Selected Stories (47 page)

“You don’t want another drink,” said Andy, rather short. “Why, you seem to be going the same way as the Boss!” But it
was Andy that edged off towards the pub when we got near Mrs Baker’s place. “All right!” he said. “Come on! We’ll have this other drink, since you want it so bad.”

We had the drink, then we buttoned up our coats and started across the road—we’d bought new shirts and collars, and spruced up a bit. Half-way across Andy grabbed my arm and asked:

“How do you feel now, Jack?”

“Oh,
I’m
all right,” I said.

“For God’s sake!” said Andy, “don’t put your foot in it and make a mess of it.”

“I won’t, if you don’t.”

Mrs Baker’s cottage was a little weather-board box affair back in a garden. When we went in through the gate Andy gripped my arm again and whispered:

“For God’s sake stick to me now, Jack!”

“I’ll stick all right,” I said—“you’ve been having too much beer, Andy.”

I had seen Mrs Baker before, and remembered her as a cheerful, contented sort of woman, bustling about the house and getting the Boss’s shirts and things ready when we started North. Just the sort of woman that is contented with housework and the children, and with nothing particular about her in the way of brains. But now she sat by the fire looking like the ghost of herself. I wouldn’t have recognised her at first. I never saw such a change in a woman, and it came like a shock to me.

Her sister let us in, and after a first glance at Mrs Baker I had eyes for the sister and no one else. She was a Sydney girl, about twenty-four or twenty-five, and fresh and fair—not like the sun-browned women we were used to see. She was a pretty, bright-eyed girl, and seemed quick to understand, and very sympathetic. She had been educated, Andy had told me, and wrote stories for the Sydney
Bulletin
and other Sydney papers. She had her hair done and was dressed in the city style, and that took us back a bit at first.

“It’s very good of you to come,” said Mrs Baker in a weak, weary voice, when we first went in. “I heard you were in town.”

“We were just coming when we got your message,” said Andy. “We’d have come before, only we had to see to the horses.”

“It’s very kind of you, I’m sure,” said Mrs. Baker.

They wanted us to have tea, but we said we’d just had it. Then Miss Standish (the sister) wanted us to have tea and cake; but we didn’t feel as if we could handle cups and saucers and pieces of cake successfully just then.

There was something the matter with one of the children in a back room, and the sister went to see to it. Mrs Baker cried a little quietly.

“You mustn’t mind me,” she said. “I’ll be all right presently, and then I want you to tell me all about poor Bob. It’s seeing you, that saw the last of him, that set me off.”

Andy and I sat stiff and straight, on two chairs against the wall, and held our hats tight, and stared at a picture of Wellington meeting Blucher on the opposite wall. I thought it was lucky that that picture was there.

The child was calling “mumma”, and Mrs Baker went in to it, and her sister came out. “Best tell her all about it and get it over,” she whispered to Andy. “She’ll never be content until she hears all about poor Bob from someone who was with him when he died. Let me take your hats. Make yourselves comfortable.”

She took the hats and put them on the sewing-machine. I wished she’d let us keep them, for now we had nothing to hold on to, and nothing to do with our hands; and as for being comfortable, we were just about as comfortable as two cats on wet bricks.

When Mrs Baker came into the room she brought little Bobby Baker, about four years old; he wanted to see Andy. He ran to Andy at once, and Andy took him up on his knee. He was a pretty child, but he reminded me too much of his father.

“I’m so glad you’ve come, Andy!” said Bobby.

“Are you, Bobby?”

“Yes. I wants to ask you about daddy. You saw him go away, didn’t you?” and he fixed his great wondering eyes on Andy’s face.

“Yes,” said Andy.

“He went up among the stars, didn’t he?”

“Yes,” said Andy.

“And he isn’t coming back to Bobby any more?”

“No,” said Andy. “But Bobby’s going to him by-and-by.”

