NEW YEAR’S EVE
I
New Year’s Eve was celebrated Scotch style, at Wandoo. It was already night, and Jack and Tom had been round seeing if the visitors had everything they wanted. Ma and a few select guests were still in the kitchen. The cold collation in the parlour still waited majestically. The twins and Harry were no longer visible: they had subsided on their stomachs by the wood-pile, in the hot evening, and found refuge in sleep; for all the world like sailors sunk dilapidated and demoralised after a high old spree. But Ellie and Baby were at their zenith. Having been kept out of the ruck most carefully upstairs, they were now produced at their best. Mr. Ellis was again away in Perth, seeing the doctor.
Tom and Jack went into the loft and changed into clean white duck. They came forth like new men, jerking their arms in the stiff starched sleeves. And they proceeded to light the many chinese lanterns hung in the barn, till the great place was mellow with soft light. Already in the forenoon they had scraped candle ends on the floor, and rubbed them in. Now they rubbed in the wax a little more, to get the proper slipperiness.
The light brought the people, like moths. Of course the Reds were there, brazen as brass. They too had changed into white suits, tight round the calf and hollow at the waist, and, for the moment, with high collars rising to their ears above the black cravats. Also they sported elastic-sided boots of patent leather, whereas most of the other fellows were in their heavy hob-nailed boots, nicely blacked, indeed, but destitute of grace. With their hair brushed down in a curl over their foreheads, and their beards brushed apart, their strong sinewy bodies filling out the white duck, they felt absolutely invincible, and almost they looked it. For Jack was growing blind to the rustic absurdities, blinded by the animal force of these Australians.
Jack sat down by Herbert, who was pleasant and mild after his illness, always a little shy with the English boy. But the other Reds had taken possession of the place. Their bounce and brass were astounding. Jack watched them in wonder at their aggressive self-assertion. They were real bounders, more crude and more bouncy than ever the Old Country could produce. But that was Australian. The bulk of the people, perhaps, were dumb and unassuming. But there was always a proportion of real brassy bounders, ready to walk over you and jump in your stomach, if you’d let them.
Easu had constituted himself Master of the Ceremonies, and we know what an important post that is, in a country beanfeast. Wherever he was, he must be in the front, bossing and hectoring other people. He had appointed his brothers “stewards.” The Reds were to run the show. There was to be but one will: the will of the big, loose-jointed, domineering Easu, with his reddish blonde beard brushed apart and his keen eyes spying everything with a slight jeer.
Most of the guests, of course, were as they had been all day, in their Sunday suits or new dungarees. Joe Low, trim in a clean cotton jacket, sat by the great open doors very, seriously blowing notes out of an old brass cornet, that had belonged to his father, a retired sergeant of the Foot. Near him, a half-caste Huck was sliding a bow up and down a yellow-looking fiddle, while other musicians stood with their instruments under their arms. Outside in the warm night bearded farmers smoked and talked. Mamas sat on the forms round the barn, and the girls, most of them fresh and gay in billowy cotton frocks, clustered around in excitement. It was the great day of all the year.
For the rest, most of the young men were leaning holding up the big timber supports of the barn, or framing the great opening of the sliding doors, which showed the enormous dark gap of the naked night.
Fire-eating Easu waved energetically to Joe, who blew a blast on the cornet. This done, the strong but “common” Australian voice of Easu, shouted effectively:
“Take partners. Get ready for the Grand March.”
For of course he plumed himself on doing everything in “style,” everything grand and correct, this Australian who so despised the effete Old Country. The rest of the Reds straightaway marched to the sheepish and awkward fellows who stood propped up against any available prop, seized them by the arm, and rushed them up to some equally sheepish maiden. And instead of resenting it, the poor clowns were glad at being forced into company. They grinned and blushed, and the girls giggled and bridled, as they coupled and arranged themselves, two by two, close behind one another.
A blast of music. Easu seized Monica, who was self-consciously waiting on the arm of another young fellow. He just flung his arm round her waist and heaved her to the head of the column. Then the procession set off, Easu in front with his arm round Monica’s waist, he shining with his own brass and self-esteem, she looking falsely demure. After them came the other couples, self-conscious but extremely pleased with themselves, slowly marching round the barn.
