Books: Lady Bridget in the Never Never Land
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Rosa Praed (1851 1935) >> Lady Bridget in the Never Never Land
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'One can't look as if one had come out of a bandbox after fighting a
bush fire.'
She exclaimed, 'Oh! what does it matter?'
He utterly mistook the meaning of her exclamation.
'You are quite right,' he retorted. 'When it comes to the end of
everything, what does ANYTHING matter!'
For several moments there was dead silence. She felt as if he had
wilfully stabbed her. He on his side had again the confused sense of
two antagonists, feinting with their weapons to gain time before the
critical encounter.
'Well?' He swung himself savagely round upon her. 'That's true, isn't
it? The end HAS come. . . . You're sick of the whole show--dead sick--
of the Bush--of everything?--Aren't you? Answer me straight,
Bridget.'
'Yes, I am,' she replied recklessly. 'I hate the Bush--I--I hate
everything.'
'Everything! Well, that settles it!' he said slowly.
Again there was silence, and then he said:
'You know I wouldn't want to keep you--especially now,'--he did not
add the words that were on his lips 'now that bad times are coming on
me,'--and she read a different application in the 'now.' 'I--I'd be
glad for you to quit. It's as you please--maybe the sooner the better.
I'll make everything as easy as I can for you.'
'You are very--considerate. . . .' The sarcasm broke in her throat.
She moved abruptly, and stood gazing out over the plain till the
hysterical, choking sensation left her. Her back was to him. He could
not see her face; nor could she see the dumb agony in his.
Presently she walked to a shelf-table on the veranda set against the
wall; and from the litter of papers and work upon it, took up the
cablegram she had lately received.
'I wanted to show you this,' she said stonily, and handed him the blue
paper.
There was something significant in the way he steadied it upon the
veranda railing, and stooped with his head down to pore over it.
The blow was at first almost staggering. It was as though the high gods
had shot down a bolt from heaven, shattering his world, and leaving him
alone in Chaos. They had taken him at his word--had registered on the
instant his impious declaration. It WAS the end of everything. She was
to quit. . . . He had said, the, sooner the better. . . . Well--he
wasn't going to let even the high gods get a rise out of him.
He laughed. By one of those strange links of association, which at
moments of unexpected crisis bring back things impersonal, unconnected,
the sound of his own laugh recalled the rattle of earth, upon the dry
outside of a sheet of bark in which, during one of their boundary rides
at Breeza Downs lately, they had wrapped for burial the body of a
shepherd found dead in the bush. Both sounds seemed to him as of
something dead--something outside humanity.
He handed her back the telegram, speaking still as if he were far-off--
on the other side of a grave, but quite collectedly and as though in
the long silence he had been weighing the question.
'It seems to me that this has come to you in the nick of time, to solve
difficulties.'
'Yes,' she assented dully.
'You've got no choice but to go as your cousin says. There's money
depending on it.'
'Money! . . . Oh, money!' she cried wildly.
'Money is apt to stick on to lawyers' fingers when they're left to the
handling of it . . . . This is a matter of business, and business can't
be put on one side--especially, when there's as large a sum as fifty
thousand pounds in the proposition. I guess from this that you're
wanted.'
'Yes,' she said again. She was thinking to herself, 'That's his Scotch
carefulness about money; he wouldn't consider anything in comparison
with that.'
'You had better take the northern route,' he went on. 'There ought to
be an E. and A. boat due at Leuraville pretty soon--I'll look it out.
. . . Perhaps you'd like to make the start to-morrow?'
'To-morrow--oh yes, to-morrow--just whenever suits you.'
'I couldn't take you down myself. There are things--serious matters
I've got to see to on the station. And besides, you'll allow it's best
for me not to go with you. Ninnis could drive you to Crocodile Creek,
and put you into the train; and Halliwell will look after you at
Leuraville, and see you on board the steamer.'
'Oh, I wonder that you can spare Ninnis,' she returned bitterly. 'I
suppose you'd want Moongarr Bill still more on the run. But there's Joe
Casey--I daresay somebody else can milk the cows, and get up wood and
water. Or there's Cudgee--I don't mind who goes with me. . . . I can
drive myself.'
'My God! do you imagine I'd put a black-boy--or anyone but my own
trusted overseer in charge of you! What are you thinking of to talk
like that?'
He took a few steps along the veranda, moving with uncertain gait; then
stopped and leaned heavily against the wall. In a few seconds he had
recovered himself, and came back to her, speaking quietly.
