CONFIDENCES
I
DAILY the sun swung higher from the north. Cool weather periods alternated with hot, but with the advance of summer the cool periods almost vanished.
Central Australia was like a dust-heap stretching east from Mount Sturt to Roma in Queensland, and south almost to the coast. Over the western half of New South Wales, the north-west of Victoria, and the northern half of South Australia conditions had not been so bad since the drought of 1900-02. Hundreds of miles bore not a blade of grass or wisp of herbage on the rippled sand and cracked, iron-hard flats. The trees that had lived for a century were dying with dreadful slowness.
The equinoctial gales strengthening from the north, in veering westward swept to the east violent dust-storms which blacked out the sun on two occasions, creating pitch-darkness at noonday.
Frank Mayne had now become a working manager for Messrs. Boynton and Reynolds, assisted by one man only, the indomitable Todd Gray. The interest Mayne took in the remnant of the Atlas sheep was much more than was actually required of him. The wool brokers had said: “Let the sheep take their chance”; but Mayne was too good a sheepman, deep in the heart of him, not to do all he could to prolong the lives of the survivors.
Tin Tin also was now feeling the effects of the many rainless months; but Leeson, the manager, was a careful man, backed by a shrewd woman, and, unlike Atlas, Tin Tin had not been drained of its lifeblood–money reserve..
On her return journey from Menindee one night, Ann Shelley’s car, which had been running perfectly, suddenly lost power and finally stopped in a way a car does when the petrol supply gives out. That was peculiar, because the twelve-gallon tank had been filled at Menindee. From a door-pocket she took a torch, and a cursory examination of the carburettor decided the matter. The engine was not getting petrol.
Quite efficiently this independent woman ran over the whole feed system back to the tank, and there she found that a portion of a branch or stick, sun-baked to the hardness of metal, had been driven up by the wheels against the tank, puncturing it. There was nothing else to do but walk on to Atlas, about two miles, and from Ethel Mayne seek shelter for the night. And, somehow, the prospect of receiving hospitality from Ethel was not alluring.
Switching off the car-lights, and carrying with her the torch in case of need, Ann Shelley set off on the unwanted walk, now and then pressing the torch-button to light her way over deep water-gutters and river billabongs. It was half-past eight when she left the car, and a quarter-past nine when she crossed the bridge between the men’s quarters and the homestead.
There were no lights in the men’s quarter. From them came no sound of men’s laughter, of their accordions or mouth-organs. Of course she knew the plight of Atlas, knew that Mayne had been forced to payoff his hands. The faint, ghostly outlines of the deserted buildings saddened her. That day, on her way from Menindee, she had passed the deserted homesteads of two once prosperous settlers. The light in Feng’s sitting-room was the first she saw to welcome her, and she obeyed the impulse to visit him before turning in at the homestead gate.
Two dogs chained to their kennels in a corner of the fence enclosing the bungalow barked as though they realized it was not late enough to bark with vigour. Feng’s front door was wide open, as well as the french windows, which were uncurtained. Thinking to give Feng a surprise, Ann Shelley trod the veranda softly, reached the windows, and stepped in. And then she held her breath.
Feng Ching-wei was seated with his back to her. She could see the dark crown of his head above the top of the low easy chair. He was facing the opposite wall, where two curtains hanging from a portière had been pulled aside, and there was revealed in the brilliant light a portrait of herself, Ann Shelley.
There was the portrait Feng so often had said he had destroyed, a portrait that so much attracted her that unconsciously she crept nearer to it. Why had he lied about this picture? Why had he spent time in making another of her, so as to keep this one? The one he had given her, the one she valued so much, was an excellent piece of work; yet, in comparison with that she now examined, it was as the work of a pavement artist to that of a Royal Academician. The face was flushed, the lips just a little parted, revealing a fraction of the pearl-white teeth. But it was the eyes that held Ann Shelley. They were wide and sea-grey and misty, and yet the unshed tears, instead of masking the soul beyond, revealed it plainly for all to see. The soul behind those painted eyes, amazed, ecstatic, ablaze with love: the eyes so misty, so full of longing love, full unmistakably of the love-light. And, since Feng never had seen that light in the eyes of the sitter, he had painted it there with the genius of his imagination.