Jack, who had precipitated himself into the night rather than be hauled into action by one of the Red stewards, stood and looked on from afar, feeling out of it. He felt out in the cold. He hated Easu’s common, gloating self-satisfaction, there at the head with Monica. Red cared nothing about Monica, really. Only she was the star of the evening, the chief girl, so he had got her. She was the chief girl for miles around. And that was enough for Easu. He was determined to leave his mark on her.
After the March, the girls went back to their Mamas, the youths to their shoulder-supports; and following a pause, Easu again came into the middle of the floor, and began bellowing instructions. He was so pleased with the sound of his own voice, when it was lifted in authority. Everybody listened with all their ears, afraid of disobeying Easu.
When the ovation was over, the boldest of the young men made a bee-line for the prettiest girls, and there was a hubbub. In a twinkling any girl whom Jack would have deigned to dance with, was monopolised, only the poorest remained. Meanwhile the stewards were busy sorting the couples into groups.
Jack could not dance. He had not intended to dance. But he didn’t at all like being left out entirely, in oblivion as if he did not exist. Not at all. So he drifted towards the group of youths in the doorway. But he slid away again as Ross Ellis plunged in, seized whom he could by the arm, and led them off to the crude and unprepossessing maidens left still unchosen. He felt he would resent intensely being grabbed by the arm and hustled into a partner by one of the Reds.
What was to be done? He seemed to be marooned in his own isolation like some shipwrecked mariner: and he was becoming aware of the size of his own hands and feet. He looked for Tom. Tom was steering a stout but willing mother into the swim, and Lennie, like a faithful little tug, was following in his wake with a gentle but squint-eyed girl.
Jack became desperate. He looked round quickly. Mrs. Ellis was sitting alone on a packing case. At the same moment he saw Ross Ellis bearing down on him with sardonic satisfaction.
Action was quicker than thought. Jack stood bowing awkwardly before his hostess.
“Won’t you do me the honour, Mrs. Ellis?”
“Oh, dear me! Oh dear, Jack Grant! But I believe I will. I never thought of such a thing. But why not? Yes, I will, it will give me great pleasure. We shall have to lead off, you know. And I was supposed to lead with Easu, seeing my husband isn’t here. But never mind, well lead off, you and I, just as well.”
She rose to her feet briskly, seeming young again. Lately Jack thought she seemed always to have some trouble on her mind. For the moment she shook it off.
As for him, he was panic-stricken. He wished he could ascend into heaven; or at least as high as the loft.
“You’ll help me through, marm, won’t you?” he said. “This dance is new to me.”
And he bowed to her, and she bowed to him, and it was horrible. The horrible things people did for enjoyment!
“This dance is new to him,” Mrs. Ellis passed over his shoulder to a pretty girl in pink. “Help him through, Alice.”
Feeling a fool, Jack turned and met a wide smile and a nod. He bowed confusedly.
“I’m your corner,” said the girl. “I’ll pass it on to Monica, she’ll be your vis-à-vis.”
“Pick up partners,” Easu was yelling with his domineering voice. “All in place, please! One more couple! One more couple!” He was at the other end of the barn, coming forward now, looking around like a general. He was coming for his Aunt.
“Ah!” he said when he saw Mrs. Ellis and Jack. “You’re dancing with Jack Grant, Aunt Jane? Thought he couldn’t dance.”
And he straightway turned his back on them, looking for Monica. Monica was standing with a young man from York.
“Monica, I want you,” said Easu. “You can find a girl there,” he said, nodding from the young fellow to a half-caste girl with fuzzy hair. The young fellow went white. But Monica, crossed over to Easu, for she was a wicked little thing, and this evening she was hating Jack Grant, the booby.
“One more couple not needed,” howled Easu. “Top centre. Where are you, Aunt Jane? Couple from here, lower centre, go to third set on left.”
Easu was standing near the top. He stepped backward, and down came his heel on Jack’s foot. Jack got away, but an angry light came into his eyes. His face, however, still kept that cherubic expression characteristic of it, and so ill-fitting his feelings. Easu was staring over the room, and never, even looked round.
“All in place? Music!” cried the M. C.
