XIII
Sophie often met Arthur Henty on the road just out of the town. Usually it was going to or coming from the tank paddock, or in the paddock, on Friday afternoons, when he had been into Budda for the sales or to truck sheep or cattle. They did not arrange to meet, but Sophie expected to see Arthur when she went to the tank paddock, and she knew he expected to find her there. She did not know why she liked being with Arthur Henty so much, or why they were such golden occasions when she met him. They did not talk much when they were together. Their eyes met; they knew each other through their eyes—a something remote from themselves was always working through their eyes. It drew them together.
When she was with Arthur Henty, Sophie knew she was filled with an ineffable gaiety, a thing so delicate and ethereal that as she sang she seemed to be filling the air with it. And Henty looked at her sometimes as if he had discovered a new, strange, and beautiful creature, a butterfly, or gnat, with gauzy, resplendent wings, whose beauty he was bewildered and overcome by. The last time they had been together he had longed to draw her to him and kiss her so that the virgin innocence would leave her eyes; but fear or some conscientious scruple had restrained him. He had been reluctant to awaken her, to change the quality of her feeling towards him. He had let her go with a lingering handclasp. In all their tender intimacy there had been no more of the lovemaking of the flesh than the subtle interweavings of instincts and fibres which this handclasp gave. Ridge folk had seen them walking together. They had seen that subtle inclination of Sophie’s and Arthur’s figures towards each other as they walked—the magnetic, gentle, irresistible swaying towards each other—and the gossips began to whisper and nod smilingly when they came across Arthur and Sophie on the road. Sophie at first went her way unconscious of the whispers and smiles. Then words were dropped slyly—people teased her about Arthur. She realised they thought he was her sweetheart. Was he? She began to wonder and think about it. He must be; she came to the conclusion happily. Only sweethearts went for walks together as she and Arthur did.
“My mother says,” Mirry Flail remarked one day, “she wouldn’t be a bit surprised to see you marrying Arthur Henty, Sophie, and going over to live at Warria.”
“Goodness!” Sophie exclaimed, surprised and delighted that anybody should think such a thing.
“Marry Arthur Henty and go over and live at Warria.” Her mind, like a delighted little beaver, began to build on the idea. It did not alter her bearing with Arthur. She was less shy and thoughtful with him, perhaps; but he did not notice it, and she was carelessly and childishly content to have found the meaning of why she and Arthur liked meeting and talking together. People only felt as she and Arthur felt about each other if they were going to marry and live “happy ever after,” she supposed.
When Michael was aware of what was being said, and of the foundation there was for gossip, he was considerably disturbed. He went to talk to Maggie Grant about it. She, he thought, would know more of what was in the wind than he did, and be better able to gauge what the consequences were likely to be to Sophie.
“I’ve been bothered about it myself, Michael,” she said. “But neither you nor me can live Sophie’s life for her. … I don’t see we can do anything. His crowd’ll do all the interfering, if I know anything about them.”
“I suppose so,” Michael agreed.
“And, as far as I can see, it won’t do any good our butting in,” Mrs. Grant continued. “You know Sophie’s got a will of her own … and she’s always had a good deal her own way. I’ve talked round the thing to her … and I think she understands.”
“You’ve always been real good to her, Maggie,” Michael said gratefully.
“As to that”—the lines of Maggie Grant’s broad, plain face rucked to the strength of her feeling—“I’ve done what I could. But then, I’m fond of her—fond of her as you are, Michael. That’s saying a lot. And you know what I thought of her mother. But it’s no use us thinking we can buy Sophie’s experience for her. She’s got to live … and she’s got to suffer.”
Busy with her opal-cutting, and happy with her thoughts, Sophie had no idea of the misgiving Michael and Maggie Grant had on her account, or that anyone was disturbed and unhappy because of her happiness. She sang as she worked. The whirr of her wheel, the chirr of sandstone and potch as they sheared away, made a small, busy noise, like the drone of an insect, in her house all day; and every day some of the men brought her stones to face and fix up. She had acquired such a reputation for making the most of stones committed to her care that men came from the Three Mile and from the Punti with opals for her to rough-out and polish.
