climbed the hilltop an hour since, and now was some distance in the sky. Falling with a broad white light over the ranges, and no doubt upon the plain beyond, it found a way to the valley holding the stifled camp. It picked out the iron roofs, and discovered the trees, to make of their leaves bunches of silver fingers: it counted the tents straggling down the distance, and on the journey wove many patterns of light and shade. The stones in the bed of the dry creek shone with polished faces. The white ball in the sky numbered the panels of the yard, where the buggy horses—two greys, two bays—stood reflecting on their fate; and it numbered the crinkles in the stable roof.

The breeze had moved several times down the valley, and as often as it passed the people of Surprise turned gratefully in their seats. Mr. Robson, shift-boss, found heart to swear appreciation and light a pipe; Mrs. Boulder, brisk and brawny, reached from her chair to slap the youngest child; and Mr. Horrington, general agent—unappreciated cousin of Sir James Horrington, Bart., of Such-and-such Hall, England—pledged again his lost relatives in whisky and a dash of water. The members of the staff, telling smoking-room stories from their long chairs outside the mess-room, re-settled for something newer and choicer.

Two sounds were repeated, and helped to make the stillness live. They were the stamp of horses near the creek, and the cornet of Mr. Wells, storeman. The cornet player was feeling the way, with poor luck but an honest persistence, through the pitfalls and crooked ways of "The Death of Nelson." He had reached the thirteenth verse. The thirteenth verse was the unlucky verse: unlucky for him, because he broke down, unlucky for his listeners, because he repeated it. The notes fell slowly, uncertainly, mournfully upon the night. As the fourteenth verse began, Mr. Neville, manager of Surprise, swore with feeling.

The old man of Surprise sat in the recess of his verandah, on a full-length wicker chair, both legs at easiest angle, heavy walking stick at hand, a glass at his elbow, a pipe in his clutch. The hessian blinds, nailed to the woodwork, threw the place into gloom, unless crevices let in a beam of the moon. Old Neville sat back in the half-dark, a man of small and tough make, covered from collar to ankles in white duck, with brown, wrinkled face, bristling grey moustache, shaggy white eyebrows, and an aggressive manner. He was seventy; but he was to be reckoned with still. Behind him, two canvas waterbags hung midway from the roof, and the single small table, with the whisky bottle and the box of matches on it, he had taken for himself. He put out bony fingers for the matches.

"Damn that wretched fellow! I'll hunt him off the place to-morrow."

A girl and two men were his company. The girl sat between the men, and the three people leaned back in canvas chairs. The nearest man, who was dressed in riding clothes, was young—no more than thirty-five. He was tall, and of a wiry make, and his skin was tanned. His face was clean shaven, with a trace of temper in it, while he had the manner of one well able to take care of himself. He gave his attention to a pipe. He was known through all that country as James Power of Kaloona Station.

The girl was dressed in white. She was not thirty years old, but the climate had not spared her. She was not tall, she was rather slight, and her face challenged no second glance; but he who looked closely might find thought behind her eyes, and humour in her mouth. The carriage of her head showed courage. Here was a girl with thoughts to think and with dreams to dream. A girl with a stout heart, who would be ready to drink deeply from the cups of joy and sorrow: a mate worth winning. Maud Neville was her name, and Neville of Surprise was her father. Just now, with both hands, she marked the fall of the cornet notes which continued their troubled passage.

The other man smoked a cigar in heavy content. He was growing middle-aged and stout. He breathed with deep breaths, but the sultry night excused him. A dark moustache covered his mouth. His face was filling with flesh; and his eyes were cold though rather wise. Just now he was well pleased with the world. He was John King, accountant of Surprise.

The girl spoke. Her voice was full of lights and shades.

"Don't always be growling at Wells, father. He maddened me once; but I have accepted him long ago. He will learn something else soon. The cornet is new. He got it two or three coaches ago. Mr. King, do you remember the concertina last summer? The heat unstuck it or something. That's why he sent for the cornet. One day I asked him why he was so persistent, and he put his hands on his chest very grandly like this and said—'Miss Neville, it is in here. It must come out.'"

The old man screwed up his face. "He can tell the flies that to-morrow when he takes the track."

King took the cigar from his mouth very deliberately.

"Maybe we listen to more than a poor storeman—a lover, a poet rather. Who can say? A lover whose beloved has wandered afar: a poet born tongueless, whose breast must break with fullness. Then what do our ears matter, while he finds relief?"

Power laughed. "You're an amusing idiot, King." But the old man snorted.

"I've something else to even up with besides that trumpet. Every man jack on the place is doing what he likes with the water tanks these last two months. They're three part done. There'll be a drought here 'fore the rains come, sure as I sit here, there will. I believe half the women wash their brats in it. They've got the devil's impidence. I watched Wells to-day carry half-a-dozen kerosene tins for Mrs. Simpson and Mrs. Boulder. I'd have seen he knew about it, if I'd been nearer. I'll fix the lot of 'em up yet. I'll settle them quick."

"You'll have to ration them," Power said.

"Ration them! I'll ration them till their tongues hang out. They can go to the pub for a drink."

A chair creaked in the dark, grunts followed the creak, and Neville got to his feet. He steadied himself with his stick, and started towards the door into the house. On the threshold he paused and looked round.

"Ye know Gregory, the gouger from Mount Milton way? He was in at the store this afternoon. Says he's struck a first class copper show on the river. He was blowing hard about it there, and had specimens with him. He was after gettin' a lot of tucker on account; but I settled that. I may be wrong, huh, huh! but I reckon he wasn't long from the pub."

"Where's his show?" King asked.