The music started with a crash and a bang, Mrs. Ellis had seized Jack’s arm and was leading him into the middle of the set.
“Catch hands, Monica,” she said.
He loved Monica’s thin, nervous, impulsive hands. His heart went hot as he held them. But Monica wouldn’t look at him. She looked demurely sideways. But he felt the electric thrill that came to him from her hands, and he didn’t want to let go.
She loosed his grasp and pushed him from her.
“Get back to Ma,” she whispered. “Corner with Alice.”
“Oh, Lor!” thought Jack. For he was cornered and grabbed and twisted by the girl with the wide smile, before he was let go to fall into place beside Ma, panting with a sort of exasperation.
So it continued, grabbing and twisting and twirling, all perfectly ridiculous and undignified. Why, oh, why did human beings do it! Yet it was better than being left out. He was half-pleased with himself.
Something hard and vicious dug him in the ribs. It was the elbow of Easu, who passed skipping like a goat.
Was Easu making a dead set at him? The devil’s own anger began to rise in the boy’s heart, bringing up with it all the sullen dare-devil that was in him. When he was roused, he cared for nothing in earth or heaven. But his face remained cherubic.
“Follow!” said a gentle voice. Perhaps it was all a mistake. He found himself back by Mrs. Ellis, watching other folks prance. There he stood and mopped his brow, in the hot, hot night. He was wet with sweat all over. But before he could wipe his face the pink Alice had caught and twirled him, taking him unawares. He waited alert. Nothing happened. Actually peace for a few seconds.
The music stopped. Perhaps it was over. Oh, enjoyment! Why did people do such things to enjoy themselves? Only he would have liked to hold Monica’s thin, keen hands again. The thin, keen, wild, wistful Monica. He would like to be near her.
Easu was bawling something. Figure Number Two. He could not listen to instructions in Easu’s voice.
They were dancing again, and he knew no more than at first what he was doing. All a maze. A natural diffidence and a dislike of being touched by any casual stranger made dancing unpleasant to him. But he kept up. And suddenly he found himself with Monica folded in his arms, and she clinging to him with sudden fierce young abandon. His heart stood still, as he realised that not only did he want to hold her hands — he had thought it was just that; but he wanted to hold her altogether in his arms. Terrible and embarrassing thought! He wished himself on the moon, to escape his new emotions. At the same time there was the instantaneous pang of disappointment as she broke away from him. Why could she not have stayed! And why, oh, why were they both doing this beastly dancing!
He received a clean clear kick on the shin as he passed Easu. Dazed with a confusion of feelings, keenest among which perhaps was anger, he pulled up again beside Ma. And there was Monica suddenly in his arms again.
“You always go again,” he said in a vague murmur.
“What did you say?” she asked archly, as she floated from him, just at the moment when Easu jolted him roughly. Across the little distance she was watching the hot anger in the boy’s confused, dark-blue eyes.
Another pause. More beastly instructions. Different music. Different evolutions.
“Steady, now!” he said to himself, trying to make his way in the new figure. But what work it was! He tried to keep his brain steady. But Ma on his arm was heavy as lead.
And then, with great ease and perfect abandon, in spite of her years, Ma threw herself on his left bosom and reclined in peace there. He was overcome. She seemed absolutely to like resting on his bosom.
“Throw out your right hand, dear boy,” she whispered, and before he knew he had done it, Easu had seized his hand in a big, brutal, bullying grasp, and was grinding his knuckles. And then sixteen people began to spin.
The startled agony of it made a different man of him. For Ma was heavy as a log on his left side, clinging to him as if she liked to cling to his body. He never quite forgave her. And Easu had his unprotected right hand gripped in a vice and was torturing him on purpose with the weight and the grind. Jack’s hands were naturally small, and Easu’s were big. And to be gripped by that great malicious paw was horrible. Oh, the tension, the pain and rage of that giddy-go-rounding, first forward, then abruptly backwards. It broke some of his innocence forever.
But although paralytic with rage when released, Jack’s face still looked innocent and cherubic. He had that sort of face, and that diabolic sort of stoicism. Mrs. Ellis thought: “What a nice kind boy! but late waking up to the facts of life!” She thought he had not even noticed Easu’s behaviour. And again she thought to herself, her husband would be jealous if he saw her. Poor old Jacob! Aloud she said:
“The next is the last figure. You’re doing very well, Jack. You go off round the ring now, handing the ladies first your right and then your left hand.”