'I will think out things and arrange it all. You'll be perfectly safe
with Ninnis, I think it would be better for you to sleep one night at
old Duppo's place. There's fresh horses for the buggy there--I've got
Alexander and Roxalana in the paddock now--they're the best. . . .'
Oh, how could he bear that those horses, of the dream-drive, should
take her away from him! He went on in the same matter-of-fact manner.
'I expect the answer to the cablegram will get as quickly as if Harry
the Blower took it, if you send it from Crocodile Creek yourself. And
there's your packing--there's not much time, but you won't want to
take a lot of things. Anything you cared about could go afterwards.'
'Go afterwards--What do you mean? I want to take nothing--nothing
except a few clothes.'
'Ah well--it doesn't matter--As you said--nothing matters now. . . .
Well, I'll go and see Ninnis, and settle about to-morrow. . . . Then
there's money. . . .' he stopped at the edge of the steps leading down
to the Old Humpey, looking back at her--'what you'll need for the
passage--and afterwards--I know what you'll be thinking; but I can
arrange for it with the Bank manager at Leuraville.'
A mocking demon rose in her.
'Please don't let yourself be inconvenienced. I only want the bare
passage money. And directly I get to England I will pay you back.'
His hands dropped to his sides as if she had shot him. His face was
terrible. At that moment, she could have bitten her tongue out.
'I don't think--you need have said that, Bridget,' and he went slowly
down the steps, and out of her sight like a man who has received a
mortal hurt.
CHAPTER 9
If purgatory could hold worse torture than life held on that last
evening Lady Bridget spent at Moongarr, then neither she nor her
husband would have been required to do any long expiation there. It
would be difficult to say which of the two suffered the most. Probably
McKeith, because he was the strongest. Equally, he showed it the least
when the breaking moment had passed. Yet both husband and wife seemed
to have covered their faces, hearts and souls with unrevealing masks.
No, it was worse than that. Each was entirely aware of the mental and
spiritual barrier, which made it absolutely impossible for them to
approach each other in the sense of reality. A barrier infinitely more
forbidding than any material one of stone or iron. Because it was
living, poisoned, venomous as the fang of some monstrous deadly
serpent. To come within its influence meant the death of love.
There was not much more of the day to get through. Husband and wife
both got through it in a fever of activity over details that seemed
scarcely to matter. He busied himself with Ninnis--first explaining to
the overseer as briefly as he could, the necessity for Lady Bridget's
voyage to England--a necessity that appealed to Ninnis' practical
mind, particularly in the present financial emergency. It surprised him
a little that McKeith should not himself see his wife off; but he also
recognised practical reasons--against that natural concession to
sentiment. On the whole, it rather pleased him to find his employer
ignoring sentiment, and he fully appreciated the confidence reposed in
himself.
The two men went over questions connected with the journey, overhauling
the buggy so that springs, bars and bolts might be in order, seeing
that the horses were in good condition, sending on Cudgee that very
hour, with a second pair in relay for the long stage of the morrow,
when over fifty miles must be covered. There would be another pair at
old Duppo's, and, after a day and night of comparative rest, Alexander
and Roxalana would be fresh for the last long stage of the journey.
They calculated that under these provisions the railway terminus at
Crocodile Creek, might be reached on the eve of the third day. And
there were many instructions, and much careful arranging for Lady
Bridget's comfort during the journey.
Then there were letters to write, business calculations, a further
overdraft to be applied for to the Bank, pending the cattle
sales. . . . Would there be saleable cattle enough to meet demands and
expenses of sinking fresh artesian bores--now that the fire had destroyed
all the best grass on the run?
McKeith found no consolation in the prospect of his wife's riches. That
only added gall to his bitterness, new fuel to his stubborn pride, new
strength to the wall between them.
He sat brooding in his office, when the business letters were written--
to the Bank-manager; to Captain Halliwell, the Police-magistrate at
Leuraville; to the Manager of the Eastern and Australian Steam
Navigation Depot, Leuraville, enclosing a draft to pay the passage; to
the Captain of the boat advertised for that trip, who happened to be an
acquaintance of his--all recommending Lady Bridget to the different
people's care--all anticipating and arranging against every possible
drawback to her comfort on the voyage--all carefully stating the
object of her trip to England--business connected with the death of a
near relative. Then, after the ghastly pretence of dinner--during
which appearances were kept up unnecessarily before Maggie and the
Malay boy, by a forced discussion of matter-of-fact details--looking
out the exact time of the putting in of the next E. and A. boat at
Leuraville--all of which he had already done, and pointing out to
Bridget that she could catch it, with a day to spare.