Quite suddenly she knew–knew Feng’s secret love for her–and found herself wanting to turn and run from the room, yet also to creep closer to him who loved so hopelessly and console him for the friend always he had been. Her body moved without conscious volition. He heard the rustle of her dress, and was at once on his feet facing her. For perhaps one full second she looked into the man’s unmasked face, before the black eyes blinked, became mere slits, and the mask again was in place.
“You gave me quite a start, Ann,” he said, smiling. “I crept in for that purpose,” she told him a little breathlessly.
“You should not look into the forbidden chamber when Bluebeard is at home,” he chided her gently, neither anger nor embarrassment in his voice. “I hope you like my new picture of you.
I was admiring my own work when you surprised me.”
The man’s control was beyond belief. Calm and suave and courteous, none then could have guessed the strength of his emotion. Ann walked close, stood gazing at the picture, trying to control herself as he was controlled, trying to convince herself of his outrageous impertinence in painting that message into her eyes. And standing thus, against her will there came many mental pictures of herself and Feng and Frank holding parties at Atlas and at Tin Tin, riding together, hunting together, bound each to the others in comradeship: Mayne impulsively proposing daring escapades, Feng acting as a brake, always so solicitous for her safety and comfort. Feng, the boy who was and always had been Jonathan to Mayne’s David; Feng, the man, shy, reserved, a little mysterious, invariably polished. And he loved her enough to paint and keep that picture–she knew it was the one he said he had destroyed–so that he could look at it in the quiet of lonely evenings and delude himself that the lovelight was for him.
Swiftly she turned, holding out her hands to him, tears springing to her eyes. “Oh, Feng! Dear old boy! I’m so sorry!” she cried softly.
“There is really no need to be, Ann,” he told her levelly.
“I am sorry that you have found me out. I should have been warned by the dogs. But now––”Switching off the portière lights, he drew the curtains across the picture. When again he faced her he was smiling quizzically, whilst he moved the chair he had occupied so that it faced the standard electric lamp, and drew close to it a crimson lacquered occasional table bearing cigarettes and matches.
“Be seated, Ann. Let us smoke, and you tell me then the answer to the fiction hero’s question–To what am I indebted for the honour of this visit?”
“You mustn’t hope, Feng,” she said wistfully. “I shall never love anyone after he went away to England.”
He was still smiling when he pointedly offered her the cigarette-box and held a lighted match in her service. He was smiling even when he said:
“I know, Ann, I know. But even were that not so, even if your heart were free, neither of us could ignore the difference in race which would be an unclimbable barrier between us. I love you, but you must not allow my love to hurt you. I would have given everything I possess, even life, to prevent your learning my little secret. Please, Ann, do not let us talk about it ever again.” “But, Feng––”
“It will, I think, keep fine to-night,” he said, still smiling, but in tones both metallic and final. He rang the bell for Mary.
2
When Mary had departed, after setting before them a light supper, he said:
“We will not talk about cabbages and kings, but about Frank and his wife. They are subjects that interest us both, and you and I will meet on the old and familiar neutral ground. I am in a quandary, and I hardly know how to proceed. Frank’s marriage is a failure.” “Oh!”
“Frank’s own description of his marriage is–the oil and water which cannot mix. That, unfortunately, is an apt description, Ann. I have long known the coldness of his wife towards him. Recently I came to know her unfaithfulness to him.”
“Unfaithful, Feng!”
Feng nodded. He told her what he had glimpsed in the cane-grass house in the Atlas garden, described Ethel Mayne’s frantic desire to get away from Atlas shortly afterwards, and the reason he suspected actuated her insistence on the successive house-parties.
“She fell in love with Cameron the first evening they met in the drawing-room over the way,” he went on. “I saw it in her eyes during the dinner which followed. For months she fought against Cameron’s influence, whilst he has been cleverly waiting, using every opportunity to attract her further. She is meeting him now in that little clearing in the centre of the Poison Belt–you know, where we three used to make believe it was a hunter’s camp attacked by Red Indians. Cameron, at last, has won, and she, knowing it, is surrendering. The question is, ought I to inform Frank of all this?”