He felt no desire to hand anybody his hand. But in the middle of the ring he met Monica, and her slim grasp took his hurt right hand, and seemed to heal it for a moment.
Easu grabbed his arm, and he saw three others, suffering fools gladly, locked arm in arm, playing soldiers, as they called it. Oh, God! Easu, much taller than Jack, was twisting his arm abominably, almost pulling it out of the socket. And Jack was saving up his anger.
It was over. “That was very kind of you, my dear boy,” Mrs. Ellis was saying. “I haven’t enjoyed a dance so much for years.”
Enjoyed! That ghastly word! Why would people insist on enjoying themselves in these awful ways! Why “enjoy” oneself at all? He didn’t see it. He decided he didn’t care for enjoyment, it wasn’t natural to him. Too humiliating, for one thing.
Twenty steps involved in the black skirts of Mrs. Ellis, and he was politely rid of her. She was very nice. And by some mystery she had really enjoyed herself in this awful melee. He gave it up. She was too distant in years and experience for him to try to understand her. Did these people never have living anger, like a bright black snake with unclosing eyes, at the bottom of their souls? Apparently not.
II
There was an interval in the dancing, and they were having games. Red was of course still bawling out instructions and directions, being the colonel of the feast. He was in his element, playing top sawyer.
The next game was to be “Modern Proposals.” It sounded rotten to Jack. Each young man was to make an original proposal to an appointed girl. Great giggling and squirming even at the mention of it.
Easu still held the middle of the floor. Jack thought it was time to butt in. With his hands in his pockets he walked coolly into the middle of the room.
“You people don’t know me, and I don’t know you,” he found himself announcing in his clear English voice. “Supposing I call this game.”
Carried unanimously!
The young men lined up, and Easu, after standing loose on his legs for some time just behind Jack, went and sat down somewhat discomfited.
Jack pushed Tom on to his knees before the prettiest girl in the room — the prettiest strange girl, anyhow. Tom, furiously embarrassed on his knees, stammered:
“I say! There’s a considerable pile o’ socks wantin’ darning in my ol’ camp. I’d go so far as to face the parson, if you’d do ’em for me.”
It was beautifully non-committal. For all the Bushies were at heart terrified lest they might by accident contract a Scotch marriage, and be held accountable for it.
Jack was amused by the odd, humorous expression of the young bush-farmers. Joe Low, scratching his head funnily, said: “I’ll put the pot on, if you’ll cook the stew.” But the most approved proposal was that of a well-to-do young farmer who is now a J. P. and head of a prosperous family.
“Me ol’ dad an’ me ol’ lady, they never had no daughters. They gettin’ on well in years, and they kind o’ fancy one. I’ve gotter get ’em one, quick an’ lively. I’ve fifteen head o’ cattle an’ seventy-six sheep, eighteen pigs an’ a fallowin’ sow. I’ve got one hundred an’ ninety-nine acres o’ cleared land, and ten improved with fruit trees. I’ve got forty ducks an’ hens an’ a flock o’ geese an’ no one home to feed ‘em. Meet me Sunday mornin’ eight-forty sharp at the cross roads, an’ I’ll be there in me old sulky to drive y’out an’ show y’.”
And the girl in pink with the wide smile, answered seriously:
“I will if Mother’ll let me, Mr. Burton.”
The next girl had been looming up like a big coal-barge. She was a half-caste, of course named Lily, and she sat aggressively forwards, her long elbows and wrists much in evidence, and her pleasant swarthy face alight and eager with anticipation. Oh, these Missioner half-castes!
Jack ordered Easu forward.
But Easu was not to be baited. He strode over, put his hand on the fuzzy head, and said in his strong voice:
“Hump y’r bluey and come home.”
The laugh was with him, he had won again.
III
They went down to the cold collation. There Jack found other arrivals. Mary had come in via York with Gran’s spinster daughters. Also the Greenlow girls from away back, and they made a great fuss of him. The doctor too turned up. He had been missing all day, but now he strolled back and forth, chatting politely first to one and then another, but vague and washed-out to a degree.
