“It might—”
“You know darned well it couldn’t,” Blair shouted venomously. “ ’Ere are you throwing open a measly fourteen blocks when there’s some twenty hundred men struggling to get homes, and that there Sir flamin’ Walter Thorley owns half Australia, which belongs to no man but the Government, which is the people.
“Two thousand blokes, mark you. Most of ’em married and with a family, and the rest wanting to get married and have children; and you allow Thorley to own hundreds of miles of the people’s land, employ a few abos and breed dingo, and see his bloomin’ land once every two years.”
“We must not discuss—” came from the chairman.
“Of course not,” cut in Blair. “We must not take the name of the great Sir Walter Thorley in vain, but when there’s a war we must fight for his land and his money-bags, eh? We mustn’t say nothing, we must offer up thanks to the worst employer in the State and breeder of sheep-killers, and bless him for allowing us to live at all.
“I’ve been cheated out of my birthright, yes, me and hundreds of others. I got a right to have a wife, to have children by her, to make and have and hold a home. Can I ask any woman to marry me when I can’t give her a home? Can I get a home when you won’t give me the lease of any land? Can you open up the land as it should be opened when Thorley and all the rest of the absentee squatters have grabbed the lot? What flamin’ use is it to the country to allow one man to own twenty millions of acres when that area would support one thousand families—that’s what I want to know?
“Here am I,” went on Blair with greater rapidity, “now fifty-two years old. All my life I bin on the Darling River. Twenty-one years ago I fell in love with a woman down in Pooncaira. For twenty-one years she’s been waitin’ for me to make a home. But my girl, aye, and me, too, will kick the bucket afore we ever have a home. Yes, cheated out of our birthright, two humans out of hundreds. That’s all, gents.”
Blair’s eyes were suspiciously moist when he rose to his feet, at the end of this tirade, shouted in a loud voice. He had had his say, and felt like a man in the dock proven innocent.
“One moment, Mr Blair,” came the chairman’s tired voice. “As I tried to say, we cannot discuss the big leaseholders at these proceedings. We have to confine ourselves strictly to the present business, which is the allocation of land, and not the discussion of politics. The Board will give your application the usual consideration, and you will be notified of the Board’s decision. You said just now that there are many married men with families in want of a block of land. Like them, you could have married had you wished.”
“I could,” replied Blair instantly. “But the men can’t live with their families unless they work in or about a town. Being a bushman, I can’t get a job in a town. Still, you’re right, mister, I suppose. The woman and children first—after Thorley is satisfied. Good day-ee.”
Head erect, the point of his beard horizontal with his nose, Blair marched out. If he saw the sergeant of police, or the waiting crowd, he made no sign. Passing through this latter, he stalked across the street and, entering an hotel, stood erect in front of a bar and ordered a double whisky.
Dugdale’s interview with the Board was less dramatic. He answered the chairman’s questions quietly and to the point. Thornton’s letter, offering to stock any block he might receive, also spoke highly of the young man’s character and abilities.
“I want this block, gentlemen, not only for the purpose of making money out of wool, but in order that I may marry and have a home of my own,” Dugdale said in conclusion.
The chairman forced a smile. He had heard that plea so many times before. Privately he wondered how any man wanting to get married, and wanting a home, could be such an utter fool as to stay in the Australian bush.
When Dugdale found himself dismissed he was unable to decide what effect his present application had had on the members of the Land Board. He felt a little sick at heart. It seemed all such a gamble, a gamble with men’s desires and hopes. Fourteen blocks among two thousand applicants. The odds against the home were about a hundred and fifty to one.
The three cars left Wilcannia about five o’clock, the occupants seldom speaking, the reaction of the gamble being felt. They would each experience the pleasure of anticipation for several weeks, until the post brought them the result of the Great Land Lottery.
In the second car, morose and silent, sat Frederick Blair. He was quite sober.
