THE MANAGER OF THURINGAH
I
ETHEL MAYNE dressed with care late in the afternoon for the house-warming dinner. She had selected an evening gown of black crepe-de-Chine, unrelieved by any colour. Surveying herself now and again in the full-length mirror, she for the first time felt a thrill of thankfulness that her father’s financial standing had not permitted the services of a lady’s maid for his three daughters; for now, when the services of a good maid were impossible, her practised reliance on herself stood her in good stead.
The gown clung to her slim, well-moulded, youthful figure, accentuating the soft curves, and throwing into relief the cold, lovely face, on which emotion was so seldom pictured, crowned by the shining, cropped black hair. Undoubtedly her greatest accomplishment was how to dress. She knew she was beautiful, and was pleasantly conscious that her choice of dress made her strikingly so.
She wanted this evening to create surprise and admiration. Her guests, excluding Feng Ching-wei, were two Australians, a man and a woman. Of the man, Alldyce Cameron, she had learned a little from a conversation with Feng, who drank tea that morning with her and her husband, and what the little Feng had said in his suave, guarded manner was sufficient to fire her lifelong passion for sexual conquest. Coming to realize thus early that her social world here at Atlas was so limited, she felt that of necessity she must make the best of every opportunity.
Then there was the woman, Ann Shelley, mistress of a run almost as huge as Atlas itself. Of her, Feng’s veiled reticence, added to her husband’s less diplomatic statements, aroused in Ethel Mayne a growing desire to know more of past history and precisely what part in that history had been played by her husband and Ann Shelley. Old John then was of no interest to her. She had forgotten him, a broken-down baronet living on Atlas charity.
The third daughter of the Very Reverend Dean Dyson, the whole of her pre-married life had been lived in the somewhat narrow social atmosphere of a cathedral city. Hers had been the unenviable lot of the youngest daughter in a ménage where money, or, rather, the lack of money, was of paramount importance. The Dean’s stipend, plus a small private income, was drained by many pipes, the largest of which was that supplying the Dean himself, who was an ambitious man of extravagant tastes.
It had always been the Dean this, and the Dean that. Or: “You must remember, dear, that your father has his responsibilities and his position to keep up. We simply cannot increase your dress allowance.” And again, when Agatha, the eldest, was to be married: “Agatha’s wedding will be most frightfully expensive, remember. The Dean simply cannot permit a quiet, inexpensive function. We must consider the Honourable Edward’s people as well as ourselves. No, you must go to dear Aunt Emily this summer.”
Scrape, scheme and plan everlastingly to make a crown go as far as a pound note! It had been sickening, and even her shallow soul had at times revolted against’ the hollow pretence of affluence. And into that world of make-believe riches, where the skeleton of poverty lurked behind every peal of laughter, every tinsel colour, there entered one day Frank Mayne.
They had met at a garden-party whilst he was the guest of the Bishop. It was the Bishop who in all innocence later described Atlas and Old Man Mayne, when he, the Bishop, had been on mission work in New South Wales; and consequently when, after a friendship of only three weeks, Mayne proposed marriage, the whole Dyson family was aware of the precise acreage of Atlas and the probable value of the property.
Here plainly was a golden avenue of escape from her small world of horrid pretence, parsimony, and genteel poverty so cleverly dissembled. Mayne’s impulsive declaration astonished, although it pleased; for in Market Wallop he was already regarded as a prize, a rich Australian squatter around whose head was the aura of gold and power. Were not by tradition all Australian squatters wealthy and powerful?
To be sure, marriage with Frank Mayne meant being a good deal in the wild back-blocks of Australia; but, with his three-quarters of a million acres of land, and some seventy thousand sheep, he could provide her with a decent dress allowance, whilst almost certainly they would move in Vice-Regal circles three months of every year.
After a proper show of maidenly hesitation, she accepted this Colonial Midas. She liked his well-bred, if easy, manner. She liked his boyish impulsiveness, recognizing in it the certainty of her easy ascendancy over him as his wife. Yet his passion for her did not fire her blood, and cause her pulses to leap beneath his touch, and because no man had fired her it is not to her discredit that she married less for love than for worldly things.
Followed her acceptance of him, a whirlwind courtship, a period spent in a sudden rain of gold, for Frank Mayne showered gifts on her worthy of the fabulous Colonial millionaire. They were married at the end of a month. The golden shower continued. The magic carpet of gold carried them around Europe, some way into Asia, through America, back again to England, where she had her baby, then to proceed at a slower rate, till finally it stopped at Atlas.