There was food for the journey too, to be thought of, and other things
to talk about. As soon as the meal was ended, McKeith went back to the
office, and Bridget saw or heard no more of him that night. He did not
come even to his dressing-room. She concluded that he was 'camping' on
the bunk in the office, and when her own packing was done, she lay in
wakeful misery till dawn brought a troubled doze.
Her packing was no great business--clothes for the voyage, and a big
furred cloak for warmth, when she should arrive in England in the depth
of winter--that was all.
Everything else--her papers, knicknacks, personal belongings--she
left just as they were. Colin might do as he liked about them. She felt
reckless and quite hard.
Only one among those personal possessions moved her to despairing
tears. It was a shrivelled section of bark chopped from a gum tree,
warped almost into a tube.
She placed this carefully in the deepest drawer of her wardrobe. Would
Colin ever find it there--and would he understand? All the time,
through these preparations, strangely enough she did not think of any
possible future in connection with Willoughby Maule. The events of the
past few days seemed to have driven him outside her immediate horizon.
When she came out in the morning dressed for her journey, she found her
husband in the veranda waiting to strap up and carry out her baggage.
Scarcely a word passed between them; they did not even breakfast
together. He said he had been up early, and had had his breakfast
already, but he watched her trying to eat while he moved about
collecting things for her journey, and he poured out the coffee, and
begged her to drink it. While he was there, Chen Sing brought in the
basket of food he must have ordered for the buggy, and there was Fo
Wung too, the gardener, with fresh lettuce and water-cress, and a
supply of cool, green cabbage leaves in which he had packed a few early
flat-stone peaches, and some Brazilian cherries.
Lady Bridget thanked them with the ghost of her old sweetness, and they
promised to have the garden 'velly good--TAI YAT number one' and to
'make plenty nice dishes,' for the Boss during her absence.
While they stood at the French window, McKeith filled flasks with wine
and spirits, and packed quinine and different medicines he had prepared
in case of her needing them. Then after shewing her the different
bottles, he took the supply out to Ninnis to be put in the buggy.
Everything was ready now--the buggy packed, the hood unslung so that
it could be put up and down in protection against sun or rain--this
last alas! an improbable eventuality. Alexander and Roxalana were
champing their bits. Ninnis in a new cabbage-tree hat and clean
puggaree, wearing the light coat he only put on when in the society of
ladies he wished to honour, was standing by the front wheels examining
the lash of his driving-whip. McKeith had given him his last
directions. There was nothing now to wait for. McKeith went slowly up
the steps of the back veranda, and in at the French window of the
sitting room, where Bridget had been watching, waiting. At his
appearance, she went back into the room. She stood quite still, small,
shadowy, the little bit of her face which showed between the folds of
her motor veil, where it was tied down under her chin--very pale, and
the eyes within their red, narrowed lids, dry and bright.
'Are you ready, Bridget?' he asked.
'Yes.'
He came close, and took a little bag she was holding out of her hands,
carried it to the back veranda, and told one of the Chinamen to give it
to Mr Ninnis--all, it seemed to her, to evade farewells. She called
him back in a hard voice.
'Colin--I've left my keys,'--pointing to a sealed and addressed
envelope on her own writing-table. 'There are a few things of value--
some you have given me--in the drawers.'
'I will take care of them,' he answered hoarsely.
They stood fronting each other, and their eyes both smarting, agonised,
stared at each other out of the pale drawn faces.
'Colin,' she said; and held out her hands. 'Aren't you going to say
good-bye?'
He took her hands; his burning look met hers for an instant and
dropped. There was always the poisonous wall which their soul's vision
might not pierce--through which their yearning lips might not touch.
For an instant too, the hardness of his face was broken by a spasm of
emotion. The grip of his hands on hers was like that of a steel vice;
she winced at the pain of it. He dropped her hands suddenly, and moved
back a step.
'Good-bye--Bridget.'
'Is that all you have to say? All?'
He stuttered, helplessly. 'I--I--can't. . . . There's nothing to
say.'
'Nothing! You let me go--like this--without one word of apology--of
regret. I think that, at least, you owe me--courtesy.'
Her tone lashed him. He seemed to be struggling with his tongue-tied
speech. When words came they rushed out in fierce jerks. 'I'll say this
--though where's the good of talking. . . . What does it amount to
anyway, when you're down on the bedrock, and there's nothing left but
to give up the whole show and start fresh as best you can? I'll say
this--I've never pretended to fine manners--I leave them--to others.