Chapter Eighteen
The Surprise Party
EVERY ROOM of the Barrakee homestead blazed with light. The wide verandas were festooned with Chinese lanterns, and hundreds of other coloured lights decorated the orange trees bordering the lawns.
Thornton himself was master of the ceremonies. Dressed in a well-fitting dinner suit, the white shirt of which accentuated his kindly weatherbeaten face, he announced the first dance at precisely nine o’clock, from the centre of the cleared dining drawing room. In one comer was the orchestra. One of the Misses Hemming and Miss Stirling agreed to take it in turns to play the piano, and they were supported by Frederick Blair with his accordion and Bony with a plentiful supply of gum-leaves. The tinkling of the piano, the organ notes of the accordion, and the thin wailing of the gum-leaf broke into the beautiful melody of The Blue Danube.
For at Barrakee the howling dervish charges known to moderns as dancing, accompanied by cacophonous bedlam, were not regarded with favour.
The big room was full of dancers, the verandas, too, provided excellent floors for many couples who disliked the crush. And over the lawns, lit by fairy lamps, the orange groves, and the dark, empty river beyond, brooded the soft gentle night of mid-May.
Kate had given Frank Dugdale her first dance, and while with leaping pulses and pounding heart he held her lightly, he whispered, with an unmistakable tremor in his voice:
“Will you give me the last dance, too?”
The question awoke her from a pleasant reverie. She was thinking how well he looked in clothes that sat on him with distinction. There was certainly no handsomer man present that evening, and he danced divinely. When she heard his whispered question she opened her half-closed eyes and found herself looking into his blazing orbs. For just a fraction of a second was he revealed to her, but only for a fraction, before the conventional veil of indifference again clouded his eyes.
“Well, what of that last dance, Kate?”
“I’m sorry, Dug, but I’ve promised it already,” she told him, her voice low, her face flushed.
“I am sorry, too,” he said, with evident disappointment. Then, in a lighter tone: “Who is the lucky man?”
She half-sensed the pang of regret in his voice, and experienced a peculiar sense of disappointment herself. With a shock of surprise she realized presently that for not a few minutes she had forgotten Ralph.
“I am not going to tell you,” was her laughing response. “The surprise is going to be given before the last dance, and I’ll promise you the dance before the surprise. And, Dug, you really should be grateful to me for that second dance. All the boys will be vexed with me for giving anyone two dances this evening.”
“If there are any complaints, just refer them to me, please,” he said. “Anyhow, this evening I shall dance with no other girl.”
For the remainder of the dance he gave himself silently to the ecstasy of her close companionship and their spiritual union of music and motion. And, when the last notes, feelingly and lingeringly played, were struck, he awoke to realities as though he had been aroused from a sweet dream by the coming of an executioner.
At the end of the fourth dance Thornton besought the Reverend Mr Thatcher to carry on the duties of MC for a while. Mr Thatcher was the vicar of a parish about the size of Great Britain. Being equally proficient at motor-engine repairing, shooting and skinning kangaroos, and keeping the organ fund in a solvent condition, as he was at preaching a sermon at any time and in any place, Mr Thatcher was a born MC.
His freedom gain
ed, John Thornton sought out Mr Hemming, and together they made their way to the small room where Nellie Wanting was acting as barmaid.
Mr Hemming managed a station belonging to Sir Walter Thorley some hundred miles north of Barrakee. In area the station he managed was larger than Barrakee, but his salary as manager was not as large as that of Mr Watts, the overseer of Barrakee. He was middle-sized, middle-aged, and middle-conditioned, and if his bank balance was invariably below par his spirits were invariably above. He had a good wife and a big family, and life would have been far more pleasant than it was if his titled employer would only have refrained from his biennial visit to the station.
“How did you get on with the Board today, Hem?” the station-owner said over his champagne glass.