The solidity of Atlas pleased her, solidity and security. A tour of the homestead conducted by her husband was a revelation. She had expected to see a log-built ranch-house and roughly constructed out-buildings, her mind having been coloured by the vivid word pictures portrayed by the most popular American and Canadian novelists. She found her bush home to be well built, spacious, set amid an oasis of fresh green vines, plants, and trees, beautifully furnished, lighted by electricity, and staffed by a woman cook and four maids, supervised by a housekeeper who relieved her of all household worries. The men’s quarters, she saw, were roomy and comfortable for mere hired hands, each compartment containing but two iron bedsteads.
The huge shearing shed, with its long row of pens on one side flanking the board on which twenty-four men could shear, the wool-sorting room, the great presses, and the maze of yards and runways outside further impressed her. The carpenter’s shop, the saddler’s shop, the blacksmith’s shop, the poison house and the poison carts, the stockyards, the store-rooms, and the most important looking office, as well as the barracks in which lived the bookkeeper, and the jackeroos–a completely independent establishment–all spoke of solidity, all proclaimed that Atlas was founded securely on gold produced by the thousands of sheep scattered over the vast territory she presently was to see.
The old hatefully dependent life was far behind her. No longer had she to defer to others: people deferred to her. She had but to command to be obeyed. In her own small rosewood secretaire lay a cheque-book and a bank pass-book. Every quarter-day her bank account was enriched by three hundred pounds. Lying in her chests and hanging in her cupboards were costumes, gowns and lingerie of which she always had dreamed, but never possessed until she had married this rich Australian squatter.
Solidity! Security! Power! All were hers. All were given her lavishly, without stint, without question. They were given her as tokens of love, rendered her in rightful expectation of her love in return, and, deep in her heart, Ethel Mayne knew that the recompense she made for these gifts was unworthy. At intervals–very far apart–she recognized that she did not love her husband with the fire, the passionate devotion with which he loved her; recognized, too, that sometimes he was disappointed by her coldness and lack of response. Ethel Mayne had hitherto loved but one person, and that was Ethel Mayne; but now she loved two, herself and Little Frankie.
2
Notwithstanding her selfishness, her pride, and her passion for luxury, Ethel Mayne was not indifferent to the duty she owed her child. No doubt had entered her mind that she always would be a good wife and mother. Her happiness on attaining worldly success was at first darkened by the arrival of Little Frankie, because the incident of child-bearing had so spoilt her figure and had compelled retirement from the excitements and the pleasures which were her right as the wife of an Australian squatter. Not maternal love, but repulsion did she feel at first sight of the baby. It was only latterly, when the child began to bloom into real loveliness, when her figure again was lithesome, when the child so evidently was a credit to her, that she came to love him. It was the beauty of the child and not love of its father which inspired that love.
A knock on the door of her room announced her husband. Turning from the mirror she saw him surveying her, one hand still on the door-knob behind him, his eyes lit with the admiration that in any man’s eyes thrilled her to consciousness of her sex appeal. Whilst his eyes swept over her she incuriously wondered at the power her body held over this man.
“Do you like me in my black frock?” she inquired coolly, as though questioning another woman.
“You look–you look just superb,” he replied haltingly. And then, with quick, restrained earnestness: “EtheI, you are wonderful.”
“I shall become wonderfully vain if you go on in that strain. Still, I am glad you like my frock. I want to look nice to meet our neighbours.”
When he left the door and approached her, her alabaster lids drooped, shutting away the light that came into her eyes as the slats of a blind turned down will shut out the light of day. In her husband’s face she saw his hunger for her, but felt no responsive warmth.
“Don’t touch me, old boy! I’ve taken lots of trouble with my toilet,” she cried out protestingly.
“Very well, dear.”
Mayne stiffened into immobility, standing still to study her face feature by feature: first the semi-closed, languorous eyes, then the rather long, straight nose, and finally the perfect mouth and the slightly pointed chin. Lovely though she looked to him at that moment, he wondered how still more lovely she would look if only her face was flushed with passionate love. He said:
“Sorry, sweetheart, but you are so adorable, and I–I love you.”
