Such Is Life Part 55

I could read his thoughts as I looked at him across Montgomery's shoulder.

Concealed from distant observation by the timber of the pine-ridge, he had dismissed all apprehension, and allowed his mind to drift to a bend of the Murrumbidgee, a couple of miles above Hay. There were his young barbarians all at play; there was their dacent mother; he, their sire, looking blissfully forward to superhuman work, and plenty of it.

Straight into the lion's mouth! Heaven help--but does heaven help the Scotch-navigator? I question it. Half an hour's loafing, at any time during the day, would have timed his arrival so as not only to obviate the present danger, but to spare him the disquieting consciousness of narrow escape. And heaven helps those who help themselves

He knew the gate was near; and, with the automatic restlessness of an impatient dog tied under a travelling dray, he walked back and forward, backward and forward beside his weary team; often looking back to see the wagon clear the trees, but never, by any chance, looking forward against the blaze of the declining sun intently enough to notice the back of the buggy, partly concealed, as it was, by an umbrageous wilga.

As I watched him, I wished, with Balaam, that there were a sword in mine hand, that I might slay the a.s.s.

I dare n't ride past the buggy, for fear of Montgomery looking round to say something. I half-heard him tell me that the Sydney crew had won the regatta, and that Jupiter was starting a hot favourite for the Flemington.

And all this time, the unconscious son of perdition was crawling nearer; not a jolt nor a click-clock came from his wagon as it pressed the yielding soil; and the faint creaking of the tackle was drowned in the rustle of a hot wind through the foliage.

"I'm sorry to see you starting so late in the day, and Sat.u.r.day too,"

continued the squatter courteously. "The barracks will be lively to-night over these sporting events."

I bowed. I would have licked the dust to see him stand not upon the order of his going, but go at once. "Well, I must be moving," I mumbled hastily, glancing behind me at the sun, and backing Cleopatra into the scrub, to let the buggy pa.s.s--noting also that Priestley was n't forty yards away.

"Now, confess the truth, Collins--you've been having a tiff with Mrs. Beaudesart?" continued Montgomery. "Lovers' quarrel? That's nothing.

I did n't think you were so pettish as to run away like this."

"Indeed, Mr. Montgomery," said I earnestly; "I a.s.sure you I'm only going at the call of duty. I'll show"----here it struck me that the production of my letter would delay things worse, and----

"By the way, there's a parcel for Alf Jones in the mail-bag," continued the squatter, with hideous dilatoriness. "I see it's a roll of music.

Better take it. And his newspaper. Get him to give you a tune on his violin, if you can. It will be something to remember."

"Thank you for the suggestion, sir," I continued slavishly, whilst backing Cleopatra a little further into the scrub, and clearing my throat with a sharp, pentrating sound, as if I had swallowed a fly.

Just then, the bullocks stopped of their own accord, within ten yards of the buggy; and Priestley, pre-occupied in laying out fresh work for himself, was roused by my loud r-r-rehm! and took in the situation.

Montgomery seemed amused at my tribulation. "Why, your manner betrays you, Collins! Never mind. You'll grow out of that in good time. When is it coming off?" He crossed his knees, and held the reins jammed between them, whilst deliberately filling and lighting his pipe. Meanwhile, Priestley, in silent communion with his Maker, stood by his team as if waiting to be photographed. The buggy was in a cool, pleasant shade; and Montgomery would maintain this flagitious procrastination of his managerial duties while I remained a b.u.t.t for his ill-timed chaff. Critical is no name for the state of affairs.

But an angel seemed to whisper me soul to soul. I responded to the inspiration.

"Well, I'll show you the letter, Mr. Montgomery," said I, with a petulance tempered by sycophancy. I first felt, then slapped, my pockets--"By j.a.pers!

I've left my pocket-book on the seat in front of the barracks!" I continued hurriedly, as I turned Cleopatra back toward the station, and bounded off at a canter. I had n't gone five strides, when, flick! went the buggy-whip; the vehicle started after me; and Priestley was saved. But there is no such thing as permanent safety in this world. The first rattle of the wheels was followed by a loud, pompous, bank-director cough from one of the bullocks.