"On Pelican Pool. He'll get drowned when the rains come."

"He can have only just struck it. Nobody was on the hole a fortnight back," Power answered.

"Is the show any good?" asked King.

"Bah! Of course not."

"How do you know?" Maud cried.

"Of course it'll be no good."

"You don't know anything about it."

King put his cigar in his mouth, and it grew red in the dark. He took it away again. "Isn't Gregory the fellow with the pretty daughter?"

The old man began to chuckle. "Huh, huh! I've heard more talk of Gregory's daughter these last two weeks than of his copper show. If the show is as good as the gal, his fortune is made. She's a fetching little hussy." He wagged his head.

"You've seen her?" questioned Power.

"Three days back. I was down in the buggy looking at the pipe line. I told Maud about her. She's something in King's way. I hear he never misses anything."

King shrugged his shoulders. "My name gone, you may send me along the pipe line as soon as you like."

"Ye'll have to look sharp. Half the fellers on the lease know about her." The old man chuckled himself into the house.

"I want to see her," Maud cried. "Her fame has gone all over these parts. They say she turned everyone's head Mount Milton way. Why are you so behindhand, Mr. King?"

"She has only been once to the store, and ill-luck kept me wrestling with accounts. Afterwards I heard she had passed through like some Royal Presence, moving so greatly every man under fifty that he gave up work for the afternoon."

"And," said Power, "my Mrs. Elliott's story is that Mick O'Neill, our head man, has lost his head over her."

King bowed reverently in the dark. "She must be wonderful—a poem of golden words, a melody of diamond notes. She must be fit to rank with those dead women generations of men have sung about. The Helen of Homer: Deirdre, princess of Ulster, whom four kings fought over, and for love of whom three brothers slew themselves: Poppæa, mistress of Nero, for whose bath five hundred asses let down their milk: a Ninon de l'Enclos, who rode abroad on early autumn mornings, while the poor brutal peasants covered themselves, believing an angel passed by. When I go down the pipe line, I shall take my fly-veil with me that my sight may not be destroyed."

"You may meet me there, with or without a veil," said Power.

"Don't count yet on going, Mr.-my-friend-Power," Maud Neville said. "I must look myself first."

"And now," said King, leaning heavily forward in his chair which creaked out loud, "I think it becomes me to salute such loveliness." He stretched a hand for the whisky and poured out a noble peg.

A bellow came from inside. "Power!"

"Hullo!"

"I want ye!"

Power got up. "I'll see what is wanted. But first our pledge."

The steps of Power died away, and King and Maud Neville were left alone. Nelson had died at last, and now the cornet asked, "Alice, where art thou?" One or two crickets beneath the house accompanied it. Presently King must have moved his chair, because there was a sudden creak.

"I am going to write a treatise on love to aid the beginner."

"How many volumes?"

King shook his head. "You mock me. You think because my heart is widely proportioned, and because there are several little dead affairs stacked neatly on upper shelves, that each of those visitors cost nothing to admit, and that now one cannot be told from another. You are mistaken." Again he shook his head. "Each of those visitors left its footprints on the threshold, and memory can still find them in the dustiest, most forgotten corners. No, hide your smiles."

"Go on, you stupid, I love listening to you."

"Love comes always in the same way, whether it be the great affair that tramples ruthless and leaves us crushed on the road, or whether it arrives with hammer and chisel, playfully to knock off a corner of the heart. For love flows forward in a ripple of waters over which pass sweetest breezes. So slowly it moves, so gently it rises, that one is lost ere the danger be discovered. In the first sprays that dash the drowner's mouth lie its best, its purest."

"And after?"

"Alas! the tide brings refreshment with it, and lovers wake hungry, and what had seemed two shafts from heaven become a woman's eyes. And so the descent to earth is trod again in steps of kisses." He held out his arm. "Look at the moon slung there, a great silver platter! How many thousands of us have cried out for it? Yet it is only a barren mountain region, scarred and ugly. But we never learn this, because we do not draw near. Love is a mirage. Love is the dancing of the marsh lights. Therefore pursue, but do not draw near. For once you touch the shining thing its glamour shall depart, and as the millstone of satiation it shall hang about your neck."

"But I understand you never practise your preaching."

"I am too eager in pursuit. I blunder on the shining thing, and then—" He shrugged his shoulders with infinite regret.

Maud Neville joined her hands behind her head. She frowned the least little bit. She spoke in a hurry.

"No, that's not love. That's anything you like; but it isn't love. Love is quite a different thing. Listen to me. Love is the eye that takes no sleep, the foot that knows no stony road, the heart that bleeds and feels no wound, the brain that always understands."

"I see," King said.

A second time they had nothing to say. As they sat thus, the breeze journeyed again down the valley. It stirred the hessian blinds against the fly-proof netting. It came through the open doorway at the verandah end, and moved the water-bags behind Neville's empty chair. The two opened their arms to it. It must have brought charity to the heart of Mr. Wells, for he packed up his cornet for the night: and it may have touched King's tongue with eloquence. Soon it had gone by. But King got up and walked to the doorway to throw away his dead cigar. He stood there some while looking over the country, and the moonbeams revealed him a stout man, past first youth. Maud Neville fell to examining him. Now the cornet no more made plaint, complete silence waited on the night. Something moved her to break the spell.

"How still it is," she said. "How empty!"

The man at the doorway did not turn round; but he looked out into the open as though proving her words. "Still?" he said. His tongue strings were loosened. "Empty?" He pointed his hand. "Up there, this way, that way, hear the roar of worlds rolling through the crowded ways of space. Hear the bellowings of the furnaces, the shrieks of passage, the crash of collision! Worlds are growing fiery there, worlds are growing cold. Worlds are dying there. Worlds are finding new birth. The Angel of Life and his assistant the Angel of Death take no rest.

