all round the bed of the old river,” she answered. “They’re about through for the day, now. Guess you’d better go down and see after some quarters, unless you’re going to camp out!”
“Not for me!” he declared fervently. “I’ve had about enough of that. If money can buy it, I’ll sleep upon a bed to-night!”
“You won’t find much in the shape of a bed down yonder,” she remarked listlessly. Her interest in this odd little morsel of humanity had vanished. It was getting near the time for the Englishman to return. Very soon her fate would be decided. It was strange to think that her eyes might never see the morning break again. She would surely die rather than give herself into his hands again. She did not hesitate about that for a moment. Then she turned her face towards the great rolling plain. The memory of those awful days and nights rushed in upon her. Better death than to face such again—alone! If she was driven out, it should be to die!
“Well, I’m off!” remarked a sharp voice at her ear. “I say!”
She glanced down quickly. The stranger was still standing by her side.
“Yes?”
“Odd thing it would be, wouldn’t it, if I was to drop across a pal in this God-forsaken corner of the earth! Know the names of any of these chaps here?”
She shook her head.
“I suppose they have names!” she remarked. “They don’t use them much out here, though. They call one another anything!”
She chanced to look at him as she finished her speech. His bead-like eyes were fixed upon her, all alight with a keen inquisitiveness. He withdrew them at once.
“Well, I should soon find them out, working amongst them,” he declared cheerfully. “There are quite a lot of chaps I’ve knocked up against at different times, who said they were coming out this way. Let me see; there was Churcher—George Churcher, and Bill Dyson, and that fellow Richardson I met on the boat. Ay! and Dick Jenkins and that other chap—what’s his name?—Maurice Huntly.”
She caught hold of the side of the door, and shuddered. Through the fast gathering gloom, she could see his black glittering eyes fixed steadfastly upon her.
“There is a man here who used to call himself Huntly,” she remarked, looking down the valley. “That’s his shanty, opposite!”
“Live alone?
“Yes.”
“About thirty years old. Short and stout; very fair and squints. Eh?”
She shook her head.
“No; he’s tall and dark, and I don’t think there’s anything the matter with his eyes.”
He scratched his chin, and appeared disappointed.
“Ain’t the same,” he remarked. “Didn’t see how it could be. The man I mean was the least likely to be here of all the lot. He got married last year. Lord, how dark it’s getting! Good evening to you, my dear. I shouldn’t be in no hurry, I can tell you, if I knew my way down that confounded hill a bit better. Ta—ta!”
He leered into her face without apparently noticing the gesture of disgust with which she turned away from him. Then he scrambled on to the level, and mounting the mule which was browsing calmly by the wayside, he rode off awkwardly enough down the caqon. Once he tried to turn round to wave his hand, and very nearly lost his seat. The girl took no notice. She was standing there, straight and rigid, waiting for her doom.
VIII. A CORNER OF THE CURTAIN
The men were late coming from their work that evening. The twilight was merging into darkness, and a few fireflies were commencing to dart about in the valley, when she heard their voices approaching. The Englishman and Pete Morrison stood talking for several moments at the door of the latter’s dwelling, but though she strained her ears, she could not catch any part of their conversation. Presently, she heard a brief good-night pass between them, and the Englishman’s massive figure came towering through the darkness. She stepped back into the shanty, put the lamp on the table where his supper was carefully spread, and stood waiting for him with beating heart. There was nothing more she could do. She had put on the gown which she had jealously carried with her through all those days of toil and misery, and she had done her rich hair in the manner he liked best. Everything inside the shanty was as neat and tidy and clean as it could be made. She stood there waiting, her eyes soft with unshed tears, and the colour coming and going in her cheeks. She could even hear her heart beating underneath her dress. It seemed to her that her fate would be written in his face.
He flung open the door of the shanty and entered, stooping low. When he drew himself up, she was unable to decide immediately whether his countenance was favourable or not. He nodded to her kindly, but in an abstracted manner, and—he did not seem to notice her gown. Her lip quivered pitifully.
“You’re late, Bryan,” she said. “Your supper’s all ready.”
She came and stood over by his side. He put his arm around her waist and kissed her.
“You’re a regular little Englishwoman,” he declared, glancing round. “Shouldn’t have thought that you’d have been up to roughing it like this. By Jove, Myra, how handsome you are!”
He held her out at arm’s length and looked at her. The soft colour glowed in her cheeks, and her eyes flashed with joy.
“Am I?” she whispered. “Guess I like you to think so.”
He looked at her steadily, and a cloud passed over his face. He was thinking of the future, nearer than ever it seemed to-night, when the day of their parting must come. What would become of her; what manner of life was there in which she could find happiness, and keep herself from sinking deeper into the slough from the borders of which he had snatched her? That very beauty, which it seemed to him that until then he had never properly appreciated, now all the more glorious for its pitiful surroundings, troubled him. It was too fair a thing to be coupled with a tarnished life.
“Well, let’s have supper,” he said suddenly. “I had a huge wash in the river, and I’ve an appetite, I can tell you.”
They sat down together. Her relief was too great for her to eat. But suddenly a cold chill ran through her blood. Her heart sank. Supposing Pete had not, after all, mentioned the morning’s adventure? He happened to be looking at her, and he noticed the change in her countenance.
“What’s up, Myra?” he inquired, setting down the tin pannikin which he had been in the act of lifting to his lips. “Seen a ghost?”
She looked at him, and suddenly leaned forward. “Has Pete Morrison told you about this morning?” she asked breathlessly.
He frowned and went on with his supper.
“Yes. That beast Jim came up and frightened you, didn’t he? We’ve been too hard at work to talk much, and Pete isn’t much of a hand at a yarn. I’d like to hear you tell me just what happened.”
She stood up and locked