Jack’s anger coiled to rest at the supper, for Monica was very attentive to him. She sat next to him, found him the best pieces, and shared her glass with him, in her quick, dangerous, generous fashion, looking up at him with strange wide looks of offering, so that he felt very manly and very shy at the same time. But very glad to be near her. He felt that it was his spell that was upon her, after all, and though he didn’t really like flirting with her there in the public supper room, he loved her hand finding his under the cover of her sash, and her fingers twining into his as if she were entering into his body. Safely under the cover of her silk sash. He would have liked to hold her again, close, close; her agile, live body, quick as a cat’s. She was mysterious to him as some cat-goddess, and she excited him in a queer electric fashion.
But soon she was gone again, elusive as a cat. And of course she was in great request. So Jack found himself talking to the little elderly Mary, with her dark animal’s museau. Mary was like another kind of cat: not the panther sort, but the quiet, dark, knowing sort. She was comfortable to talk to, also soft and stimulating.
Jack and Mary sat on the edge of the barn, in the hot night, looking at the trees against the strange, ragged southern sky, hearing the frogs occasionally, and fighting the mosquitoes. Mrs. Ellis also sat on the ledge not far off. And presently Jack and Mary were joined by the doctor. Then came Grace and Alec Rice, sitting a little further down, and talking in low tones. The night seemed full of low, half-mysterious talking, in a starry darkness that seemed pregnant with the scent and presence of the black people. Jack often wondered why, in the night, the country still seemed to belong to the black people, with their strange, big, liquid eyes.
Where was Easu? Was he talking to Monica? Or to the black half-caste Lily? It might as well be the one as the other. The odd way he had placed his hand on Lily’s black fuzzy head, as if he were master, and she a sort of concubine. She would give him all the submission he wanted.
But then, why Monica? Monica in her white, full-skirted frock with its moulded bodice, her slender, golden-white arms and throat! Why Monica in the same class with the half-caste Lily?
Anger against Easu was sharpening Jack’s wits, and curiously detaching him from his surroundings. He listened to the Australian voices and the Australian accent around him. The careless, slovenly speech in the uncontrolled, slack, caressive voices. At first he had thought the accent awful. And it was awful. But gradually, as he got into the rhythm of the people, he began even to sympathise with “Kytie” instead of “Katie.” There was an abandon in it all — an abandon of restrictions and confining control. Why have control? Why have authority? Why not let everybody do as they liked? Why not?
That was what Australia was for, a careless freedom. An easy, unrestricted freedom. At least out in the bush. Every man to do as he liked. Easu to run round with Monica, or with the black Lily, or to kick Jack’s shins in the dance.
Yes, even this. But Jack had scored it up. He was going to have his own back on Easu. He thought of Easu with his hand on the black girl’s fuzzy head. That would be just like Easu. And afterwards to want Monica. And Monica wouldn’t really mind about the black girl. Since Easu was Easu.
Sitting there on the barn ledge, Jack in a vague way understood it all. And in a vague way tolerated it all. But with a dim yet fecund germ of revenge in his heart. He was not morally shocked. But he was going to be revenged. He did not mind Easu’s running with a black girl, and afterwards Monica. Morally he did not mind it. But physically — perhaps pride of race — he minded. Physically he could never go so far as to lay his hand on the darky’s fuzzy head. His pride of blood was too intense.
He had no objection at all to Lily, until it came to actual physical contact. And then his blood recoiled with old haughtiness and pride of race. It was bad enough to have to come into contact with a woman of his own race: to have to give himself away even so far. The other was impossible.
And yet he wanted Monica. But he knew she was fooling round with Easu. So deep in his soul formed the motive of revenge.
There are times when a flood of realisation and purpose sweeps through a man. This was one of Jack’s times. He was not definitely conscious of what he realised and of what he purposed. Yet, there it was, resolved in him.
He was trying not to hear Dr. Rackett’s voice talking to Mary. Even Dr. Rackett was losing his Oxford drawl, and taking on some of the Australian ding-dong. But Rackett, like Jack, was absolutely fixed in his pride of race, no matter what extraneous vice he might have. Jack had a vague idea it was opium. Some chemical stuff.