"Lift up your veil, O Night, for we would look in.

"Yes, joy is here, and sorrow is here; hunger is here and repletion is here; sin is here and righteousness here: hope and despair, love and hate, anger and forgiveness—all are here.

"The young lion roars in his triumph, and the old toothless lion has missed his kill. The nightingale sings from the cypress; and the mouse is squeaking where the owl swooped down. In a hundred jungles the beast of prey fills himself; and in haunts of men the ravenous are abroad also. The lover cries that the couch is waiting, and in the shadow lurks the assassin. Where men are dying, mothers stand weeping; and mothers are writhing where men are being born. The student, pale with learning, trims his lamp and asks for the night to continue; and the tempest-torn mariner is praying for the dawn. The youngster smiles at his rosy dreams; and round his father breaks the shock of battle. The rich man toys with his heaped meats: and to a fireless garret has crept the pauper. The statesman toils in his chamber; and the well-dined burgher turns in his sleep. Age pulls the coverlet over a bony breast; and in the halls of vice youth spends its strength. In solitude the shepherd guards his flock; and in retreat no less lonely the miser counts his gold. And hairs are greying, and eyes are dimming, and babes are crowing. And voices are laughing, and voices are scolding, and voices are sobbing. How empty the night is? How still the night is? No! How crowded! How deafening!"

King came to a full stop. His hand fell to his side. He did not turn round, and presently he lit another cigar with irritating calm. All the while, the girl had not stirred in her chair. At last King moved from the doorway, and at the same time Neville sounded his stick in the house. He appeared on the verandah with Power behind. The old man was chuckling to himself and holding out some keys.

"Huh, huh! I may be wrong; but I think I'll settle that little crowd. See these? For the tanks. See 'em? I'll be along and fix them up right away. To-morrow you can watch them line up with their tongues out. Old Horrington can live on whisky for a while. It's done him before to-day. Mrs. Johnson can wash in last week's water. It'll make good soup for the baby. He, he! Huh, huh, huh!"

"What are you going to do, Father?"

"Lock the tanks, of course. What d'ye think I mean to do? Drink 'em dry?"

"You can't do that."

"Can't? I may be wrong, but I reckon I can." He wagged his head; and next gripped his stick and began to stamp down the verandah, but half way brought up short with a second nod. "Moon or no moon," he said, "I shall do better with a lantern where I'm going." He went indoors again.

At the same time King pulled out a watch. "I'll get back."

Maud from her chair called out to him. "Already, Mr. King? It's not late. Are you tired of us?"

"The night is getting cool, and I haven't slept for a week."

Power looked at the moon. "What's it? Ten?"

"Twenty to. We may get a change out of this."

"I don't think so," Power said.

"At least we'll hope next week is better," Maud cried. "Let's wish for a storm."

"And after it the flying ants?"

"Oh bother them!" Maud said. "Where's the romance of the wilderness?"

King answered her. "Romance is somewhere just out of sight. Some day I shall sit in a cooler country, having forgotten the taste of heat and flies, and I shall start sighing for the old romantic days at Surprise. And now for a nightcap before bed."

"Mr. King, you are breaking rules."

"But this is Surprise and we are in the last week of October. Much can be forgiven when you live at Surprise during the last week of October."

"The rule is three, and that makes number five."

"Alas!"

"Well, never again."

King put down his empty glass. "Good night.

"Good night."

He went through the doorway into the open and down the steps. His footfalls crunched on the bed of the dry creek. The return of Neville overwhelmed them. The old man held a lighted lantern, and fumbled impatiently at the wick. "Where's King?" he demanded, lifting shaggy eyebrows over the top.

"Gone home a moment ago," Maud said.

"Er! I knew as much. He knows what he's about. I meant him to come with me."

"He's good company," Power said, settling again in the old seat.

"I love him," Maud said. "One moment he makes me laugh and the next he makes me think. I don't know yet whether he is a wise man or a mountebank."

"Where does he come from?" Power asked. "You said he was a solicitor, didn't you?"

The old man snapped down the glass of the hurricane lamp.

"I heard tell he was a solicitor somewhere and got kicked out. As soon as he touches money he can't go straight. He would sell his mother up. Huh, huh! He's a gentleman to walk shy of while you've a few pounds to spare. Go to him for a goat, and he'll sell you one of mine. He has done business over half the fowls on the lease, though he never owned a feather. He, he! I can't help respecting his abilities. He's got a finger in most copper shows within fifty miles. The silly coves get him to draw up their agreements, and he takes care that his name comes in somewhere or other." Neville chuckled himself to the end of his tale, then said, "You had better be away, Power. I'm going to bed when I get back." He went through the door.

"Take care!" Maud called out.

"Er?"

"Take care."

A growl was her thanks. In course of time the old man had scrambled down the steps and across the creek.

"So much for our friend, John King," said Power.