I'm just a rough bushman, no better and no worse. Apology!--that's my
apology--As for regret. My God! isn't it all one huge regret? No, I
won't say that. . . . Because there are some things I CAN'T regret--
for myself. For you, I do regret them. I was an insane ass ever to
imagine that I and my way of living could ever fit in with a woman
brought up like you. The incompatibilities were bound to come out--
incompatibilities of temper, education, breeding--outlook on things--
they were bound to separate us sooner or later, I'm glad that it's
sooner, because that gives you a chance of getting back into your old
conditions before you've grown different in yourself--dried up--
soured--maybe lost your health, roughing it through bad times in the
bush. . . . As it is, you'll get out all right--Never fear that I
won't see you get out all right.'
'And you?' she put in.
'Me! I don't count--I don't care. . . . A man's not like a woman. I've
always been a fighter. And I've never been DOWNED in my life. I'm not
going to be DOWNED this time. I shall make good--some time--somehow.
I'm not the sort of small potato that drops to the bottom of the bag in
the big shake-up.'
She winced visibly. He read distaste in her slight gesture, in the
expression of her eyes. It was true that the man's pugnacious egoism--
a lower side of him asserting itself just then--had always jarred upon
her finer taste. He recognised this subconsciously, and his self-esteem
revolted at it.
'You needn't be afraid,' he exclaimed harshly. 'If I wanted to hold to
my rights, and keep you here with me--what has happened would prevent
me--I've got too much pride to hang on to the skirts of a rich wife.
But you won't be harmed. . . . I don't know yet, but I believe there's
a way by which you can win through straight and square--no smirch that
you need mind--And if there is--whatever the way of it is, I'll do my
best to bring you out all right.'
'You are generous.' Her eyes flashed but her voice was coldly bitter.
'May I ask what you propose to do?'
'There's no use. . . .' he said heavily. 'I told you talking was no
good--now. I've got my own ideas. . . .'
'Then, if that's how you feel, the sooner I go the better pleased you
will be,' she returned hysterically. 'Oh, I'm ready to go.'
He moved to the steps, not answering at once. Then he said:
'The buggy is waiting, will you come?'
He went down the steps in front of her, but stopped at the bottom to
help her, for her foot had stumbled on the edge of the veranda. His
strong arm upheld her until she was on the gravel. The touch of his
fingers on her arm, brought home the incredible horror of it all--the
suddenness, the brutality. She pulled her veil hastily over her face to
hide the gush of tears. She could not speak for the choking lump in her
throat. He released her at once and strode on. Not another word passed
between them. Ninnis greeted her with gruff cordiality--began a sort
of speech about the cause of her departure--condolence and
congratulations stupidly mixed. McKeith impatiently cut him short.
'All right, Ninnis. Get up. And mind, the horses are fresh. They'll
want a bit of driving at the start.'
He helped Bridget to her seat, tucked the brown linen coverlet round
her knees. In doing so, he bent his head--she thought he had dropped
something. Then through the thin linen of the covering, and her light
summer garments, she felt the pressure of his burning lips as though
they were touching her flesh.
She bent forward. Their eyes met in a wild look. just for a second. The
horses plunged under Ninnis' hands on the reins. McKeith sprang back.
'Wo-oh! Gee on then!' Ninnis called out. 'Good-bye, Boss. You can trust
me to look well after her ladyship. . . . Be back again as soon as I
can.'
And if Colin spoke, the sound did not carry to his wife's ears. Her
last impression of him as the buggy swayed and rattled down the hill
was again the dogged droop of his great shoulders.
It was too late now. She felt that the Furies were pursuing her. Ah,
but the end had come--come with such hideous misconception--every
word spoken--and there had been so few in comparison with the
immensity of the occasion--a hopeless blunder. It had been the tussle
of two opposing temperaments, it was like the rasping steel of a
cross-cut saw against the hard, heavy grain of an iron-bark gum log.
Then the extraordinary involvements of circumstance. Each incident, big
and little, dovetailing and hastening the onward sweep of catastrophe.
It seemed as though Fate had cunningly engineered the forces on every
plane so that there should be no escape for her victims. Like almost
all the tragedies of ordinary human life, this one had been too swift
in its action to allow of suitable dialogue or setting.
CHAPTER 10
From Joan Gildea to Colin McKeith.
Written about a year later.