“. . . free run of old George’s books? I should say it was a doubtful privilege for a young lady. But you hardly seem to belong to West Australia. I think England is really your place. Do you actually want to belong, may I ask?”
“To Western Australia? To the country, yes, very much. I love the land, the country life, Dr. Rackett. I don’t care for the social life of a town like Perth. But I should like to live all my life on a farm — in the bush.”
“Would you now!” said Rackett. “I wonder where you get that idea from. You are the granddaughter of an earl.”
“Oh, my grandfather is farther away from me than the moon. You would never know how far!” laughed Mary. “No, I am colonial born and bred. Though of course there is a fascination about the English. But I hardly knew Papa. He was a tenth child, so there wasn’t much of the earldom left to him. And then he was a busy A.D.C. to the Governor-General. And he married quite late in life. And then Mother died when I was little, and I got passed on to Aunt Matilda. Mother was Australian born. I don’t think there is much English in me.”
Mary said it in a queer complacent way, as if there were some peculiar, subtle antagonism between England and the colonial, and she was ranged on the colonial side. As if she were a subtle enemy of the father, the English father in her.
“Queer! Queer thing to me!” said Rackett, as if he half felt the antagonism. For he would never be colonial, not if he lived another hundred years in Australia. “I suppose,” he added, pointing his pipe stem upwards, “it comes from those unnatural stars up there. I always feel they are doing something to me.”
“I don’t think it’s the stars,” laughed Mary. “I am just Australian, in the biggest part of me, that’s all.”
Jack could feel in the statement some of the antagonism that burned in his own heart, against his own country, his own father, his own empty fate at home.
“If I’d been born in this country, I’d stick to it,” he broke in.
“But since you weren’t born in it, what will you do, Grant?” asked the doctor ironically.
“Stick to myself,” said Jack stubbornly, rather sulkily.
“You won’t stick to Old England then?” asked Rackett.
“Seems I’m a misfit in Old England,” said Jack. “And I’m not going to squeeze my feet into tight boots.”
Rackett laughed.
“Rather go barefoot like Lennie?” he laughed.
Jack relapsed into silence, and turned a deaf ear, looking into the alien night of the southern hemisphere. And having turned a deaf ear to Rackett and Mary, he heard, as if by divination, the low voice of Alec Rice proposing in real earnest to Grace: proposing in a low, urgent voice that sounded like a conspiracy.
He rose to go away. But Mary laid a detaining hand on his arm, as if she wished to include him in the conversation, and did not wish to be left alone with Dr. Rackett.
“Don’t you sympathise with me, Jack, for wishing I had been a boy, to make my own way in the world, and have my own friends, and size things up for myself?”
“Seems to me you do size things up for yourself,” said Jack rather crossly. “A great deal more than most men do.”
“Yes, but I can’t do things as I could if I were a man.”
“What can a man do, then, more than a woman — that’s worth doing?” asked Rackett.
“He can see the world, and love as he wishes to love, and work.”
“No man can love as he wishes to love,” said Rackett. “He’s nearly always stumped, in the love game.”
“But he can choose!” persisted Mary.
And Jack with his other ear was hearing Alec Rice’s low voice persisting.
“Go on, Grace, you’re not too young: You’re just right. You’re just the ticket now. Go on, let’s be engaged and tell your Dad and fix it up. We’re meant for one another, you know we are. Don’t you think we’re meant for one another?”
“I never thought about it that way, truly.”
“But don’t you think so now? Yes, you do.”
Silence — the sort that gives consent. And the silence of a young, spontaneous embrace.
Jack was on tenterhooks. He wanted to be gone. But Mary was persisting, in her obstinate voice — he wished she’d shut up too.
“I wanted to be a sailor at ten, and an explorer at twelve. At nineteen I wanted to become a painter of wonderful pictures.” Jack wished she wouldn’t say all this. “And then I had a streak of humility, and wanted to be a gardener. Yet — —” she laughed, “not a sort of gardener such as Aunt Matilda hires. I wanted to grow things and see them come up out of the earth. And see baby chicks hatched, and calves and lambs born.”
She had lifted her hand from Jack’s sleeve, to his relief. “And marry a farmer like Tom,” he said roughly. Mary received this with dead silence.