At Surprise Valley the rule is early to bed. First chop the wood and milk the goats. Then soothe or slap the baby to sleep. After tea, a seat in the doorway and a smoke. After a smoke, an exchange of maledictions on the weather. The lamps in the tents begin to go out by nine o'clock. The frustrated moths and flying ants betake themselves elsewhere, and the mosquito sings a solo requiem in the dark. On cool nights and nights of breezes, the people of Surprise put out lights at even an earlier hour, for sleep is likely to prove kinder mistress. To-night already three parts of Surprise were sleeping. To be true, Mr. Wells was thinking of a last pipe; and Mr. Horrington, whisky bottle at elbow, was cogitating a nightcap. Also, a light burned yet in the latest rigged tent. Mr. Pericles Smith—travelling schoolmaster, arrived here on his rounds—after chopping the firewood, hunting the goats away, putting the kettle off the boil, and performing sundry other exercises, was snatching a few moments with the help of a candle at his monumental work on the aboriginal languages of Australia. Nowhere else lights pierced the walls. The moon fell over high land and low land, upon house and tent, and steeped in romance the dreary prospects of the day. The Man in the Moon looked down on a fairy city.

. . . . . . .

I have brought you now to the beginning of my chronicle: I have laid the stage and you are left with the chief players. The story is written in a thumbed volume of the Book of Life, and it is time to lift down the tome from its shelf. Look for no tremendous tale, for at Surprise the day wags through its journey as elsewhere—sorrow tastes as bitter here, pleasure drinks as sweetly, and the human heart beats time to old, old tunes. Look for no great story then, for I have it not to tell—you are to find two lovers, you are to have the history of their loves, and learn how one was rude apprentice to the trade, and what apprenticeship had to teach him.

. . . . . . .

The man and woman on the verandah had tumbled into their own thoughts. But presently Power rose in his seat, and moved it beside Maud Neville. He sat down again—he leaned forward and raised one of her hands. Fingers closed on his own. "Kiss me, Maud," he said, in no more than a whisper.

He bent close over the girl. His face approached hers until he and she saw each other clearly in the dark. They kissed with much passion. As Maud released him, she touched his forehead with her lips.

"I thought we should never be left alone. I was getting disgusted and going home. I came with a lot to tell you. I was full of ideas, but you were bent on avoiding me."

"Poor fellow! As bad as that? You should have come earlier. I couldn't get up and leave the others, you silly. Mr. King doesn't come very often. What have you to say so important?"

"Maybe I'm not telling it now."

He was laughed at for his pains. "You want coaxing? Is that what's the matter?"

"This is it then. I can't wait longer. We have been engaged long enough. I want you to marry me—soon I mean, this month or next. Everything is ready over there. We'll choose a date to-night."

"And you are ready for Father?"

"He can't refuse again. We've waited so long."

"Perhaps."

"Then desperation will give me courage. Now for the promise."

"I said nothing about a promise. You must think I am awfully fond of you."

Power leaned forward again. Their faces came close together. Her eyes were wide open and looked straight into his. Fondness appeared in them, deep as the sea. Power began again to speak.

"It has become so lonely over there. I think about you all day long. The house has grown miserable. It has turned to a graveyard. If you appeared there, things would become what they were. You must marry me soon. I have been too patient."

He stooped and, in place of speech, he began to kiss her hair, her face, her hands. Presently she put an arm about his neck, and kept him willing prisoner. "What about your promise?" he said once more.

She had not done with coquetry. "What makes you think I am so fond of you?"

"And don't you like me a little bit? A little bit?"

"Perhaps a little bit." She put both arms about his neck. "My good friend, you are everything in the world to me. My silly life begins and ends in you. This great love of mine has quite eaten me up. Why, what would I do without you. You came as a brand to a cold hearth and set it aflame. Something in my heart sings now all day long."

Passion came over them as a surge of the sea, as a storm of wind. They bent close to each other, thinking no thought. Their breaths mingled. Their hearts marked one time.

At last she released her prisoner. Her eyes were shining in the dark. She began to speak in a low, eager voice. She might have been a messenger bringing glad tidings.

"You will never understand what this love has meant to me. You and I—we are different metals refining in the same furnace, and the fire does not treat us alike. My life at last has become easy to live. It is a simple and a grand thing. Think of Dingo Gap or Pelican Pool without sun or flies. Wouldn't they be wonderful places? Well, I find life changed as much as that. The little happenings no more have power to annoy. My eyes are strong to see straight ahead. In all matters I am undisturbed. This love of mine is a holy thing. It will brook no meanness. It will stoop to no crooked ways. Something cries out in my heart to grow and grow. I would bring you a wide-open mind. I would offer you a body as beautiful as that girl we talked of half-an-hour ago."

She began again. "And now, my good friend—yes, you who look at me so fondly—I am going to hurt you a little bit. I am going to tell you you have brought me my moments of sorrow. For a long time now I have known that your love and my love are of different kinds. Bad hours arrived for me once when an evil spirit whispered that you did not understand me, and therefore you could not truly love me. The whisperer said Nature demanded you should go hungering after a woman, and there was no choice but me. The whisperer said until you knew me, and demanded me because of your new knowledge, that my affections were anchored in the sands.

"But I have pushed aside the whisperer. I love you, and that is all that matters. For love knows nothing of hunger and unrest, of hope grown old and other miseries. Love is the clear light, and those the winds that wrestle for it, that are not of it and can never hurt it. But you will not test my strength? Answer me. You will not test it?"

"No, my girl. But your words could be kinder. I have no quick tongue like yours to tell my tale. I know this, that I am weary of waiting for you. Don't let us waste more of life. We have the whole world to see, and when we have grown tired, we shall come back here. The old home I am so sick of will grow beautiful under your care. I shall ride away in the morning, knowing evening will find you waiting for me——"

"Yes, yes, I shall be waiting for you, and you will arrive hot and tired, and you will say 'I won't eat anything.' But I shall coax you. And later on we shall sit together in the light of this same old moon, which will have travelled round a few times more, and will have become a little paler with watching. And we shall talk about olden days. And then we shall begin to grow old together, and I shall count your first grey hairs and—why, Jim, you are laughing at me!"