“I know you do,” she told him, a thrill of satisfaction in her low, rich voice; now, in privacy with him, free from the affectation learned in the elocution class. “Yet I mustn’t be pulled about. You are not yet dressed. Do hurry I”
“Indeed, I must. I popped in to tell you that Old John is in the drawing-room playing with Little Frankie. I wanted to introduce you before the others arrive.”
“He–he is all right? Dressed, I mean.”
“Come and see for yourself. I think you will approve.”
He held open the drawing-room door for her to enter, and her first sight of Old John was of him on his knees facing the babe, who clung to a chair but two yards distant. And, even at her soft entry, Little Frankie suddenly left the chair and staggered on his stocky little legs across the adventurous sea into the safe harbour of the old man’s arms.
“Why! He walks!”
Her voice was raised in ecstatic surprise. Her face lit up with an inner light that for the moment melted her cold beauty into ravishing loveliness. Thus it was that Old John, with Little Frankie in his arms, first saw Ethel Mayne.
“Madame, Boy Blue has the makings of an international athlete,” boomed the deep voice of the old man when he stood up, still holding the child.
“But he has never walked before!”
“He has been waiting for encouragement–to gain applause.”
“Ethel, this is Sir John Blain,” Mayne interposed. “John–my wife.”
She smiled into the old, strikingly handsome face of this big man, correctly dressed in evening clothes cut in the fashion of nineteen-ten, and her mind began at once to battle with the items of news she had heard of him, and proceed to obliterate some of them as untruths. The affectation of the elocutionist was strong in her voice when she said:
“l am glad you came, Sir John–early. I am delighted to know that you are our near neighbour.”
“Your welcome gives me great happiness, Mrs. Mayne. When I heard whom Frank had married I knew he had married rightly. Now, having seen you, I venture to add that he knew precisely what he was doing. And, and not only has Atlas obtained a royal mistress, it also has got a royal heir. Madam, this child of yours is worthy of Atlas.”
“I am glad that you approve of us, Sir John,” she said, laughing softly. “But isn’t it wonderful that Little Frankie can toddle? You know, I was beginning to think he was backward.”
“Backward! Not he! My boy didn’t walk until he was thirteen months old, and he grew into a fine lad nevertheless. Very well, young fellow, you shall try again.”
The child was struggling to be released from the steady, encircling arms, and the old man set him down on his feet beside the chair. Mayne, still standing near the door, watched the scene with a surging heart, saw Old John fall on his knees, saw his wife standing near him with an expression of rapt joy–an expression which caused him to think that he never had met this woman before. Old John called coaxingly, his face lit by an astonishing light, and again Little Frankie essayed the journey, this time with less success although with not less confidence. Without speaking, Mayne quietly withdrew and went to his room to dress.
“Your father! Is he in good health?” Old John asked, still on his knees, and addressing Ethel when she became seated.
“As well as can be expected, Sir John. His nerves are in rags, but he will work so hard. Every moment of his day is occupied by something or other.”
Her emphasis on particular words jarred him. He could find no excuse for the daughter of Dean Dyson, who had mixed all her life with gentlefolk. It did not even amuse him, as such affectation in the speech of the ignorant would have done. Her good first impression on him already was wearing thin.
“lt is a great thing to enjoy a busy life’“ he boomed. “Your father and I went to the same school, and I remember him as a thin little fellow anxious to please everyone. You will feel a little homesick for a while, but that is a phase which will be cured by time.
I said just now that your husband had chosen well. Without impertinence I say now that you are a fortunate woman, for not only is Frank a fine man, but this estate which you share with him is well worth the co-rule of any woman. As an inheritance for your boy I know of none finer, save, of course, Blain Chase.”
“Have you been here long?” she asked unsmilingly.
“Twenty-five years. A somewhat sordid incident drove me from Blain Chase. Doubtless you have heard of it from your husband. In certain circumstances men sometimes are very foolish. My son then was seven years old. I sent him to school and came to Australia, where I met Old Man Mayne, who persuaded me to stay. Now and then I went home to see my boy, and settle details regarding his education and subsequent career in the Army. After he was killed in action at Mons I felt no desire to go home; and have, with my own hands, built a little place of my own where I can fish and garden and dream away my closing years.”
“Are you not lonely all by yourself?”
She saw him smiling at her with a suggestion of wistfulness.