"Hullo! what the (sheol) have we here?" It was Montgomery's voice, no longer jocular. I turned and rode back, as he swung his buggy round on the lock, skilfully threading the trees and scrub, till he resumed his old position, but now facing the bullock team. "And what, in the devil's name, brings you round this quarter?" he demanded sternly.

"This is a bad job!"

"You're right, Mr. Magomery," a.s.sented the bullock driver, with emphasis; "it is a bad job; it's a (adj.) bad job. Way it comes: you see, I got a bit o' loadin' for Nalrookar"----

"Two-ton-five. I know all about that, though I'm not interested in the transaction," retorted Montgomery. "I asked you what the (sheol) brings you here?"

"Well, that's just what I was goin' to explain when you took the word out o' my mouth. You see, Mr. Magomery, the proper road for me would 'a' been back along the main track to the Cane-gra.s.s Swamp, an' from there along the reg'lar Nalrookar track; but I was frightened o' the Convincer, so I thought I'd just cut across"----

"Great G.o.d! You thought you'd just cut across! Do you own this run?

"Well, no, Mr. Magomery, I don't; that's (adj.) certain. But if I'd 'a'

thought you'd any objection, I'd 'a' ast leaf."

"That's what you should have done. You've acted like a d----d fool."

"You'd 'a' give me leaf?" suggested the bullock driver, in a tone full of unspoken entreaty.

"I'd have seen you in (sheol) first. I decline to make a thoroughfare of the run. But by condescending to ask me, you'd have saved yourself some travelling. The nearest way to the main road is past the station.

Here! rouse up your d----d mongrels, and make a start along this track.

I'll see that you're escorted. If you loose-out before you reach the main road, I shall certainly prosecute you. Once there, I'll take care you don't trespa.s.s again during this trip. Come! move yourself!"

Priestley had never been taught to order himself lowly and reverently to all his betters; yet there was deeper pathos in the rude dignity of his reply than could have attended servility.

"It s this way, Mr. Magomery--I don't deny I got here in a sneakin' way.

I feel it, Mr. Magomery; by (sheol) I do. Still, I'm here now. Well, if I tackle this track out to the main road, there's three o' them bullocks'll drop in yoke before I fetch the station. Would you like to see the bones layin' aside this track, every time you drive past? I bet you what you like, you'd be sorry when your temper is over. Then we'll say I'm out on the main road--how 'm I goin' to fetch Nalrooka? Not possible, the way I'm fixed.

I would n't do it to you, Mr. Magomery."

I had ridden to the side of the buggy. "Mr. Montgomery," said I; "I wish to heaven that you were under one-tenth of the obligation to me that I am under to you, so that I might venture to speak in this case. But the remembrance of so much consideration at your hands m the past, encourages me.

There's a great deal in what Priestley says; my own experience in bullock driving brings it home to me; and I sympathise with him, rather than with you.

Of course the matter rests entirely in your hands; but to me it appears in the light of a responsibility. It is n.o.ble to have a squatter's strength, but tyrannous to use it like a squatter."

Something like a smile struggled to Montgomery's sunburnt face; and I could see that the battle was over.

But another was impending. It was now half-an-hour since I had met the buggy.

Folkestone had calmly ignored me from the first. When the trouble supervened, his haughty immobility had still sustained him at such an alt.i.tude as to render Priestley, as well as myself, invisible even to bird's eye view.

But the small soul, rattling about loose in the large, well-fed body, could n't let it pa.s.s at that. On my interposing, he placed a gold-mounted gla.s.s in his eye, and, with a degress of rudeness which I have never seen equalled in a navvies' camp, stared straight in my face till I had done speaking. Then the lens dropped from his eye, and he turned to his companion.

"Who is this person, Montgomery?" he asked.

The squatter looked plainly displeased. He was as proud as his guest, but in a different way. Folkestone, being a gentleman per se, was distinguished from the ordinary image of G.o.d by caste and culture; and to these he added a fatal self-consciousness. Don't take me as saying that caste and culture could possibly have made him a boor; take me as saying that these had been powerless to avert the misfortune. He was a gentleman by the grace of G.o.d and the flunkeyism of man. Montgomery was also a gentleman, but only by virtue of his position. So that, for instance, Priestley's personal fac-simile, appearing as a well-to-do squatter, would have been received on equal terms by Montgomery; whereas, Folkestone's disdain would have been scarcely lessened. The relative manliness of the two types of 'gentleman' is a question which each student will judge according to his own fallen nature.