"Am I? Then give me my promise, for I must go home."

"What am I to say, Jim? You know I want the marriage as much as you do. But father is an old man, and there is nobody but me to look after him. He wouldn't think of giving up the mine to live with us. If you like, we can ask him again to-night. Then if he says no, I shall stay with him a little longer, and at last we must tell him it is our turn to choose. That's fair, Jim, isn't it? No, don't look sulky. I am quite right."

"You won't always put it off like this? I am growing bad-tempered over there."

"You silly boy, you are only a few miles away. We see each other every week. But we may catch father in a soft moment. We must find him after he has locked the tanks. He'll be in such a good humour at the thought of a fight to-morrow, that he may say yes. Let's find him now. Go away, stupid, I want to get up."

Maud rose to her feet, shook out her dress, and pushed her hair out with her fingers. She kissed Power for the last time, and they went down the steps into the moonlight. She ran ahead, taking little heed of her footing. The stones in the creek were thick and rough, and she trod them with quick feet while Power crunched behind. The stable was not far away, and they followed the fence towards it. The horses stood together with drooped heads at the lower end of the yard. All this quarter of the camp was picked out plainly in the moonlight.

A figure moved about the stable. It was Neville back from his rounds. Maud nodded her head in his direction.

"There's father waiting for us," she said. "Now Mr.-my-friend-Jim, are you feeling as brave as you were?"

"You must look after me."

"Certainly not. I never pretended to be brave."

"I shall find courage somehow."

Old Neville's voice arrived. "Be smart ye two. You've been an awful time. I expected ye gone long ago, Power. That fool groom has jammed the door so as I can't get in. I'll let him hear about it to-morrow. See if you can do anything. He, he! ye'll have to do something, or ye'll go bareback home. What did ye want to come along for, Maud? Can't you let him alone for a minute? That's the way to sicken a man of ye." All three met outside the stable door. "D'ye see what I mean?" Neville said.

Power moved the door in course of time. The old man went in first with the lantern. "Take the saddle and hurry up. I want to get to bed."

Power carried the saddle to the fence. Maud had taken the bridle and had gone in search of the horse which knew her and would stand. In a little while she was leading it back. Power had taken his opportunity.

"Mr. Neville, Maud and I talked things over to-night, and we want to get married. You won't mind, I hope?"

The old man was rooting with his stick in a corner of the stable. "Er?" he said, looking up.

"We're thinking of getting married," Power said again louder.

"Have you still that in your heads? I told ye 'No' before. Here, come here. Look at that fellow! I'll fire him off the lease before he's any older. Look at him! Thrown it all in a corner. No, ye must wait. Ye're both young, and I'm an old man. Goodness! look here! Maud's an annoying girl, but I'd be put out without her. Here's the mare. Come outside with ye. Maud, I hear you're on again about gettin' married. I won't have it. Ye've plenty of time for that sort of thing."

"You're not fair, father. You're not a bit fair. You won't listen to reason. You never discuss anything. I'm not a child still. When will you realize that?"

The old man lifted his shaggy eyebrows over the lantern. He seemed rather surprised. "Listen to reason! And you come to me when everyone is in bed. Ye call that reason! It's just like you. Bah!"

"Maud is right, Mr. Neville. You haven't been fair about this." Power's temper was never hard to discover, and Maud frowned him quiet. The old man looked at the ground, and scratched his head a moment or two and wagged it.

"I suppose, Power, ye'll be round in a day or two?"

"I'm bringing cattle through the end of this week."

"I'll talk about it then. Now be away with you. Come home, Maud."

The old man of Surprise blew out the lantern and began the journey to the house. Maud in meek mood followed him.

"Good night, Jim," were her last words.

"Good night," Power called back.

Power saddled the mare, and let down the slip-rail of the yard. His whip was coiled on his arm. In a moment he was mounted and had turned towards home.

CHAPTER III Pelican Pool

Kaloona Homestead lies distant from Surprise fifteen Queensland miles, and the traveller by that road learns a Queensland mile is a mile and anything you wish beyond. The red track runs all the way—over outcrops of rock, across grassy levels and through dry creek beds, nearly to the gateway of the homestead. Kaloona Homestead stands among timber on one of the big holes of the river.

All the traffic of the neighbourhood takes this direction, and keeps safe the roadway from the teeth of the waiting bush. Once a week the mine buggy journeys to outlying shafts. Out of the distance crawl a pair of horses, an ancient four-wheeled carriage, two men seated up there in collarless shirts and khaki trousers, a swinging waterbottle and a following of dust. Once a month Mr. Carroll, timekeeper, armed with revolver and sustained with thoughts of a peg at the farther end, bumps along in the back seat of the buggy with the pay for the smaller mines. Along this path the horse-driver bullies a groaning load to the mine furnaces, and wins the plain by ready tongue and a generous hand. His dogs shuffle in the shade of the waggon. The copper gougers come in from labours in the far places, and follow the red way to store and hotel; and the kangaroo shooter, astride his shabby beast, arrives with empty provision bags from lonely hunting grounds. But commonly you travel all day under a greedy sun, and meet none of these things. The plain rolls away, and no wayfarer appears, unless there leap up a kangaroo startled in his bed chamber.

Power took the homeward road with never a thought to its emptiness. He was no apprentice to the bush. He could read the signs of the way, be the time day or night. Now a moon was in the middle of the sky, the path was well trodden, a fair mount carried him, and the night cooled—the journey would be done in the turning of his thoughts. He rode with loose rein, idle spur, and seat easy in the saddle. Yet a clever horse might not have got the better of him.