Mrs Baker had been leaning back in her chair, resting her head on her hand, tears glistening in her eyes; now she began to sob, and her sister took her out of the room.

Andy looked miserable. “I wish to God I was off this job!” he whispered to me. “Is that the girl that writes the stories?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said, staring at me in a hopeless sort of way, “and poems too.”

“Is Bobby going up among the stars?” asked Bobby.

“Yes,” said Andy—“if Bobby’s good.”

“And auntie?”

“Yes.”

“And mumma?”

“Yes.”

“Are you going, Andy?”

“Yes,” said Andy hopelessly.

“Did you see daddy go up amongst the stars, Andy?”

“Yes,” said Andy, “I saw him go up.”

“And he isn’t coming down again any more?”

“No,” said Andy.

“Why isn’t he?”

“Because he’s going to wait up there for you and mumma, Bobby.”

There was a long pause; and then Bobby asked:

“Are you going to give me a shilling, Andy?” with the same expression of innocent wonder in his eyes.

Andy slipped half-a-crown into his hand. “Auntie” came in and told him he’d see Andy in the morning and took him away to bed, after he’d kissed us both solemnly; and presently she and Mrs Baker settled down to hear Andy’s story.

“Brace up now, Jack, and keep your wits about you,” whispered Andy to me just before they came in.

“Poor Bob’s brother Ned wrote to me,” said Mrs Baker, “but he scarcely told me anything. Ned’s a good fellow, but he’s very simple, and never thinks of anything.”

Andy told her about the Boss not being well after he crossed the border.

“I knew he was not well,” said Mrs Baker, “before he left. I didn’t want him to go. I tried hard to persuade him not to go this trip. I had a feeling that I oughtn’t to let him go. But he’d never think of anything but me and the children. He promised he’d give up droving after this trip, and get something to do near home. The life was too much for him—riding in all weathers and camping out in the rain, and living like a dog. But he was never content at home. It was all for the sake of me and the children. He wanted to make money and start on a station again. I shouldn’t have let him go. He only thought of me and the children! Oh! my poor, dear, kind, dead husband!” She broke down again and sobbed, and her sister comforted her, while Andy and I stared at Wellington meeting Blucher on the field of Waterloo. I thought the artist had heaped up the dead a bit extra, and I thought that I wouldn’t like to be trod on by horses, even if I was dead.

“Don’t you mind,” said Miss Standish, “she’ll be all right presently,” and she handed us the
Illustrated Sydney Journal.
This was a great relief—we bumped our heads over the pictures.

Mrs Baker made Andy go on again, and he told her how the Boss broke down near Mulgatown. Mrs Baker was opposite him and Miss Standish opposite me. Both of them kept their eyes on Andy’s face: he sat, with his hair straight up like a brush as usual, and kept his big innocent grey eyes fixed on Mrs Baker’s face all the time he was speaking. I watched Miss Standish. I thought she was the prettiest girl I’d ever seen; it was a bad case of love at first sight; but she was far and away above me, and the case was hopeless. I began to feel pretty miserable, and to think back into the past; I just heard Andy droning away by my side.

“So we fixed him up comfortable in the waggonette with the blankets and coats and things,” Andy was saying, “and the squatter started into Mulgatown…It was about thirty miles, Jack, wasn’t it?” he asked, turning suddenly to me. He always looked so innocent that there were times when I itched to knock him down.

“More like thirty-five,” I said, waking up.

Miss Standish fixed her eyes on me, and I had another look at Wellington and Blucher.

“They were all very good and kind to the Boss,” said Andy. “They thought a lot of him up there. Everybody was fond of him.”

“I know it,” said Mrs Baker. “Nobody could help liking him. He was one of the kindest men that ever lived.”

“Tanner, the publican, couldn’t have been kinder to his own brother,” said Andy. “The local doctor was a decent chap, but he was only a young fellow, and Tanner hadn’t much faith in him, so he wired for an older doctor at Mackintyre, and he even sent out fresh horses to meet the doctor’s buggy. Everything was done that could be done, I assure you, Mrs Baker.”