“No,” he said firmly. “My ghosts are my companions. There is the ghost of my woman who, to me, died many years ago; and there is the ghost of my dear boy. He is ever with me, and I am truly comforted.”
No emotion was either visible on his face or audible in his voice. The matter-of-fact tones were strangely in dissonance with the subject of his words. He asked for, and expected, no sympathy. It was his simplicity that awed her. He spoke again.
“Old Man Mayne was my friend, and a very staunch friend he was too. I know something of the long, long battle he fought to make Atlas what it is. He was justified in his pride of possession, because he loved the bush as few men do, and he grew to love Atlas with a love transcending even a woman’s love. When he died, not only did he transmit the property to his son, he also left him his pride of possession and his love for Atlas. I hope–with all my heart I hope–that you will come to love it too.”
“I hope so,” she said. “Do you know, I think I shall.” But she thought that Old John was over serious, not understanding how anyone could so regard a tract of land and a few buildings.
3
From the hall voices drifted to Ethel Mayne and Old John. They became louder as their owners neared the drawing-room door. She recognized her husband’s voice, and heard also a strange voice that was musical and vibrant with strength–a voice that had a pleasant sound in her ears. The door was opened, and there stepped into the room a man she had not before seen. She noted how his eyes widened when they stared straight into hers. The light of the room softened with colour. Her husband said:
“Ethel, meet Mr. Alldyce Cameron.”
At pause just within the doorway stood a man six feet tall, with broad shoulders, slim hips, well-proportioned legs, and small feet. His evening clothes, of the latest fashion, fitted and became him to perfection. His square, clean-shaven face was tanned to the colour of mahogany, a colour that brought the brilliant blueness of his eyes into startling relief. Now the eyes were wide open. They bored into those of Ethel Mayne, speeding to her across the breadth of the room open, undisguised admiration. Her gaze was held–it seemed throughout an eternity–by the gaze of this stranger, so that but dimly conscious was she of his dark, wavy brown hair, and the flashing white of perfect teeth revealed between parted lips. Almost as a bird fascinated by a snake, she watched him cross the room to her, accompanied by her husband.
“I am delighted to make your acquaintance, Mr. Cameron,” she found herself repeating parrot-wise.
“My wife, Cameron,” put in Mayne, realizing that the introduction was not complete.
“To meet you, Mrs. Mayne, marks a milestone in the life of any bushman,” Cameron said, his voice low and richly vibrant–the attractive voice she had heard coming from the hall.
“As there are so few ladies in the district,” Cameron went on,
“your coming is to be regarded as a most important event. I trust that you never will be disappointed in us.”
There was slight emphasis on the last word. Ethel found herself mentally striving to prevent her gaze wandering about, his face, and to make her now semi-veiled eyes look directly into his. And then abruptly her habitual self-possession returned.
“I am sure I will not, Mr. Cameron. Sir John, and now you, are both very kind in welcoming me to the bush. In a way, I feel like an interloper in this big, open-air world of yours.”
“Rest assured, madam. You are one of us,” boomed Old John, also emphasizing the word “us”.
“Ah! Evening, Sir John!” Alldyce Cameron, turning a little, smiled. “Thank you for seconding me. As an amendment, may I be permitted to point out that Atlas, now having gained a mistress, will be pre-eminent among the stations of the Western Division of New South Wales?”
“Among the stations of the Continent, sir.”
“Agreed! I stand reproved. Mrs. Mayne, tell me, do you not think Atlas a wonderful place?”
Alldyce Cameron again was smiling on her, and at the back of her brain an imp whispered: “Look at his mouth–look at his mouth!”
For the fraction of a second she did look at the firm, parted lips and at the smooth, chiselled chin. She said lightly:
“The most wonderful place in the world. So far I haven’t been beyond the homestead boundaries, but Frank promises to take me out when lamb-marking starts. I went––”
Tiny hands tugged at the hem of her gown, and the group, which had entirely forgotten the child, followed her gaze to see him pulling himself to his feet. His frail weight temporarily threatened to affect the fall of her dress, and, frowning, she stooped to put the boy from her. Then large, white, blue-veined hands swept into the arc of her vision, snatching the boy away; and, when she stood up, she saw him held by Old John.
“You little rascal!” the old man exclaimed with laughter in his voice.
“Coo! Daddy! Mine daddy!”
Little Frankie began to struggle toward Mayne.