The mare carried him at a fast walk, asking neither check nor spur. Single tents, tents in twos and threes, and rickety lean-tos rose up among the gullies on both hands, and quickly a score of them had fallen behind. In none burned a light, and no greeting arrived other than the quick bark of curs. A bend of the road and the base of the hill cut off the camp. From now forward the journey would prove a lonely business. The creak of a saddle and the brief pad of hoofs in the dust were to be the song of voyage.

Afoot or on horseback, Power was a wide-awake man. He saw most of what was worth seeing. He could see, realize and do on the instant. But he had his moments of reflection. He was aware of the tents, the lean-tos and the rubbish on the ground. But he had fallen into thought before going far on the way. Were he devout lover, now was the scene and now the hour to delight in the virtues of his lady.

He loosened his feet in the stirrups to the tips of his toes, and lifted his hat from his head. A vague breeze moved across his cheek, and he turned gratefully to it; but it was dead as soon as it was born. Still, the night was cooling, and the plain was wide and free after the verandah at Surprise. The moon had taken station in the middle of the sky, frighting all but a few stars which gleamed wanly here and there. She was a lamp to all that great red country—by day full of majesty, now touched to beauty by her genius. The walk of the mare soothed him strangely.

Power was a man of fair learning and experience. He was a bushman born, but the South had given him education of some width. He had had a share of travel. He could remember other lands and fair cities. Men, now forgotten, had rubbed shoulders with him; and one or two women had passed in and out of his life with a few laughs and sighs. Seldom he called them to mind. Maud Neville only had brought him to captivity. Her brain was mate for his brain, her heart was mate for his heart: there would be bonds to bind them when passion had passed away.

His thoughts went back to her, where he had seen her last following the old man towards the house. He found himself thinking very tenderly of her. Soon now she would come across to brighten the old homestead, and life would never be quite the same again. He must pull his habits into shape. He must remember freedom would have to go in harness, and the curb might chafe at first. He must be abroad at dawn and home by nightfall, and give up this riding over the country as the humour took him. The cattle camp must see him less, the hearth must see him more; others could do the rough work, and they would do it as well as he.

There came to mind the first time he had seen Maud Neville, a day or two after the coach had brought her from the South. He had not discovered her charm in the beginning. He put a high price on beauty always, and here was a girl but poorly favoured. But that she made the old man's home bright there was no denying, and now he walked in willing captivity. He loved her, and she loved him almost too well. She read him to the last word, while her own face was covered with a veil which he had not the skill to pluck aside. She had said a little while ago that he had much to learn in the art of loving, and perhaps she had spoken the truth. His affection only had his spare time, and was shabby exchange for a spiritual love like her own. Yet she seemed content. Well, she should teach him in the days to come, and she would find him a ready student. Just now he was on the way home, and to-morrow was bringing a long day with cattle. There were other things for a man to do besides making love.

He tumbled back to everyday matters when the mare whinnied loudly. He looked about him. He found he had been carried into the plains. Behind, and on the left hand, ranges filled the horizon; ahead ran the dark belt of timber which followed the river. Power guessed at it rather than saw it. Pelican Pool was four miles away in a straight line; but the road bent in a little distance, and met the river several miles lower down.

All at once Power grew alert. The sight of a riderless horse called for more than a meander of thoughts. The animal stood a long way off in the shadow of a small tree near the track. It was saddled, and the reins hung to the ground. Power looked about the neighbourhood for the rider, and quickly found him, spread out in the middle of the road. At once he shook the mare into life and trotted forward. The horse under the tree whinnied at their approach; but there was no movement from the form in the path. At the last moment the mare took fright, and Power was hard employed to bring her to reason. He jumped presently to the ground and bent over the body. He found a heavy man in middle years lying on his back, breathing with deep snores. It was a matter for proof if the man were hurt; but there was no doubt of his drunkenness. A bottle of whisky filled a pocket. The fellow's head was cut, and blood had dried on it; but search discovered no other injury, and Power took him by the shoulder and shook him—firmly at first, afterwards roughly. The snores turned into chokes, the chokes became groans. Power tired of such a tardy cure, and exchanged hand for foot. The fallen man opened his eyes.

"Day, mate. Wot do you think you're doing to a cove?"

"Are you all right?" Power said.

"Right enough to stop a cove going through me pockets." The fellow licked his lips. "It's flamin' hot, mate!"

"Get up," said Power.

"Wot's got you so blooming anxious?"

"I found you on the road just now. There's the horse under the tree. It's midnight. You'll have to hurry some to be anywhere by morning."

"I'm stayin' here."

"You'll perish when the sun gets up." There was a silence while they looked at each other. Then the man swore, struggled a little and sat up. "Have you far to go?" Power said.

"Pelican Pool."

"Are you Gregory?"

"That's me when I'm home."

Power lost patience. "Well, what the devil are you doing? Are you coming or staying?"

"You're a nice bloke to help a sick cove." Gregory came across the whisky bottle. He dragged it from his pocket, and waved it in the moonlight. "I reckon I've a thirst you couldn't buy; no, not fer ten quid. Have one at the same time? No! I reckoned as much from a long-faced coot like you!"

"Get up," Power said, "and I'll give you a hand with the horse."

The beast waited for Power to catch it. Gregory had found his feet, and stood in the middle of the path looking at the whisky bottle. He proved very groggy; but recourse to the bottle put him in braver spirit, and he fell to cursing Surprise and all that lies within its gates.

"Here you are," Power said. "Go steady. I'll leg you up."

