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Millie stood leaning against the verandah
until the men were out of sight. When they were far
down the road Willie Cox turned round on his horse and waved. But
she didn't wave back.
She nodded her head a little and made a grimace. Not a bad young
fellow, Willie Cox, but a
bit too free and easy for her taste. Oh, my word ! it was hot. Enough
to fry your hair ! Millie
put her handkerchief over her head and shaded her eyes with her
hand. In the distance along
the dusty road she could see the horses—like brown spots dancing
up and down, and when
she looked away from them and over the burnt paddocks she could
see them still—just
before her eyes, jumping like mosquitoes. It was half-past two in
the afternoon. The sun hung
in the faded blue sky like a burning mirror, and away beyond the
paddocks the blue
mountains quivered and leapt like sea. Sid wouldn't be back until
half-past ten. He had ridden
over to the township with four of the boys to help hunt down the
young fellow who'd
murdered Mr. Williamson. Such a dreadful thing ! And Mrs. Williamson
left all alone with
all those kids. Funny ! she couldn't think of Mr. Williamson being
dead ! He was such a one
for a joke. Always having a lark. Willie Cox said they found him
in the barn, shot bang
through the head, and the young English " johnny " who'd
been on the station learning
farming—disappeared. Funny ! she wouldn't think of anyone
shooting Mr. Williamson, and
him so popular and all. My word ! when they caught that young man
! Well—you couldn't be
sorry for a young fellow like that. As Sid said, if he wasn't strung
up where would they all be
? A man like that doesn't stop at one go. There was blood all over
the barn. And Willie Cox
said he was that knocked out he picked a cigarette up out of the
blood and smoked it. My
word ! he must have been half dotty.
Millie went back into the kitchen. She put some ashes on the stove
and sprinkled them with
water. Languidly, the sweat pouring down her face, and dropping
off her nose and chin, she
cleared away the dinner, and going into the bedroom, stared at herself
in the fly-specked
mirror, and wiped her face and neck with a towel. She didn't know
what was the matter with
herself that afternoon. She could have had a good cry—just
for nothing— and then change
her blouse and have a good cup of tea. Yes, she felt like that !
She flopped down on the side
of the bed and stared at the coloured print on the wall opposite,
" Garden Party at Windsor
Castle." In the foreground emerald lawns planted with immense
oak trees, and in their
grateful shade, a muddle of ladies and gentlemen and parasols and
little tables. The
background was filled with the towers of Windsor Castle, flying
three Union Jacks, and in
the middle of the picture the old Queen, like a tea cosy with a
head on top of it. " I wonder if
it really looked like that." Millie stared at the flowery ladies,
who simpered back at her. " I
wouldn't care for that sort of thing. Too much side. What with the
Queen an' one thing an'
another." Over the packing case dressing-table there was a
large photograph of her and Sid,
taken on their wedding day. Nice picture that—if you do like.
She was sitting down in a
basket chair, in her cream cashmere and satin ribbons, and Sid,
standing with one hand on
her shoulder, looking at her bouquet. And behind them there were
some fern trees, and a
waterfall, and Mount Cook in the distance, covered with snow. She
had almost forgotten her
wedding day ; time did pass so, and if you hadn't any one to talk
things over with, they soon
dropped out of your mind. " I wunner why we never had no kids
. . . " She shrugged her
shoulders—gave it up. " Well, I've never missed them.
I wouldn't be surprised if Sid had,
though. He's softer than me."
And then she sat, quiet, thinking of nothing at all, her red swollen
hands rolled in her apron,
her feet stuck out in front of her, her little head with the thick
screw of dark hair, drooped on
her chest. " Tick-tick " went the kitchen clock, the ashes
clinked in the grate, and the
Venetian blind knocked against the kitchen window. Quite suddenly
Millie felt frightened. A
queer trembling started inside her—in her stomach—and
then spread all over to her knees
and hands. " There's somebody about." She tiptoed to the
door and peered into the kitchen.
Nobody there ; the verandah doors were closed, the blinds were down,
and in the dusky light
the white face of the clock shone, and the furniture seemed to bulge
and breathe . . . and
listen, too. The clock— the ashes—and the Venetian—and
then again—something else—
like steps in the back yard. " Go an' see what it is, Milly
Evans." She darted to the back door,
opened it, and at the same moment some one ducked behind the wood
pile. " Who's that," she
cried, in a loud, bold voice. " Come out o' that. I seen yer.
I know where you are. I got my
gun. Come out from behind of that wood stack." She was not
frightened any more. She was
furiously angry. Her heart banged like a drum. " I'll teach
you to play tricks with a woman,"
she yelled, and she took a gun from the kitchen corner, and dashed
down the verandah steps,
across the glaring yard to the other side of the wood stack. A young
man lay there, on his
stomach, one arm across his face. " Get up ! You're shamming
! " Still holding the gun she
kicked him in the shoulders. He gave no sign. " Oh, my God,
I believe he's dead." She knelt
down, seized hold of him, and turned him over on his back. He rolled
like a sack. She
crouched back on her haunches, staring, her lips and nostrils fluttered
with horror.
He was not much more than a boy, with fair hair, and a growth of
fair down on his lips and
chin. His eyes were open, rolled up, showing the whites, and his
face was patched with dust
caked with sweat. He wore a cotton shirt and trousers with sandshoes
on his feet. One of the
trousers stuck to his leg with a patch of dark blood. " I can't,"
said Millie, and then, " You've
got to." She bent over and felt his heart. " Wait a minute,"
she stammered, " wait a minute,"
and she ran into the house for brandy and a pail of water. "
What are you going to do, Millie
Evans ? Oh, I don't know. I never seen anyone in a dead faint before."