For quite a little time Ann pondered the question. Then, shaking her head, she said:
“No. Frank must find out for himself, which he will do eventually. No. He would not appreciate your telling him. He is not very hard-worked now, is he?”
“Not particularly so. All the sheep are in the White Well paddocks and towards the river. But Frank has been almost living out there. He and Todd Gray are cutting scrub for the sheep, doing all they can to help them through the drought. I rather fancy he is happier there than at home.”
“The situation, Feng, is most delicate. If you do anything, poor Frank will probably never forgive you. You must let him find out for himself.”
To this Feng made objection.
“Let us look at it from this angle,” he said. “Here we have two married people suffering acutely from a loveless life. The effect of this suffering on Frank is, I can assure you, greater than the effect on him of the drought and the bad position of Atlas. The position of Atlas would not have become so bad as it is had Frank’s normal judgment not been clouded by domestic unhappiness, and I believe that the position of Atlas will become worse–even if it rains two inches to-morrow–should Frank’s unhappiness be prolonged. And it will be prolonged up to the point that Atlas is rid of Ethel Mayne. Ann, tell me this, I beseech you. Do you still love him?”
He saw the faint flush rise in her face. Self was forgotten. He had a feeling of elation. He said:
“Good! Assuming that Frank discovers grounds for and obtains a divorce, would you marry him?”
His directness distressed her.
“Oh, Feng! You must not ask me such questions.”
“But would you?”
“I–I might.”
“Ann, don’t, please, leave me in doubt. Frank’s future, your future, my own, depends on conditions made clear between us now.
Were he free, would you marry him?”
The power of his now blazing eyes made her tremble.
She could not disobey what amounted to a command.
“Yes,” she said, and hid her face behind her hands.
She did not see Feng cross to a bookstand and bring back a beautifully carved ivory box. Setting it on the table, he took from it a photographic print and laid it on the table before her.
“Look!” he told her softly.
She took up the print, looked on it, and sighed. It was a picture of a man and a woman in such positions of abandon that only their lifelong friendship excused him for offering it to her. There was no mistaking Alldyce Cameron and Ethel Mayne, locked in each other’s arms.
“Now this one,” came the soft but inexorable voice.
She gazed on a picture, less flagrantly passionate, of Cameron clasping Eva and kissing her. And at this Ann Shelley cried out.
“Without these photographs it would be impossible of belief, would it not?” asked Feng, replacing the pictures in the box.
Stooping, he brought his face level with and very close to hers, saying: “If I thought that Frank had the slightest chance of winning back his wife, I would shoot Cameron dead and gladly suffer the rope. But I know Frank has none. He was right when he said: ‘Oil and water will not mix.’”
“It’s dreadful–horrible! Why not show Ethel that print of Cameron and the nursemaid?” Ann suggested.
“Surely that would sicken her of the man?”
But Feng was emphatic.
“No. I will not consent to make the slightest effort to bring Frank and his wife together. The gulf is too wide. Far more than the drought she has been directly responsible for the ruin of Atlas. It was the Atlas money she loved, not Frank. When first she fell in love with Cameron he was comparatively a poor man, and she fought against her illicit love for him. Now that Cameron has come into money, and Frank is almost bankrupt, she is surrendering herself to Cameron. I cannot understand what is keeping her back on Atlas, unless it is the child. Whilst she remains Frank’s wife, Atlas will never rise. She has been the curse laid on it. She hates it: she hates everyone of us, we uncouth Colonials. Let her go! She must go. Not until Frank is rid of her, not until you have made him forget her, Ann, will he again be the old happy, courageous, far-sighted man he once was.”
“Please, Feng, stop saying such things,” she implored, pained at the accuracy with which he was expressing her little secret hopes.
“Cameron sends word to her when to meet him. I have found the place where they hide their letters, which I have taken the liberty to read. I don’t know who delivers his letters to the crack in the fallen tree in the Poison Belt clearing. Are the blacks on Tin Tin?”