“The same as usual, I think,” Hemming replied. “The chairman said I ought to think myself a lucky man, being a station-manager, and having a good homestead for my family. Maybe he’s right. I’m not grumbling about my luck. But I am sick and tired of Sir Walter, and constant orders to cut this and economize on that.”
“That’s his way of making money, Hem.”
“Yes, but hang it all, John, you know as well as I do that twenty-seven shillings are kept every week from each man’s wages for food, and, although the average station can keep a man comfortably on fourteen shillings a week, thereby robbing the man of the other thirteen, when it comes to keeping him on about four shillings and robbing him of twenty-three it’s a bit thick.”
“I quite agree, old man. It is a bit thick. Another glass of fizz?”
“Thanks, I will. I’ll take one of these cigarettes, too. Have one?”
The squatter accepted one from the proffered box and silently watched Nellie fill their glasses. The music came softly to them, the echoes of happy voices from the lawns drifted in through open window and door. A moment later the two men went out and found a seat, where they smoked.
“About Three Corner Station, Hem.”
“What of it?”
“How much money could you put up?”
“How much?” exclaimed Mr Hemming. “About two and tenpence.”
For some few minutes neither spoke.
“The purchase price of the lease, Hem, will probably amount to fifty thousand pounds,” resumed the squatter presently. “You’re a young man yet, Hem, and you could make it pay well. If you like to buy it, I’ll find the money, and we can come to an arrangement for repayment to suit us both. In ten or twelve years you should be clear of me.”
Mr Hemming sat as though stunned. He was silent for so long that the squatter said:
“Don’t you like the idea, Hem?”
The other found his voice and gasped:
“Say, John! Do you know what you are offering me?” he said, a break in his voice. “You are offering me a home and independence. You are offering me freedom from the slavery of Thorley, and you question my liking the idea. Are you sure you mean it?”
“Of course. Why not? We’ve been friends a long time.”
“Then, John, you will have to excuse me at once. I must find my wife and tell her. The telling will be the greatest pleasure in my life; the next greatest pleasure will be when I tell Thorley to go and be damned.”
Mr Hemming hastened along the veranda, leaving John Thornton chuckling. He liked Hem and knew him for a sound man.
“Oh! There you are. Why are you sitting all alone?”
Thornton looked up and saw his wife. Indicating Mr Hemming’s vacated seat, he said:
“I have put it to Hem about Three Corner Station,” he said, still chuckling.
“Ah! And how did Mr Hemming take it?”
“He has just rushed off to tell his wife.”
“I’m as glad as she will be, John, but it is half-past ten, dear, and don’t you think it is time for supper?”
“Yes. Is everything ready?”
“Everything. When this dance stops, will you tell them?”
“Very well, I’ll go along in. Having a good time, sweetheart?” he asked gently.
“Just lovely,” she said. “Ralph, I think, is in paradise. And Kate is there with him. Now go, the music is stopping.”
Thornton rose, and, after playfully pinching his wife’s ear, walked to the dining room, which he entered through one of the wide French windows.
“Fellow taxpayers and workers for the Governments of Australia, my wife and I think it time for supper,” he said genially. “We must not abuse our strength by fasting too long, and strength is necessary to pay the tax-gatherers. Will you please partner all, and follow in line after the band?”
Shouts, encores and laughter greeted this impromptu speech. Blair and Bony stood up to head the procession of couples, and then striking up “For Australia will be There!” marched out of the room, across the veranda, and twice round the lawns before entering the big marquee at the bottom end of these.
A great display of viands to suit every taste was set out on a long table at one end of the tent, and every man waited on his supper partner. Seeing Mrs Thornton without a partner, Bony spoke to her.
“Madam, will you honour me by accepting my service?” he asked, making his courtly bow. She forgot his colour and his apparent station life: his bow and speech forbade remembrance. Taking the seat he offered her, she said:
“Thank you, Bony. I should like a glass of sherry and a sandwich. And,” she added, when he was leaving her, “bring refreshment for yourself, and sit here beside me.”