“My! What a fine boy! How old is he?” Cameron demanded.
“Just over eleven months. He walked for the first time this evening.”
Cameron’s eyebrows lifted just a fraction. It was Old John who gave the information when he passed the energetic child to his father.
Ethel, who saw the faint indication of surprise, felt annoyed, for did not Sir John take matters too much for granted?
4
Again the door was thrown open. Into the room came a vision in pale yellow, followed by the immaculate Feng, whose lid-shrouded eyes swept over the group about Ethel Mayne.
“Hallo, Frank! Why, you haven’t altered a wee bit, in spite of all your travels. Later on, you must whisper to me the secret of youth. Welcome home, and all that!”
“Neither have you altered, Ann’“ Mayne said, whilst holding her hands. “There is no need for me to impart to you the secret, because you have it too. Allow me to present to you my wife. Ethel, this is a friend of long standing, Ann Shelley, of Tin Tin.”
Ethel found herself rapidly examined by dark-grey eyes, widely spaced and steady. In this fraction of time she knew she was being judged, and decided that she did not like Ann Shelley. The woman was familiar, and she detested familiar people.
“Ever since I heard that old Frank was bringing home a wife I have been wildly curious about you,” Ann said, smiling but cool. “I have been guessing your colouring, and I’ve guessed right. I knew Frank would choose a brunette. Welcome to Atlas, Ethel! You will let me call you Ethel? And you will call me Ann, won’t you?”
“I think we shall be friends–Ann. As neighbours we must be, must we not?”
Again Old John noted the peculiarly precise enunciation. It was as though Ethel Mayne wished to show herself superior to the Australian bush girl. And then Ann Shelley saw Little Frankie, again on the floor where Mayne had put him on her arrival. “Oh!”
For an appreciable space of time she stared down on the sturdy figure and at the upturned cherubic face in which wide blue eyes looked upward with baby directness. Feng’s eyes blinked. He knew what Ann Shelley was thinking and feeling now that she gazed on Mayne’s child.
“Oh, you darling!” she cried, and fell on her knees before the boy, regardless of dress. “Why, you are a miniature angel!” Her hands flashed to the bosom of her blouse and produced a silver whistle shaped like a bird. A tiny ring was attached, and through the ring was run a narrow ribbon of gold silk. Gently Ann Shelley blew on the whistle, and hearing the liquid, throbbing note the boy left the supporting chair and with a short rush staggered into her arms. With one slightly trembling arm round the little boy, Ann Shelley taught Mayne’s son how to blow the whistle. Feng turned to Old John.
“Children are much like puppies and chickens,” he said softly. “So very interesting whilst they remain young.”
“They are, Feng, they are! They are interesting, too, when they approach man’s estate, for then their characters are forming.”
“You will soon have to pick him out a pony’“ Cameron said laughing.
A faint trilling announced Little Frankie’s first successful effort. Then there came a more sustained result, followed by delighted, gurgling laughter. The whistle occupied the baby’s mind to the exclusion of everything else, and Ann Shelley rose to her feet. Feng saw how her eyes were shining.
“He’s the loveliest child I’ve ever seen,” she said. “Aunty Joe must be wild about him.” Her eyes were passing from one to another while she spoke, and she was quick to see the haughty gleam in Ethel’s dark eyes, and the troubled look in those of her husband. Old John went on talking with Feng, and Feng knew Old John talked with reason. Ethel said:
“The aboriginal woman is not to be my child’s nurse. I cannot bear black people anywhere near me. They make me shiver, and I shall not feel comfortable until Frank has moved them on. I have a young girl coming up from Wentworth on the mail to-night.”
“Ah well! We cannot help our antipathies. I have a horror of snakes. I hope you will get over your antipathy towards Aunty Joe, because she is a dear old soul. She was Frank’s nurse, you know.”
“Yes. But I will not have her, or any other black person, near me.”
5
A gong of Burmese brass sent forth its deep note. Mayne offered his arm to Ann Shelley. Cameron stepped forward to Ethel Mayne, but Old John was before him, bowing with courtly grace. She smiled up into his fine old face, yet was conscious of a feeling of disappointment. Whilst crossing the hall to the dining-room Ann Shelley noticed the tall, black-gowned figure of Mrs. Morton, the housekeeper, standing near the drawn curtains at the entrance to the covered way leading to the kitchen. Mrs. Morton now was relegated to the background. In former days, when Feng ruled Atlas, Mrs. Morton was treated as an equal.