“And drudge your soul away like Mrs. Ellis,” said Rackett. “Worn out before your time, between babies and heavy housework. Groping on the earth all your life, grinding yourself into ugliness at work which some animal of a servant-lass would do with half the effort. Don’t you think of it, Miss Mary. Let the servant-lasses marry the farmers. You’ve got too much in you. Don’t go and have what you’ve got in you trampled out of you by marrying some cocky farmer. Tom’s as good as gold, but he wants a brawny lass of his own sort for a wife. You be careful, Miss Mary. Women can find themselves in ugly harness, out here in these god-forsaken colonies. Worse harness than any you’ve ever kicked against.”
Monica seemed to have scented the tense atmosphere under the barn, for she appeared like a young witch, in a whirlwind.
“Hullo, Mary! Hullo, Dr. Rackett! It’s just on midnight.” And she flitted over to Grace. “Just on midnight, Grace and Alec. Are you coming? You seem as if you were fixed here.”
“We’re not fixed on the spot, but we’re fixed up all right, otherwise,” said Alec, in a slight tone of resentment, as he rose from Grace’s side.
“Oh, have you and Grace fixed it up!” exclaimed Monica, with a false vagueness and innocence. “I’m awfully glad. I’m awfully glad, Grace.”
“I am,” said Grace, with a faint touch of resentment, and she rose and took Alec’s arm.
They were already like a married couple armed against that witch. Had she been flirting with Alec, and then pushed him over on to Grace? Jack sensed it with the sixth sense which divines these matters.
Monica appeared at his side.
“It’s just twelve. Come and hold my hand in the ring. Mary can hold your other hand. Come on! Come on, Alec, as well. I don’t want any strangers next to me to-night.”
Jack smiled sardonically to himself as she impulsively caught hold of his hand. Monica was “a circumstance over which we have no control,” Lennie said. Jack felt that he had a certain control.
They all took hands as she directed, and moved into the barn to link up with the rest of the chain. There in the soft light of the big chamber, Easu suddenly appeared, without collar or cravat, his hair ruffled, his white suit considerably creased. But he lurched up in his usual aggressive way, with his assertive good humour, demanding to break in between Jack and Monica. Jack held on, and Monica said:
“You mustn’t break in, you know it makes enemies.”
“Does it!” grinned Easu. And with sardonic good humour he lurched away to an unjoined part of the ring. He carried about with him a sense of hostile power. But Jack was learning to keep within himself another sort of power, small and concentrated and fixed like a stone, the sort of power that ultimately would break through the bulk of Easu’s domineering.
The ring complete at last, they all began to sing: “Cheer, Boys, Cheer!” and “God Bless the Prince of Wales,” “John Brown’s Body,” and “Britons, Never, Never, Never.”
Then Easu bawled: “Midnight!” There was a moment’s frightened pause. Joe Low blasted on the cornet, his toe beating time madly all the while. Fiddles, whistles, concertinas, Jew’s harps raggedly began to try out the tune. The clasped hands began to rock, and taking Easu’s shouting lead, they all began to sing, in the ring:
|
“Should auld acquaintance be forgot, An’ never brought to min’? Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And days of auld lang syne?
“For auld lang syne, my dear, For auld lang syne, We’ll tak’ a cup o’ kindness yet For days of auld lang syne.” |
They all sang heartily and with feeling. There was a queer Scottish tang in the colony, that made the Scottish emotion dominant. Jack disliked it. There was no auld acquaintance, or auld lang syne, at least for him. And he didn’t care for these particular cups of kindness, in one ring with Easu, black Lily, Dr. Rackett and Monica, and all. He didn’t like the chain of emotion and supposed pathetic clanship. It was worse here even than on shipboard.
Why start the New Year like this? As a matter of fact he wanted to forget most of his own Auld Acquaintance, and start something a little different. And any rate, the emotion was spurious, the chain was artificial, the flow was false.
Monica seemed to take a wicked pleasure in it, and sang more emotionally than anybody, in a sweet but smallish voice. And poor little Mary, with her half-audible murmur, had her eyes full of tears and seemed so moved.
Auld lang syne!
Old Long Since.
Why not put it in plain English?