"Pardon me for saying that you Australians have queer ways of maintaining authority," continued the European, lazily raising his eyebrows, and speaking with the accent--or rather, absence of accent--which, in an Englishman, denotes first-cla.s.s education. "A vagrant, by appearance, and probably not overburdened with honesty, is found trespa.s.sing on your property; then this individual--by Gad, I feel curious to know who our learned brother for the defence is--bandies words with you on the other fellow's behalf. I confess I rather like his style. I expected to hear him address you as 'old boy,' or 'my dear fellow,' or by some such affectionate t.i.tle. Pardon my warmth, I say, Montgomery! but this phase of colonial life is new to me. Placed in your position (if my opinion, as a landlord, be worth anything), I should make an example of the trespa.s.sing scoundrel; partly as a tonic to himself, and partly as a lesson to this cad. If I rightly understand, you have the power to punish, by fine or imprisonment, any trespa.s.s on your sheep-walks. You don't exercise your prerogative, you say? By Gad, you'll have to exercise it, or, let me a.s.sure you, you will be sowing thorns for your children to reap.

Here, I should imagine, is an excellent opportunity for vindication of your rights as a land owner."

This reasoning would n't have affected Montgomery's foregone decision to suspend his own rights in the current case, had not Priestley been too industrious to notice the opening avenue of escape. But to the bullock driver's troubled mind it appeared that he had managed to wander inside the wings of the stockyard of Fate, and that Folkestone was lending a willing hand to hurroo him into the crush. Moreover, the rough magnanimity of the man's nature was outraged by some supposed insult sustained by me on his behalf.

Just three words of comment here. Built into the moral structure of each earthly probationer is a thermometer, graduated independently; and it is never safe to heat the individual to the boiling-point of his register. You never know how far up the scale this point is, unless you are very familiar with the particular thermometer under experiment.

Romeo, for instance, pacific by nature, and self-schooled to forbearance by the second-strongest of inspirations, meets deadly public insult by the softest of answers--'calm, dishonourable, vile submission,'

his friend calls it. But the slaying of that friend touches Romeo's 212Fahrenheit--then! 'Away to heaven, respective lenity, and fire-eyed fury be my conduct now!' Whereupon, Tybalt, the tamperer, is scalded to death.

In Ida, as we have seen, the insinuated aspersion of unchast.i.ty touched 100Centigrade; and the experimentalist was glad to retreat, with damaged dignity, from the escaping steam. So, in Priestley, the wanton hostility of Folkestone touched 80Reaumur; and the billy boiled over, wasting the water, and smothering the owner with ashes.

One moment more, please. Nations, kindreds, and peoples are individuals in ma.s.s; and here the existence of an overlooked boiling-point is the one thing that makes history interesting. Cowper puts on paper a fine breezy English contempt for the submissiveness and ultra-royalism of the pre-Revolutionary French--and lives to wonder at the course of events.

Macaulay's diction rolls like the swelling of Jordan, as he expatiates on the absolute subserviency, the settled incapacity for resistance, of the Bengalee--till presently the Mutiny (a near thing, in two widely different senses, and confined to the Bengalee troops) shakes his credit.

So it has ever been, and ever shall be. But for that ingrained endowment of resilience, Man would long ago have ceased to inhabit this planet.

When Priestley came to the boil, all considerations of expediency, all natural love of peace and fear of the wrath to come, all solicitude for wife and children, vanished from his mind, leaving him fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils. I must suppress about half the language in which he clothed his one remaining thought.

"An' who are you?" he thundered, advancing toward the buggy. "A loafer!-- no better!--an' you must shove in your lip! I don't blame Magomery for bein' nasty; he's got a right to blaggard me, the way things is; an' I give him credit. But you! Cr-r-ripes! if I had you a couple o' hundred mile furder back, I'd learn you manners! I'd make you spring off o' your tail!"

Folkestone, his head canted to a listening angle, noted with a half-amused, half-tired smile the outlaw's tirade. Then he rose, drew off his light coat, and laid it across the back of the buggy seat.

"I will thump this fellow, Montgomery," said he, and he certainly meant it.

Priestley was a man of nine stone.