“I believe it,” said Mrs Baker. “And you don’t know how it relieves me to hear it. And did the publican do all this at his own expense?”

“He wouldn’t take a penny, Mrs Baker.”

“He must have been a good true man. I wish I could thank him.”

“Oh, Ned thanked him for you,” said Andy, though without meaning more than he said.

“I wouldn’t have fancied that Ned would have thought of that,” said Mrs Baker. “When I first heard of my poor husband’s death, I thought perhaps he’d been drinking again—that worried me a bit.”

“He never touched a drop after he left Solong, I can assure you, Mrs Baker,” said Andy quickly.

Now I noticed that Miss Standish seemed surprised or puzzled, once or twice, while Andy was speaking, and leaned forward to listen to him; then she leaned back in her chair and clasped her hands behind her head and looked at him, with half-shut eyes, in a way I didn’t like. Once or twice she looked at me as if she was going to ask me a question, but I always looked away quick and stared at Blucher and Wellington, or into the empty fireplace, till I felt that her eyes were off me. Then she asked Andy a question or two, in all innocence I believe now, but
it scared him, and at last he watched his chance and winked at her sharp. Then she gave a little gasp and shut up like a steel trap.

The sick child in the bedroom coughed and cried again. Mrs Baker went to it. We three sat like a deaf-and-dumb institution, Andy and I staring all over the place: presently Miss Standish excused herself, and went out of the room after her sister. She looked hard at Andy as she left the room, but he kept his eyes away.

“Brace up now, Jack,” whispered Andy to me, “the worst is coming.”

When they came in again Mrs Baker made Andy go on with his story.

“He—he died very quietly,” said Andy, hitching round, and resting his elbows on his knees, and looking into the fireplace so as to have his face away from the light. Miss Standish put her arm round her sister. “He died very easy,” said Andy. “He was a bit off his head at times, but that was while the fever was on him. He didn’t suffer much towards the end—I don’t think he suffered at all…He talked a lot about you and the children.” (Andy was speaking very softly now.) “He said that you were not to fret, but to cheer up for the children’s sake…It was the biggest funeral ever seen round there.”

Mrs Baker was crying softly. Andy got the packet half out of his pocket, but shoved it back again.

“The only thing that hurts me now,” said Mrs Baker presently, “is to think of my poor husband buried out there in the lonely Bush, so far from home. It’s—cruel!” and she was sobbing again.

“Oh, that’s all right, Mrs Baker,” said Andy, losing his head a little. “Ned will see to that. Ned is going to arrange to have him brought down and buried in Sydney.” Which was about the first thing Andy had told her that evening that wasn’t a lie. Ned had said he would do it as soon as he sold his wool.

“It’s very kind indeed of Ned,” sobbed Mrs Baker. “I’d never have dreamed he was so kind-hearted and thoughtful. I misjudged him all along. And that is all you have to tell me about poor Robert?”

“Yes,” said Andy—then one of his “happy thoughts” struck him. “Except that he hoped you’d shift to Sydney, Mrs Baker,
where you’ve got friends and relations. He thought it would be better for you and the children. He told me to tell you that.”

“He was thoughtful up to the end,” said Mrs Baker. “It was just like poor Robert—always thinking of me and the children. We are going to Sydney next week.”

Andy looked relieved. We talked a little more, and Miss Standish wanted to make coffee for us, but we had to go and see to our horses. We got up and bumped against each other, and got each other’s hats, and promised Mrs Baker we’d come again.

“Thank you very much for coming,” she said, shaking hands with us. “I feel much better now. You don’t know how much you have relieved me. Now, mind, you have promised to come and see me again for the last time.”

Andy caught her sister’s eye and jerked his head towards the door to let her know he wanted to speak to her outside.

“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.