MY DEAR COLIN,
I find it impossible to recognise my old friend in the hard,
businesslike communication you sent me from Leichardt's Town. I almost
wish that you had allowed the lawyer you consulted to put the case
before me instead; it would have seemed less unfitting, and I could
have answered it better. But I quite appreciate your objection to
taking the lawyer into your confidence as regards the personal matters
you mention to me. It would be cruelly unjust--I think quite
unpardonable in you to bring forward the name of Mr Willoughby Maule in
connection with Bridget. Not that HE would mind that. I honestly
believe that he would snatch gladly at any means for inducing Bridget
to marry him. Whether she would do so, if you were to carry through
this amazing scheme of yours, it's impossible for me to say. At present
she certainly prefers to keep him at a distance. He has never been to
Castle Gaverick. And except for a few visits on business to London that
is where she has lived since she came over here.
Your letter followed me to Jamaica where I've been reporting on the
usual lines for THE IMPERIALIST, but, of course I couldn't answer it
until I had talked it over with Bridget and, as you desired, had
obtained her views on the matter. It was a shock to her to realise that
your reason for never writing to her and for refusing to let her write
to you, was lest that might affect the legality of these proceedings,
which I understand you have contemplated from the beginning of your
quarrel. Bridget is too proud to show you how deeply she is wounded by
your letter. All she has to say is, that if you really wish to take
this action, she will not oppose it.
But Colin, do you really wish, it? I refuse to believe that you
seriously contemplate divorcing your wife. You must know that you have
not the accepted grounds for doing so. As for the law you quote which
allows divorce in cases of two years' so-called desertion, I can only
say that I consider it a blot on Leichardt's Land legislation. Divorce
should be for one cause only--the cause to which Our Lord gave a
qualified approval; and Bridget has never been unfaithful--in act or
desire, to her husband. I would maintain this in spite of the most
damning testimony, and you must in your heart believe it also. Besides,
your testimony is ridiculously inadequate.
I am glad, however, that you have at last made your accusations in
detail--in order, as you say--that I--and Bridget, incidentally, I
suppose--should fully understand why you are adopting this attitude
towards her. I'm glad too, that you do not mean to make any use of the
evidence against her and are prepared to take all the blame for the
unhappy state of affairs between you! I write sarcastically. Why, it
would be monstrous if you had any other intention! Oh, how I hate this
pedantic roundabout way of writing! I feel inclined to tear up these
sheets--I've torn up two already. Really, you've made it so difficult
for me to treat you naturally. If I could talk to you, I'd make you
understand in five minutes--but I can't--so there!
Naturally, I had heard of your bringing Mr Willoughby Maule to the
station, and when I learned what followed, naturally also, I concluded
that you had discovered his identity with that of the man Bridget had
once cared for. I blame myself horribly. But for my carelessness you
would never have read that letter of Biddy's--she knows all about it
now--and your insane jealousy would not have jumped to conclusions--
at any rate so quickly. And perhaps if I had not bound you to secrecy
you'd have had the matter out with her, which would probably have saved
all this trouble. Anyhow, I can't imagine that you would have left her
alone with him as you did--and with bad feeling between you--at the
mercy of her own reckless impulses and that of Willoughby Maule's
ardent love-making. She doesn't pretend that it wasn't ardent, or that
he did not do his best to get her to run away with him--or that the
old infatuation did not come back to a slight extent--Is it surprising
after your conduct? No wonder she compared his devotion favourably,
with yours. Colin, your leaving her in such conditions wasn't the act
of a MAN, of a gentleman. I speak strongly, but I can't help it. I know
your stubborn pride and obstinacy, but you were wrong, you have
disappointed me--oh! how bitterly you have disappointed me!
Then there was that business about the blacks. What a fool you were--
and how brutally self-opinionated! I don't wonder Bridget thought you
an inhuman monster.
Now I have said my worst, and you must take it as it is meant and
forgive me.
As for the true story of that night's adventures, out of which your
Police Inspector seems to have made such abominable capital--I used to
think Police Inspectors were generally gentlemen--but they don't seem
to be, out on the Leura--I've got all the details from Biddy. A
tragi-comic business--so truly of the Bush, Bushy! I could laugh over
it, if it weren't for its serious consequences. Of course, Biddy got up
to turn out the goats which were butting with their horns under the
floor of her bedroom. I've often got up myself in the old days at
Bungroopim, when stray calves got into the garden, or the cockatoo
disturbed our slumbers. Do you remember Polly? and how she would keep
shouting out on a moonlight night 'The top of the mornin' to ye'--
because we'd forgotten to put her blanket over the cage--I believe
there were several occasions when you and I met in midnight dishabille
and helped each other to restore tranquillity. If anyone was to blame
for Biddy's adventure, it was your wood-and-water joey--or your
Chinamen--or whoever's business it may have been to see that the goats
were properly penned.
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