It took trouble and a pretty play of oaths to bring about the lifting up. The horse stood like a rock. Gregory swore his leg was broken; but he gained the saddle, and afterwards kept balance in a surprising way. Power, in no good temper, turned things over, and decided to take him to the Pool. It meant a journey longer by five miles—bad luck which swearing wouldn't mend.

"Come on," he said. "I'm going your way. Shake up that beast of yours. I don't want to be all night."

He turned the mare's head to Pelican Pool, and she started the journey, walking fast. The other horse kept company at a jog-trot. Gregory began a rough ride. But he held his attention to the whisky bottle, and had spilled a big part of it before they were a mile on the way. The empty bottle was thrown grandly to the ground. As time went by he turned very friendly.

"I'll be showing you something in a mile or two—my oath! yes—the best copper show in the Gulf, or in Queensland for that matter. There's a fortune there, I say. D'yer hear me? I'll be driving my buggy and pair yet. I'll be buying more grog in a day than that cove at the pub sells in a year. No more blanky shovelling for me, you make no error. I'll have all the buyers in the country there 'fore the week's out. Old Neville down at Surprise, he'll be on his knees prayin' me to sell it him. 'Ear me?"

"I hear you," Power said. And with the last bit of good temper left he added, "Are you far down?"

"Matter o' thirty foot, and ore all the way. I tell yer I'll be the richest man this side of Brisbane. 'Ear wot I say?"

With spells of talk and spells of silence, they made the rest of the journey. Gregory was more master of himself on a horse than on the ground, and at the hour's end the travelling was done. Where they approached it the river ran in the rains with a two-mile span; but now the bed was dry and filled with stones and sand. Many mean trees grew in this country. Over stones and sand the riders passed, and under trees bearing in their branches the rubbish of forgotten floods. As they went on, the timber became dense and grew to a noble size; and presently here and there among distant laced branches showed the surface of Pelican Pool. The water was lit by the light of the moon. The Pool was shrinking every day; but it still covered a mile of country, and its breadth was a fair swimmer's journey.

"Where's the camp?" Power said.

"By the castor-oil bush."

Thereupon they inclined to the right hand. Large reaches of the Pool were now plainly to be seen—very fair they showed in the moonlight, with weeds trailing about the water, and here and there a large white lily a-bloom. Small fishes leaped in the shallows. Trees leaned patiently over both banks, spreading knotted arms. Now the camp came out of the trees. Two tents were rigged side by side; and not very far off had been built a room of poles and hessian. About an open-air fireplace were the ashes of the day's fire. A dog tied near the tents uncurled at their coming, and fell to barking with great good will.

"We're here," Gregory said. "The old woman must have turned in."

"Better quiet the dog, then," Power answered. "Go steady there. I'll see you down."

He jumped to the ground and threw a stone at the dog, which dropped its tail and stopped barking. He held Gregory's horse, and Gregory climbed down. The man was fairly on his legs, when a keen voice called from one of the tents—"Is that you, boss? Boosed, I suppose?"

"There's a gen'leman here to see yer," Gregory shouted.

"Wot?"

"A gen'leman to see yer."

"Aw, blast yer, come to bed an' don't wake me up."

"I tell yer a gen'leman's here."

"Can't yer shut it?"

"Gen'leman. I say. Gen'leman."

A pause followed on this. At last the voice from the tent cried—"Get up, Moll, and see wot dad's after. I've not had a square sleep fer a week."

"Aw," said somebody in the second tent.

But in that tent a person stirred. Gregory shouted again. "Be quick, Moll. Light a lantern. The moon's no good to me in these durned trees."

"Wait a minute, can't yer?"

Power picked up the reins and remounted the mare. He had had his fill of the affair, and was riding away. "You're right now," he said to Gregory. "Good night." The gleam of a lantern appeared through the canvas of the tent. "Good night," Power called out a second time. The tent door was pushed aside, and a girl came into the open, holding a lighted lantern above her head.

Power pulled up his beast. The girl that stood there was scantily dressed. Her hair fell down her back. She was very near him, and she held the lantern that she might look him over; but the rays of light fell all about her own head and shoulders. She stared at him, not a whit disturbed at the sudden meeting.

A moment had brought Power face to face with the great experience of his life. The girl's beauty was beyond any imagining. He sat astride the mare with dropped reins, staring at her.

There, in a broken tent, in that forgotten place by the river, was one of those women who have commanded the tears and prayers of men since the world began to turn. The girl stood with the light of the lantern falling about her, with that in the carriage of her head for which a sage would forget his learning, with that in her eyes for which a saint would forego his hope of Paradise, with that in her form for which a poet would break the strings of his lyre. To look a moment on her was to grow hungry, to look long on her was to banish peace.

For that most cunning work of a great craftsman was a chalice holding the poisoned potion of desire; that rich body was an altar whereon burned the fires of longing; that loveliness was doomed to linger as midwife to men's tears. The spirit of all that is untamed made home in that form, and beside it dwelt the spirit of all that shall not find rest. And sight of that fairness brought taste of what man reaches for and may not touch, of what man climbs after to fall from with bruised knees.

Her figure was quick and strong and supple; her hair lay about her head as an aureole; her eyes were great and bright and deep; her feet were slender and without blemish; her lips waited on the coming of some supreme adventure.

Quite suddenly Power found the girl speaking to him. She held her head a little sideways and was looking over him.

"Are you camping here, Mister?" she said.

Power was startled out of his words. He sat up straight again. "No, thanks. I came along with your father. I'm going on now."

"We can give you a shake-down. It's no worry."

"No, thanks. I must get home. I'm mustering to-morrow. Good night."

"Good night, Mister."

