Breakaway House

by Arthur W. Upfield

  Filson’s eyebrows rose just a fraction. “I understand that Morris Tonger ships his clip to a Bradford buyer direct,” he replied slowly. “Why?”

  “Sends it to England, does he?”

  “Yes. He’s done so for years.”

  Filson regarded his “overseer” sharply before helping himself to porridge but Tremayne offered no comment. He seemed sunk in a reverie. Eventually Brett asked again: “Why are you interested in Tonger’s wool?”

  Again instead of answering this question, Tremayne asked another. “Did you ring up Miss Sayers about Sunday?”

  “I did. Yesterday morning. Miss Winters and she will be glad to come. They’ll be ready to leave about three o’clock.”

  “Good!”

  The squatter found himself regarded by twinkling eyes. “I said, if you remember, ring her up today, Saturday,” Tremayne murmured. “Why the hurry?”

  Filson’s gaze abruptly dropped to his plate in an effort to conceal sudden confusion. Tremayne went on, or rather off, at another tangent.

  “I’m not looking for any pats on the back, Brett,” he said calmly, “but would you tell me if you like me, or are just indifferent, please.”

  “Well, whatever next!” Filson exclaimed. “I like you well enough. Why do you ask?”

  Tremayne was perfectly serious when he said: “I was thinking of a double wedding, that’s all.”

  “You are, I think, being a little abstruse this morning, Harry. First it’s Tonger’s wool, now it’s a double wedding. ‘Please explain’, as the nasty taxation people are fond of saying.”

  Tremayne leaned forward across the table to look straight into the other’s hazel eyes. “As a matter of fact,” he said distinctly, “Frances and I are going to be married directly I have cleared up this Breakaway House matter, and I thought it would be a good idea if you and Miss Sayers were married with us – making it a double event, so to speak.”

  With deliberateness, Brett Filson put down his knife and fork, leaned back in his chair, and stared hard ahead of him, a flush mounting into his weather-tanned face.

  “You don’t offer me congratulations,” Tremayne complained. “Are you sorry that I’m to be married?”

  “Not a bit,” Brett replied bitingly. “I am, however, sorry that you’re so damned impertinent.”

  For the next five minutes neither spoke. Filson declined to look at his companion.

  Then with unusual earnestness Tremayne said: “Just between pals, Brett, what’s against that double wedding? I know it’s no cursed business of mine, but what is against it?”

  Filson turned his eyes to glare at this young man who would not take a snub. Abruptly he stood up to pass round the table and stand squarely before Tremayne. Bending his head downward he placed an index finger against his almost white hair. “This,” he said. “I’m not yet forty.” Pulling up the left trouser leg, he revealed an artificial leg. “And this,” he said softly. Rapidly he removed his coat and waistcoat. Tremayne saw the padded harness which supported his body. “And this,” Filson said, with almost a sob in his voice.

  “Doesn’t she know?” Tremayne asked quietly.

  The young-old squatter nodded and began to replace waistcoat and coat.

  “Did she know before the ball?” Tremayne pressed. “She did,” Filson replied shortly. “Don’t let’s talk about it any more.”

  “Then you can take my word for it that the harness and the leg and the colour of your hair do not make the slightest difference to Ann Sayers. That’s no excuse for the double wedding not to take place. Tell me – do you love Ann Sayers?”

  “You seem to have guessed it,” Filson said bitterly.

  When Tremayne spoke again it was very cheerfully. “That being so, Brett, old man, it’s about time I made you understand that denying yourself you are denying Ann Sayers, my very good friend. Hurting yourself, you are hurting my very dear friend too. And it hurts me confoundedly to see you both unhappy. Whether you like it or not, there’s going to be a double wedding, and be damned to you.”

  CHAPTER XXV

  COLONEL LAWTON ARRIVES

  AS usual on Saturday mornings, Frances entered the dining room at half past nine, having been summoned by the gong struck in the hall. The sun was shining from a clear sky, and the mild rain-freshened air entering through the French windows was laden with bush scents. The maid who brought the breakfast foods on a tray was the girl who had conveyed her mistress’s note to Tremayne.