She knelt down, put
her arm under the boy's head and poured some brandy between his
lips. It spilled down both
sides of his mouth. She dipped a corner of her apron in the water
and wiped his face, and his
hair and his throat, with fingers that trembled. Under the dust
and sweat his face gleamed,
white as her apron, and thin, and puckered in little lines. A strange
dreadful feeling gripped
Millie Evans' bosom—some seed that had never flourished there,
unfolded, and struck deep
roots and burst into painful leaf. " Are yer coming round ?
Feeling all right again ? " The boy
breathed sharply, half choked, his eyelids quivered, and he moved
his head from side to side.
" You're better," said Millie, smoothing his hair. "
Feeling fine now again, ain't you ? " The
pain
in her bosom half suffocated her. " It's no good you crying,
Millie Evans. You got to keep
your head." Quite suddenly he sat up and leaned against the
wood pile, away from her,
staring on the ground. " There now ! " cried Millie Evans,
in a strange, shaking voice. The
boy turned and looked at her, still not speaking, but his eyes were
so full of pain and terror
that she had to shut her teeth and clench her hand to stop from
crying. After a long pause he
said in the little voice of a child talking in his sleep, "
I 'm hungry." His lips quivered. She
scrambled to her feet and stood over him. " You come right
into the house and have a set
down meal," she said. "Can you walk ? " " Yes,'
he whispered, and swaying he followed her
across the glaring yard to the verandah. At the bottom step he paused,
looking at her again. "
I 'm not coming in," he said. He sat on the verandah step in
the little pool of shade that lay
round the house. Millie watched him. " When did yer last 'ave
anythink to eat ? " He shook
his head. She cut a chunk off the greasy corned beef and a round
of bread plastered with
butter ; but when she brought it he was standing up, glancing round
him, and paid no
attention to the plate of food. " When are they coming back
? " he stammered.
At that moment she knew. She stood, holding the plate, staring.
He was Harrison. He was the
English johnny who'd killed Mr. Williamson. " I know who you
are," she said, very slowly,
"yer can't fox me. That's who you are. I must have been blind
in me two eyes not to 'ave
known from the first." He made a movement with his hands as
though that was all nothing. "
When are they coming back ? " And she meant to say, "
Any minute. They're on their way
now." Instead she said to the dreadful, frightened face, "
Not till 'arf past ten." He sat down,
leaning against one of the verandah poles. His face broke up into
little quivers. He shut his
eyes and tears streamed down his cheeks. " Nothing but a kid.
An' all them fellows after 'im.
'E don't stand any more of a chance than a kid would." "
Try a bit of beef," said Millie. " It's
the food you want. Somethink to steady your stomach." She moved
across the verandah and
sat down beside him, the plate on her knees. " 'Ere—try
a bit." She broke the bread and butter
into little pieces, and she thought, " They won't ketch 'im.
Not if I can 'elp it. Men is all
beasts. I don' care wot 'e's done, or wot 'e 'asn't done. See 'im
through, Millie Evans. 'E's
nothink but a sick kid."
Millie lay on her back, her eyes wide open, listening. Sid turned
over, hunched the quilt
round his shoulders, muttered " Good night, ole girl."
She heard Willie Cox and the other
chap drop
their clothes on to the kitchen floor, and then their voices, and
Willie Cox saying, "Lie down,
Gumboil. Lie down, yer little devil," to his dog. The house
dropped quiet. She lay and
listened. Little pulses tapped in her body, listening, too. It was
hot. She was frightened to
move because of Sid. " 'E must get off. 'E must. I don' care
anythink about justice an' all the
rot they've bin spouting to-night," she thought, savagely.
" 'Ow are yer to know what
anythink's like till yer do know. It's all rot." She strained
to the silence. He ought to be
moving. . . Before there was a sound from outside Willie Cox's Gumboil
got up and padded
sharply across the kitchen floor and sniffed at the back door. Terror
started up in Millie. "
What's that dog doing ? Uh ! What a fool that voung fellow is with
a dog 'anging about. Why
don't 'e lie down an' sleep." The dog stopped, but she knew
it was listening.
Suddenly, with a sound that made her cry out in horror the dog
started barking and rushing to
and fro. " What's that ? What's up ?" Sid flung out of
bed. " It ain't nothink. It's only Gumboil.
Sid, Sid." She clutched his arm, but he shook her off. "
My Christ, there's somethink up. My
God." Sid flung into his trousers. Willie Cox opened the back
door. Gumboil in a fury darted
out into the yard, round the corner of the house. " Sid, there's
some one in the paddock,"
roared the other chap. " What's it—what's that ? "
Sid dashed out on to the front verandah.
"Here, Millie, take the lantin. Willie, some skunk's got 'old
of one of the 'orses." The three
men bolted out of the house and at the same moment Millie saw Harrison
dash across the
paddock on Sid's horse and down the road. " Millie, bring that
blasted lantin." She ran in her
bare feet, her nightdress flicking her legs. They were after him
in a flash. And at the sight of
Harrison in the distance, and the three men hot after, a strange
mad joy smothered everything
else. She rushed into the road—she laughed and shrieked and
danced in the dust, jigging the
lantern. " A—ah ! Arter 'im, Sid ! A—a—a—h
! ketch 'im, Willie. Go it! Go it ! A—ah, Sid !
Shoot 'im down. Shoot 'im ! " |