The dining-room was plainly furnished, more indicative of the owner’s character than was the drawing-room. The electric chandelier shed subdued yellow light on the napery and the silver and glass of a perfectly appointed table. Dark yellow velvet curtains masked the three pairs of french windows. An expensive Chinese carpet covered the floor. Above the high, wide mantle of one fireplace hung a coloured photographic enlargement of Old Man Mayne, and above the other a similar likeness of the late Mrs. Mayne. There were several oil paintings by Feng Ching-wei of pastoral subjects, and a spirited portrait of Pride of Atlas, the famous race-winning filly of the!912-13 season.
Ann’s dress of rich yellow, Ethel’s of unrelieved black, and the men’s faultless evening clothes–all, without doubt, were repeated at hundreds of tables in London, Paris, and New York; but outside this warm, silent, and peaceful house lay stretched the vast slumbering bush, the bush with its body of beauty, its voice of music, and its soul of calm indifference to man and his efforts to subjugate it.
Old English service custom was maintained, governed by convenience. The Atlas domestic staff was extremely good for a bush homestead, made possible only by high wages; yet Ethel Mayne was dissatisfied by the absence of a butler, the services of whom she determined to secure at all costs. At the head of the table Frank Mayne filled the soup plates that were set before the diners by the maid, Eva, the sweetheart of Tom Mace, the rabbiter. After the soup the host served cutlets of Darling cod, and later carved the roast mutton; dishes of potatoes, tinned peas, and asparagus being offered each guest in turn. It was not as Ethel Mayne would have liked it. Cameron guessed that.
“Doubtless you find our bush ways unfamiliar, Mrs. Mayne,” he said, his gleaming eyes resting on her snow-white shoulders before rising to meet her own. “I trust that you will not become homesick for the slick service of hotel and restaurant. For myself, I prefer the more direct and personal service found in the Australian bush. Do you not think, Sir John, that when a host himself serves his guests it proclaims a warmer personal interest in them?”
“Assuredly. The modem fashion places a host outside the link that joins his guests to his chef,” Old John agreed.
“I have no sympathy with modern methods of service, or of governing an estate. In my time, when at home, I knew personally each of my tenants, the names of every child on the estate. Yes, and the names of their dolls and dogs. Nowadays a landlord leaves everything to his agent–he is too busy combating Socialism to look after the everyday welfare of his people.”
“Changes which have come to the English countryside have also occurred here,” interjected Mayne. “Save for Atlas and Tin Tin, and three other stations, all, or nearly all, our present properties are governed through managers by boards of directors living in the luxury of a city and knowing little of the employee who produces the dividends. I know three managers who control absolutely the properties owned by individuals in Great Britain, but the others are merely mouthpieces. The unfortunate result is that there is everlasting niggling warfare between city employer and bush employee. Tin Tin and Atlas and those stations governed by real managers seldom suffer labour trouble, but the city director-controlled manager almost always has trouble, especially at shearing time, because he cannot–even if willing–act without his far-distant directors’ consent. It is a great pity the old-time squatter no longer exists.”
“Well, this is a land of strikes, isn’t it?” cooed Ethel.
“Not more so than any other country, I believe’“ Mayne replied. “Unfortunately for Australia, overseas newspaper editors appear to think that Australia can offer no subject of interest but a strike.”
“Still, there are always strikes in Australia,” his wife persisted.
“They call this country a Working-man’s Paradise, and I suppose it is thought that decent people should not live out here. The root of the trouble is that the upper classes here have permitted the working-man too much liberty. England is quickly going the same way. Presently we shall be expected to eat with our workers. Papa often says that he hopes there is not Socialism in heaven.”
Old John’s sudden laughter, booming through the room, cut off the hint of bitterness. Chuckling, he said:
“Then the Dean has not altered much since he was a boy, my dear Mrs. Mayne. He was always a theologian, even at school. I remember him expressing to me the same hope, adding: “If there is Socialism in heaven and a properly constituted monarchy in the other place, I may decide against heaven!”
“Perhaps I, too, will make the same decision,” Ethel said more lightly. “What will you do, Mr. Cameron?”
“Start a counter-revolution in heaven, dear lady.”
“You may not be eligible,” Old John suggested dryly.