  “Good morning, May! Mr Tonger not yet up?”

  “Good morning, Miss Frances! Yes. Mr Tonger went out very early this morning and he hasn’t returned,” answered the girl, whose complexion was dusky and features pleasant.

  “Oh! Do you know where he went?”

  “Not exactly, but Cook says she heard from one of the men that Mr Tonger, Mr Whitbread and Alec went off to track some cattle duffers.”

  “Cattle duffers?”

  “Yes, Miss Frances. Mr Tonger was heard to say that if they caught them, and they would not surrender, he was going to shoot them.”

  Frances strolled to the window, her brows drawn together by a frown. She drew back the billowing curtains, experiencing a slight sense of relief engendered by the knowledge that she had found one “cattle duffer”, or he had found her, and that he knew his danger. Thank God he was well away from Breakaway House! That he had left her to go back to Bowgada. Carelessly she peeped outside before turning back to the maid standing by the table. The girl noted her mistress’s peculiarly direct gaze.

  “Close the door, please,” Frances instructed. “With both the windows and the door open, the draught is a little too strong.”

  Having obeyed, the girl found her mistress still regarding her steadily.

  “Come here, May,” Frances said quietly.

  Her expression one of puzzlement, the girl came to stand squarely before Frances, who said: “How much did it rain last night?”

  “They say there are eleven points in the glass. No one has taken it out because Mr Tonger does that when he enters the amount on the weather chart. Why do you look at me like that, Miss Frances?”

  “I’m wondering, May, if I can trust you,” Frances said softly.

  “Why, of course! Have you not always been kind to me?”

  The vivacious round face indicated earnestness; the dark eyes, bordered by long silken black eyelashes, were wide. Altogether a frank face revealing a thinking mind. Her mother lived with her tribe in the vicinity of Meekatharra; her father was a prospector who admitted and had fulfilled his obligations. After her rearing in a mission, May had gone to live with him in his shack outside Mount Magnet before coming to work at Breakaway House.

  When Frances put her next question, she flushed a little. “Are you going with any of the men here?”

  “No, miss. I’m a good girl. I only stay here because you are mistress. I have a sweetheart. He works on Kyle station,” the maid said with pride.

  On impulse, Frances took both May’s hands in hers. “I’m glad to hear you say that, May,” she said. “I’ve always liked you, and I’ve always thought you to be a good girl. Would you like to be my friend? You see, I have no one here with whom I can be friends.”

  “Oh, miss! I would like that. I would do anything for you,” the young woman cried in a trembling voice.

  “Very well. You shall be my friend. That will be one secret between us. Can you keep secrets?”

  “Yes. Try me.”

  “I will. I’ll tell you another secret. You remember the gentleman who called the other day when I was away at Mount Magnet – Mr Tremayne? He and I are going to be married some day. That’s our secret number two. Now listen. Mr Tonger hates Mr Tremayne and I want you to come and tell me if you hear at any time plans being made to hurt him. Will you do that for me?”

  The girl’s eyes gleamed. Between her red lips pearly teeth flashed. Nodding, she said: “You can depend on me, miss. I’ll learn things.”

  “Very well, May. You can go no
w. Remember our two secrets.

  We are both lonely here, but we won’t be lonely any more, will we?”

  “No. I shall be happy here now. There have been times when I was sad. The others are cold to me, and all the men want to flirt. I tell them that if they annoy me my father will come and shoot them all. He would too. He said he would. He said he wasn’t going to have his daughter taken cheaply.”

  “May that never happen,” Frances said fervently. “Why, that’s the telephone! I must answer it. Get me the office key please.”

  With an unusually buoyant heart, Frances left the house and crossed the open space to the office. The homestead was very quiet that morning, wearing its unmistakable Saturday aspect which, even here in the heart of the bush, was not to be denied. Beside the men’s quarters, two stockmen were washing clothes. The huge fat cook was seated on the doorstep of his kitchen reading a newspaper, his breakfast work accomplished and his dinner prepared.