IV
The celebration did not end with Auld Lang Syne. By half-past two most of the ladies had retired, though some ardent dancers still footed the floor, and a chaperone or two, like crumpled rag-bags, slept on their boxes. A good number of young men and boys were asleep with Herbert on the sacks, handkerchiefs knotted round their throats in place of collars. The concertina, the cornet, the fiddles and the rest of the band had gone down to demolish the remains of the cold collation, whilst Tom, Ross, and Ned sat on the barn step singing as uproariously as they could, though a little hoarse, for the last dancers to dance to. Someone was whistling very sweetly.
Where was Easu? Jack wondered as he wandered aimlessly out into the night. Where was Easu? For Jack had it on his mind that he ought to fight him. Felt he would be a coward if he didn’t tackle him this very night.
But it was three o’clock, the night was very still and rich, still warm, rather close, but not oppressive. The strange heaviness of the hot summer night, with the stars thick in clouds and clusters overhead, the moon being gone. Jack strayed aimlessly through the motionless, dark, warm air, till he came to the paddock gate, and there he leaned with his chin on his arms, half asleep. It seemed to be growing cooler, and a dampness was bringing out the scent of the scorched grass, the essence of the earth, like incense. There was a half-wild bush with a few pale pink roses near the gate. He could just get their fragrance. If it were as it should be, Monica would be here, in one of her wistful, her fiercely wistful moments! When she looked at him with her yellow eyes and her fierce, naive look of yearning, he was ready to give all his blood to her. If things were as they should be, she would be clinging to him now like that, and nestling against his breast. If things were as they should be!
He didn’t want to go to sleep. He wanted what he wanted. He wanted the night, the young, changeable, yearning Monica, and an answer to his own awake young blood. He insisted on it. He would not go to sleep, he would insist on an answer. And he wanted to fight Easu. He ought to fight Easu. His manhood depended on it.
He could hear the cattle stirring down the meadow. Soon it would begin to be day. What was it now? It was night, dark night towards morning, with a faint breathing of air from the sea. And where was he? He was in Australia, leaning on the paddock gate and seeing the stars and the dim shape of the gum-tree. There was a faint scent of eucalyptus in the night. His mother was far away. England was far away. He was alone there leaning on the paddock gate, in Australia.
After all, perhaps the very best thing was to be alone. Better even than having Monica or fighting Easu. Because where you are alone you are at one with your own God. The spirit in you is God in you. And when you are alone you are one with the spirit of God inside you. Other people are chiefly an interruption.
And moreover, he could never say he was lonely while he was at Wandoo, while there were Tom and Lennie, and Monica, and all the rest. He hoped he would have them all his life. He hoped he would never, in all his life, say good-bye to them.
No, he would take up land as near this homestead as possible and build a brick house on it. And he would have a number of fine horses, better than anyone else’s, and some sheep that would pay, and a few cows. Always milk and butter with the wheat-meal damper.
What was that? Only a more-pork. He laid his head on his arms again, on the gate. He wanted a place of his own, now. He would have it now if he had any money. And marry Monica. Would he marry Monica? Would he marry anybody? He much preferred the whole family. But he wanted a place of his own. If he could hurry up his father. And old Mr. George. He might persuade Mr. George to be on his side. Why was there never any money? No money! A father ought to have some money for a son.
What was that? He saw a dim white figure stealing across the near distance. Pah! must have been a girl sitting out under the photosphorum tree. When he had thought he was quite alone.
The thought upset him. And he ought to find Easu. Obstinately he insisted to himself that he ought to find Easu.
He drifted towards the shed near the cubby, where Mr. Ellis kept the tools. Somebody unknown and unauthorised had put a barrel of beer inside the shed. Men were there drinking, as he knew they would be.
“Have a pot, youngster?”
“Thanks.”
He sat down on a case beside the door, and drank the rather warm beer. His head began to drop. He knew he was almost asleep.
Easu loomed up from the dark, coatless, hatless, with his shirt front open, asking for a drink. He was thirsty. Easu was thirsty. How could you be angry with a thirsty man! And he wasn’t so bad after all. No, Easu wasn’t so bad after all! What did it matter! What did it all matter, anyhow?
Jack slipped to the ground and lay there fast asleep.