“I shall be charmed, madam,” Bony said. And when he was seated beside her, he remarked:
“The party, I think, is a great success.”
“I think so, too,” she said. “Everyone seems to be happy.”
They talked as equals, without condescension on her part or presumption on his. Nowhere but in the bush could that have been so. Even Blair, the only other person present outside the station homestead society, fitted naturally into the circumstances and was talking freely to his boss.
Mrs Thornton made a great impression on the half-caste detective. In her disposition he recognized gentleness and firmness, a wide charity of outlook and a great breadth of mind, apart from the capacity to dislike. He read, too, in her firm mouth and chin a powerful will, to which opposition was rather a spur than an obstruction.
After supper he and his musical colleague led the dancers back to the house, and again he played with unflagging verve on his succession of gum-leaves. It was one o’clock in the morning when Mr Thornton announced that but one more dance remained on the programme.
“Before this last dance I have an announcement to make,” he said. He was standing on a foot-high platform, near the piano, and Ralph and Kate and his wife were with him. “It is the surprise,” he went on, “to give you which is the reason for this party. Are you all quite ready?”
A chorus of “Yesses” answered him. He was smiling. He was very happy at this moment, and said simply:
“I have to announce the engagement of my son Ralph and my niece Kate Flinders.”
No one spoke. Kate felt herself drawn by the squatter’s powerful arm close beside him, then a little in front of him. Ralph, too, had been drawn opposite her. Looking into his dark face, she saw his eyes flash and burn into hers. He held his hands towards her and she gave him hers. She saw the sparkle of diamonds and the glint of gold, and felt the ring slipped on her third finger.
And then someone—she thought it was Edwin Black—sang in a clear tenor voice:
“For they are jolly good fellows!”
The whole company took up the refrain with enthusiasm, love and friendship fully expressed by a great people. With shining eyes a little moist, she looked at them; from one to another, from those in front to those behind them, and still further back.
And her wavering gaze finally and suddenly became fixed on the ashen face of Frank Dugdale.
He was right at the back, leaning against the wall as though for support. Without sense of time and with ever-increasing wonder, she examined each
of his features in turn. And at last she was looking straight into his blazing grey eyes, and saw therein the horror, the agony, and the hurt.
Her heart stopped. The people, the room, life itself, became motionless. Her mind was capable of registering nothing but the white, stricken face over at the far wall. And then a brilliant rainbow colouring filled the air, the singing became softer, unreal, far away.
And the light fell upon the soul of Kate Flinders, revealing it to herself, showing her that at last she knew what love was, knew that she loved Frank Dugdale and had always loved him.
The orchestra began to play. The little crowd broke up into couples, and the couples began to dance. She looked at Ralph as though she were entranced. She heard him say:
“Come, dear! This is our dance.”
Quite automatically she danced with her affianced husband.
But Dugdale went out and wrestled with a thousand devils until the dawn.
Chapter Nineteen
Blood and Feathers
AT TEN O’CLOCK in the morning on the following Monday, Sergeant Knowles and a trooper arrived at Barrakee in a motor-car. Mrs Thornton heard the car pull up outside the office, and asked Kate to see who were the callers. A minute later she welcomed them on the veranda.
“Why, it’s Mr Knowles,” she said in greeting. “Come in and have morning tea, do. Kate, run along and tell Martha. And why are you so far away from your post of duty?”
Talking gaily, she indicated chairs to her visitors, seating herself to permit them also to be seated.
“Trooper Smith and I have called about a little business matter,” briskly explained the dapper yet athletic sergeant. “But the business can wait till after the morning tea, Mrs Thornton.”
“Of course it can,” the Little Lady responded. “If the tea-growers went on strike, I really don’t know what we would do.”
Martha, bearing a tray, arrived resplendent in white poplin skirt, emerald green blouse, and brown riding-boots.
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