  The office occupied one end of a long weather-boarded building devoted to store-room, and paint and saddlery shops. The office room was spacious and furnished with several easy chairs, an American roll-top desk, a writing table, shelves of books, a safe, and many pictures of racehorses and stud sheep on the walls. At the head of a stretcher bed set against one wall was a lowboy in which Frances rightly guessed her uncle kept his narcotics, for set out on top were a glass jug and several glasses.

  Lifting off the telephone receiver and giving her name, she heard Brett Filson’s voice. “How are you this morning, Miss Frances?”

  “Quite well, thank you, Mr Filson. How are you?”

  “Very chirpy. That was a nice rain we had last night. It’ll freshen up the herbage and wipe out old stock tracks, making the men’s work easier. Is your uncle at home?”

  “No. He’s away. He went out early.”

  “Did you hear where he went?”

  “I’m not certain, but I understand he thought some cattle duffers were at work, and he’s gone out to try and track them.”

  “That sounds serious,” Brett said, laughing.

  “Yes, doesn’t it?”

  “I rang up for two reasons,” Brett stated. “Firstly, to congratulate you.”

  “Thank you!”

  “I wish you every joy, Miss Frances. You picked a good man. My second reason was to ask if you could come over tomorrow afternoon early and stay the evening. Miss Sayers and Miss Winters are coming out for the day, and we want to make it a jolly party. Could you manage it?”

  “Yes, I think so. I don’t think Uncle would raise any objection.”

  “You might ask him to come with you.”

  “He’s expecting Colonel Lawton. I don’t think he would be able to come.”

  “Be sure to ask him, nevertheless. Our mutual friend is fast asleep, so you’ll have to excuse him. Goodbye then, until tomorrow. If you can’t borrow your uncle’s car, ring me up and I’ll come and get you myself.”

  “Until tomorrow then. Goodbye, and thank you!” Still smiling, tempted to sing, and her heart light with happiness, Frances locked the office and sauntered back to the house and her much-delayed breakfast. Even with Mr Filson, the coming of Harry Tremayne had made a world of difference. Before the ball she had hardly known the Bowgada squatter, he had seemed so coldly aloof, so resigned.

  She was still at table when her uncle came in to go at once to the sideboard and silently mix himself a whisky and soda. He did not speak, even when he sat down opposite her.

  “Good morning, Uncle,” she said brightly, declining to be subdued by his black mood.

  “Morning,” he replied boorishly, then snapped at May when she placed a cover before him: “What this? I hope the confounded food is hot. I hate cold grease.”

  Frances thought it strange that she no longer felt afraid of him; strange because now she knew him for what he was. Bowgada seemed much nearer than it had before; it had become a haven into which she could slip for safety.

  “Mr Filson just rang up,” she said, ignoring Tonger’s ugly mood. “He’s invited me to spend tomorrow afternoon and evening at Bowgada. They’re having a party. Miss Sayers and Miss Winters are coming out from Myme.”

  Tonger’s face cleared with astonishing rapidity. He sat more upright in his chair and the dull angry look in his dark eyes vanished.

  “That’s kind of Filson,” he said. “I hope you accepted his invitation. It’ll be a change for you; you don’t get out much. You can drive yourself over in the car because I’ll not want it.”

  “Thank you, Uncle. Mr Filson thought you might like to go, too. His invitation is extended to you.”

  “I’m afraid I couldn’t. Lawton will be here this afternoon, and he’s sure to stay two or three days. But you go by all means and have a good time. Perhaps Filson will ask you and his friends to stay over till Monday. If he does, accept. The less Lawton sees of you the better. In fact I wish you were away from now until he’s gone. He’s all right as a friend, but I don’t want to see any Tonger woman married to him.”

  “Don’t worry, Uncle,” she said cheerfully. “I’ll not fall in love with the man. And remember, I can manage him.”

  He gave her one of his rare smiles.

  “Well, you can manage me, and that’s something of which to be proud,” he told her. “It’s time we went on a long holiday. I haven’t had a real holiday for seven years. What do you say to we two clearing off to Europe rather than just New Zealand when I’ve got the last of the wool away? We’ve been living well within our income, and I’ve made money in spite of the depression. I feel like splashing some of it.”