“In that case I should start a general strike in the other place. I believe that any untroubled political system produces national degeneration.”
“I do not agree with you, Mr. Cameron,” countered Ann. “Agitators ought to be killed off. If you and I should arrive at the same place, I shall certainly recommend your extinction.”
“Ah! Then it is certain that–er–hell will finally receive me; because, arriving at the gates of heaven, I shall have to ask St. Peter if he has admitted you, and, learning that he has, it would not be wise for me to accept his invitation to enter. Of course, Miss Shelley, St.Peter might say that he had directed you elsewhere.”
“Knowing you, Mr. Cameron, St. Peter would say to you: ‘Be pleased to step right in.’ And when you were safetly in, St. Peter would say to himself: ‘Now, Mr. Cameron, look out for Ann Shelley, who most certainly will keep an eye on your political manrœuvres.’”
“Quite logical–as always, Ann’“ murmured Feng.
The conversation veered to horse-racing, as it had to in this Australian home; but the subject was quickly dropped when it was seen to bore the hostess. It was Alldyce Cameron who first sensed that Ethel Mayne knew nothing of horses, and wished to continue to know nothing.
“Have you subscribed to a library yet, Mrs. Mayne?” he inquired; and, receiving a negative answer, proceeded to argue the advantages of several in Adelaide and Sydney.
“But can we obtain the books we want?”
“Well, not always, unless one keeps to the best-sellers. There is nothing here to equal Mudie’s, you know. Still, the range of books is fairly large, and the postal service quite satisfactory.” “I must see about it,” Ethel concluded. “I shall so miss Mudie’s.
Already I am feeling an exile, for it does seem so strange not having seen a Tatler, or a Graphic, for weeks.”
“I shall be pleased to send along the Tatler. It comes to me every mail, posted by Lord Henry Lowther, whom I met during the War years:’
“Were you in the Army?”
“Oh yes! I had the honour to command a battalion.”
“Did you?”
And Alldyce Cameron found himself surveyed with fresh interest.
The dinner proceeded to its destined end, and, after a quick glance at her husband, who nodded, Ethel addressed the company with what was really a short speech.
“Having become an Australian by adoption,” she said gaily, I am going to suggest that Ann and I be permitted to drink our coffee with you gentlemen at this table. Do you not think, Ann, that that would be properly democratic? I do. While the men smoke their cigars, we will smoke a cigarette and lounge in our chairs, and listen patiently to the masculine gossip.”
“A great idea, Mrs. Mayne! Thank heaven that you, too, are a rebel against society’s conventions.” Turning directly to Ann, Cameron continued: “Surely you agree, Miss Shelley, that the custom of the ladies retiring while we men smoke and gossip is really prehistoric?”
“It may be, Mr. Cameron. Thank you, Ethel, for your suggestion. If I cannot have my cigarette immediately after a meal, I become very nervy. I am afraid I am such an ordinary home-bird that real society would bore me to death.”
Ann Shelley was the first to leave that evening, but before Feng escorted her to the powerful single-seater car she insisted on paying a visit to the sleeping Little Frankie. She shook hands with the mistress of Atlas, and nodded a laughing farewell to Mayne. Feng held open the door of the car for her, and tucked the rich fox-skin rug about her whilst she drew on her driving gloves. A black boy climbed into the open dicky. He was her gate-opener.
“You are going to have a cold drive, Ann,” Feng told her, noting the steam of their breath in the reflection made by the brilliant headlights.
“Nevertheless it is going to be lovely, Feng, old thing. What has become of Aunty Joe?”
“She is camped with King Bill’s crowd at White Gate Bend.”
“Then I am going to send for her to come to Tin Tin at once. It–
it–– Oh, how could Frank have let her go from Atlas?”
Feng’s voice was soft, yet even. He said:
“Happy marriages are based on diplomacy, Ann. As time passes, Mrs. Mayne will become less antagonistic to the blacks.”
“I trust so.” She pressed the starting-button, and the well-tuned engine broke into a hum. There was a catch in her voice when she spoke, leaning outward towards him. “She’s lovely, Feng, isn’t she?
And the little boy! He–he is–– Good-bye, Feng !”
The car shot away, leaving Feng Ching-wei gazing after the red tail-light, the pain at his heart stab, stab, stabbing; for Ann Shelley had gone with tears in her voice.