Power rode home at a foot pace. He thought of the girl all the way. Her beauty had moved him more than anything he had known.

Midnight had chimed at Surprise, and the camp was asleep. The party telling stories from their long chairs outside the staff quarters had been broken up an hour since in a last "A-haw." Mr. Wells had forgotten his cornet, and Mr. Horrington, rather muddled, had found his stretcher and blown out the light. Houses, humpies and tents were in the dark. But outside, the pallor of the moon fell, making filigree work of the leaves on the trees, and staring coldly into the eyes of sleepy curs, which blinked back from their beds in the grasses.

The camp was asleep; but one person had stayed awake. The slight figure of a woman sat at the top of the steps leading down from the verandah of Neville's house. She sat crouched up, chin in hands, so still as to be unearthly. She had sat thus with hardly a movement for a long time.

Maud had said good night to her father on their return. The house had seemed stifling. She went into her bedroom, drew the curtains wide from the window so that the room was filled with light, opened the door leading to the verandah, undressed, and went to bed. For more than an hour she lay awake, counting the moonbeams on the wall, and listening to the song of the mosquitoes. Then she gave up pretence. She sat up in bed, slipped a wrap round her, and crossed to the window on bare feet. The night looked very charming outside, and soon she left the room, crossed the bare boards lightly as a night spirit, and came to a little balcony at the head of the steps leading down from the verandah. She sat down on the top step, putting her naked feet on the one below.

Yes, the night was charming out here—calm, empty and cooled by the ghosts of little breezes, which fluttered an instant on her face and fainted. There was pleasure in believing that she was the only one awake. It was strange to look on this slumbering camp, bearding the wilderness. She might have been a sentry watching that the hungry bush did not devour it in the hours of night. This habit of keeping the night watch had become a custom lately. The hour brought her more profit than any other of the twenty-four. She was not hot and fagged; she spoke the truth to herself; she could trust her judgments. The calm watered her soul as a shower of rain, so that it swelled up, and flowers broke from it. It was wonderful this growth of soul which lately had been her portion, this serenity brought about by losing herself in another. Sitting here, she told herself how thankful she ought to be. Night was very kind, like some nurse who whispers her child into sweet dreams.

This comprehension of life, this sureness of decision, had all grown up in two years. This renouncing of oneself that another might profit was the fountain from which gushed the purest waters at which the spirit could drink. Yet how many drank at that fountain? Instead, they sat at the windows of their houses in the streets of life, and remarked indifferently the pale faces glued to the panes across the way. Unless it happened that someone, sick with the bloodless silence, broke down one of those bolted doors and pushed inside, the faces sat always staring down the street, and the winds of desolation sweeping down the chimney at even, scattered the flames upon the hearth, and starved the watchers at their seats.

A good love was a wonderful thing, like the fire of the refiner, burning away the dross and leaving the pure metal. She had found it a philosopher's stone, making life golden, giving her humour to laugh when her father was tiresome, leaving her proof against the little annoyances of the day. And better than that. No shortcomings in the man she loved caused her misgiving now. He was easy to anger; a little selfish sometimes; he was thoughtless often. But love had brought understanding of him, and understanding meant forgiveness. She blessed him as she thought of him on his way across the plain, rejoicing that she might serve him, thankful to him for the growth of spirit he had caused in her.

The little breezes sighed, fanned her a moment and passed on, a few leaves turned on the trees; but she sat wrapped in the serenity of her contemplation.

CHAPTER IV Kaloona Run

Power was abroad again before sunrise. Daylight moved over the country, and he bathed, dressed, and pulled on his boots while butcher birds called, and small finches bobbed and twittered in the bushes. As he made an end of his task, the sun rose with menacing countenance. He went outside, looked which way the breeze was, and next walked down the track to the stable. He stopped at the door, threw it open, and cried out loud, "Scandalous Jack! Hullo there!"

At the back of the stable sounded a shuffling, and a small man, with bristling beard and chipped yellow teeth set in a weather-worn face, came out of the shadow, broom in hand. He stood in front of Power, and put his hands together on top of the broom handle, spat carefully, wiped his hairy mouth and shouted—"Marnin', Guv'nor. You're late."

Power nodded. "I was late back from Surprise last night. I'll be away after breakfast though. Did they get in the black horse?"

"Aye, they brought him in yesterday. He broke from the mob and showed Mick his heels for two mile. He's first rate—a bit soft maybe—and as cranky as ever. Ye must watch him or he'll pelt you this side o' the flat. Aye, aye, ye may ride above a bit, but I'm telling yer." Scandalous jerked his head.

"I'll look at him."

"Come on then."

The two men disappeared into the stable. They came to a stall at the end of a row, and there, tied to a ring in the manger, stood a grand upstanding horse, black-coated from poll to coronet, which met their coming with ears laid down and a white flash of teeth. It was an animal to fill the eye of any man. It stood at sixteen hands to an inch or so either way, ribbed up as a barrel, with great quarters and shoulders sloped for speed. Its head was delicate for all its other proportions, but there was that in the eye to tell a man to go about his business warily. It showed a fair condition for a first day's stabling.

"Yes, he's pretty right," Power said. He called out to the animal to stand over, and went to its head, and he had looked it all about before coming away.

"Mick got off with his lot?" he said.

Scandalous Jack went on speaking at a shout. "Aye, they were away be four in the marnin'. Mick says he'll be mustered and have the mob at Ten Mile midday. You're meeting him there, Guv'nor, for the cutting out, I reckon?" Power nodded his head. "Mick says to-night's camp's going up lower end of Pelican Pool." Scandalous looked very wise.

"What do you mean?"