  “It would be lovely,” she agreed, successfully infusing enthusiasm into her voice.

  “That’s what we’ll do then, directly I’ve got the wool away. Is the spare room ready for the Colonel?”

  “I think so. I’ve not made a final inspection. Will he be here for lunch?”

  “No, not before two o’clock, and it might not be until six.”

  They fell to discussing the menu for dinner that evening and when Morris Tonger rose to leave, saying he had to make sure that the wind kites were working properly to assist the Colonel in landing, his mood continued to be cheerful.

  He was full of the projected holiday trip to Europe when they met at lunch, and again expressed pleasure that she had accepted Filson’s invitation. Casually he suggested that she should make no mention of the tentatively planned holiday to Colonel Lawton.

  She was softly playing on the piano and singing an old Italian love song when the note of an aeroplane engine sent her quickly out to the veranda, where almost instantly she saw the twin-engine bi-plane speeding down from the north, its silver-painted wings and fuselage shimmering in the upper light.

  From three thousand feet it dived steeply for the homestead and with a whistling scream arrived over the shearing shed, its engines breaking into a full-throated roar. Then the machine flashed by overhead, but she saw the arm thrust over the side and the waving handkerchief held in the gloved fist.

  Up and up it zoomed, circling westward and northward before returning to alight beneath its master’s hands on the open ground east of the homestead. Like a waddling cockatoo it taxied right to the shearing shed wall where Tonger and his men were waiting.

  From behind the window curtain, Frances saw the bulky figure of the airman clamber out of the machine, shake hands with her uncle, and give orders to Whitbread whilst he removed his kit. Together, he and the Breakaway House squatter walked across to the office talking earnestly.

  An hour later as she was trying hard to concentrate on a book, the afternoon tea set out on an occasional table, the door was thrown open, and she rose to meet Colonel Lawton whose exploits had rung round the world in 1918. Her uncle followed the airman.

  “Hallo, Miss Frances!” he said in greeting, his voice strangely soft and weak for so big a man. “I declare you grow more beautiful every time I see you. You remind me of a flower shut down in a coal-cellar.”

  �
�I’m a thirsty flower, Colonel. I’ve been waiting to give you afternoon tea. Has your trip been good?”

  CHAPTER XXVI

  THE TEA PARTY

  IT was with a decided feeling of relief that Frances drove away from Breakaway House across the wide expanse of saltbush flats on her way to Bowgada. Never a place of light and happiness, the coming of Colonel Lawton seemed to cast an even deeper shadow over the homestead.

  To be sure, he was a charming man in some respects. He talked well and had the knack of drawing vivid word pictures taken at random from a vast album of personal experiences. She would never forget the story of fighting a typhoon over the raging Timor Sea, a story in which the machine was the hero, not the puny man who controlled it. Seldom was the masculine “Great I am” so skilfully submerged.

  It was the expression on the Colonel’s scarred and battered face – the result of several crashes – which repulsed her; not the broken nose and the red wrinkled skin bridging his left temple which drew the adjacent eyelid upward to make that eye look markedly oriental. Physically, the man was a perfect specimen, almost as big as her uncle but harder, cleaner of flesh and clearer of eye. He did not smoke, and he drank nothing but water.

  Perhaps it was the extraordinary control he exercised over his facial muscles and his command over his emotions which disturbed her. When he smiled, which was seldom, she knew that it was mechanical and that there was no laughter in his heart.

  “Well, goodbye,” he had said lightly but unsmilingly as he stood beside the car. “You’re fortunate to be able to enjoy a game of bridge. Cards bore me frightfully. If you’re not home by midnight, I shall come after you on one of the station trucks.”

  It was then that his mouth expressed humour, but in his eyes she sensed stern determination to do what he had said. He had not uttered a word which even remotely referred to his proposal of marriage made to her the evening before. A proposal to which she had of course said no, but he gave her the impression that her rejection of him would be merely temporary; that to fail in his suit simply did not occur to him.