“Yes. The whole tribe are camped half a mile from the homestead. Aunty Joe lives in Government House. She helps the laundress.”
“Then it can hardly be one of the blacks?”
Ann Shelley, reaching forward, gripped his hands.
“Let the matter drop,” she urged. “Things will all come right in the end. Believe me, they will. You can do no good by interfering.”
“Perhaps not,” he agreed a little doubtfully. For a space they were silent. Then he said: “Come! I’ll escort you over the way. It is ten o’clock. Remember-you have only just arrived at Atlas. In the morning, I’ll run up and fix your car.”
His eyes were masked. He was smiling in his old suave, almost mocking manner.
3
Ann’s manager was approaching threescore years and ten, which is under the span allotted to Australian bushmen. He was tall, straight, supple, and, because he shaved, hairless. Known to the men as Old Baldy, Leeson was well up in the first dozen of Australia’s shrewdest sheepmen. The only woman he loved was his wife, and the only woman he admired was Ann Shelley. The Saturday morning following her visit to Menindee, and later her one night’s stay at Atlas, she was engaged, as was her custom on Saturday morning, with her manager.
The chief point of discussion this morning was if they should from then on maize-feed five thousand extra sheep–the best of the wethers–in addition to the breeding ewes. Leeson counselled it, knowing that when the drought broke the price of mutton would be high, and fat killers would fetch a good price; Ann demurred on account of the extra expense.
They argued for an hour, and finally compromised by putting two flocks of ewes into paddocks where they could find a little feed, and reducing the ration of maize from one to half an ounce, with the proviso that should the ewes fall rapidly off condition the full ration should be restored them and the wethers must take their chance.
Now, when Ann Shelley left the Tin Tin office at one o’clock, determined to relax till the following Monday morning, she left behind her in the office the worries of the drought.
One of those mentally well-balanced young women, she was alive to the fact that nothing destroys good looks more quickly than worry. Her mental poise was reflected in her physical poise. Her body was in the perfection of health, and her mind was free from the neurotic trouble caused chiefly by idleness.
The afternoon was spent talking with her companion on the cool veranda about the fashion journals that had arrived by the last mail, and of those other matters dear to women–a delightful form of relaxation to one who throughout the week had talked and thought of little else than sheep and wool and wool prices. At four she indulged in a cool shower, and then drank afternoon tea on the veranda with her companion and her housekeeper. Had not a telephonic communication been made a little before sunset, she would have spent the evening reading a novel. The week-ends found her very feminine: the week days, cool, efficient, slightly masculine in her mental outlook.
The house telephone-bell rang when the sun was dipping below the rim of the western scrub. When she picked up the instrument the book-keeper spoke:
“Mr. Feng Ching-wei wishes to speak to you, Miss Shelley. Shall I put him through?” “Please.”
“Hallo, Ann!” Feng’s familiar voice said to her. “I am glad I got you so easily. There is great trouble here. Little Frankie has been lost in the Poison Belt. Can you come at once and bring some of the blacks to track him?”
“Of course,” she returned, consternation sharpening her tone. “Where’s Frank?”
“He’s out in one of the White Well paddocks. I can’t get him before he returns to the White Well hut. You’ll hurry?”
“I will. Good-bye!” She rang off, then rang again. The bookkeeper answered her. “Please run down to the men’s hut at once and ask Charlie Morris to come immediately to me here.”
She was dressing when the companion came in to say Morris was on the veranda. Flinging on a wrap, she hurried out to him.
“Charlie, get out the single-seater, and drive as fast as you know how up to the blacks’ camp and fetch Abie and Ned. Little Frankie Mayne is bushed in the Poison Belt. If Abie is not in camp, bring Larry.”
Fifteen minutes later the single-seater returned with Abie, Ned, and Larry. Five minutes were spent in filling the petrol tank and attending to the lubrication. Ann took the wheel. Beside her sat Aunty Joe. In the dicky were Abie and Larry. On the left running-board crouched Ned. Ten miles from Tin Tin the radiator sprang a leak.