Bully Bryant and Roy O’Mara were often at Rouminof’s in the evening, and they heard about it when they looked in at Newton’s later on, now and then.
“You must be striking it pretty good down at the Punti, Bull,” Watty Frost ventured genially one night. “See you takin’ stones for Sophie to fix up pretty near every evenin’.”
“There’s some as sees too much,” Bully remarked significantly.
“What you say, you say y’rself, Bull.” Watty pulled thoughtfully on his pipe, but his little blue eyes squinted over his fat, red-grained cheeks, not in the least abashed.
“I do,” Bull affirmed. “And them as sees too much … won’t see much … when I’m through with ’em.”
“Mmm,” Watty brooded. “That’s a good thing to know, isn’t it?”
He and the rest of the men continued to “sling off,” as they said, at Bully and Roy O’Mara as they saw fit, nevertheless.
The summer had been a mild one; it passed almost without a ripple of excitement. There were several hot days, but cool changes blew over, and the rains came before people had given up dreading the heat. Several new prospects had been made, and there were expectations that holes sunk on claims to the north of the Punti Rush would mean the opening up of a new field.
Michael and Potch worked on in their old claim with very little to show for their pains. Paul had slackened and lost interest as soon as the fitful gleams of opal they were on had cut out. Michael was not the man to manage Rummy, the men said.
Potch and Michael, however, seemed satisfied enough to regard Paul more or less as a sleeping partner; to do the work of the mine and share with him for keeping out of the way.
“Shouldn’t wonder if they wouldn’t rather have his room than his company,” Watty ventured, “and they just go shares with him so as things’ll be all right for Sophie.”
“That’s right!” Pony-Fence agreed.
The year had made a great difference to Potch. Doing man’s work, going about on equal terms with the men, the change of status from being a youth at anybody’s beck and call to doing work which entitled him to the taken-for-granted dignity of being an independent individual, had made a man of him. His frame had thickened and hardened. He looked years older than he was really, and took being Michael’s mate very seriously.
Michael had put up a shelter for himself and his mates, thinking that Potch and Paul might not be welcome in George and Watty’s shelter; but George and Watty were loth to lose Michael’s word from their councils. They called him over nearly every day, on one pretext or another. Sometimes his mates followed Michael. But Rouminof soon wearied of a discussion on anything except opal, and wandered off to the other shelters to discover whether anybody had struck anything good that morning. Potch threw himself on the ground beside Michael when Michael had invited him to go across to George and Watty’s shelter with him, and after a while the men did not notice him there any more than Michael’s shadow. He lay beside Michael, quite still, throwing crumbs to the birds which came round the shelter, and did not seem to be listening to what was said. But always when a man was heatedly and with some difficulty trying to disentangle his mind on a subject of argument, he found Potch’s eyes on him, steady and absorbing, and knew from their intent expression that Potch was following all he had to say with quick, grave interest.
Some people were staying at Warria during the winter, and when there was going to be a dance at the station Mrs. Henty wrote to ask Rouminof to play for it. She could manage the piano music, she said, and if he would tune his violin for the occasion, they would have a splendid band for the young people. And, her letter had continued: “We should be so pleased if your daughter would come with you.”
Sophie was wildly excited at the invitation. She had been to Ridge race balls for the last two or three years, but she had never even seen Warria. Her father had played at a Warria ball once, years before, when she was little; but she and her mother had not gone with him to the station. She remembered quite well when he came home, how he had told them of all the wonderful things there had been to eat at the ball—stuffed chickens and crystallised fruit, iced cakes, and all manner of sweets.
Sophie had heard of the Warria homestead since she was a child, of its orange garden and great, cool rooms. It had loomed like the enchanted castle of a legend through all her youthful imaginings. And now, as she remembered what Mirry Flail had said, she was filled with delight and excitement at the thought of seeing it.
She wondered whether Arthur had asked his mother to invite her to the dance. She thought he must have; and with naive conceit imagined happily that Arthur’s mother must want to know her because she knew that Arthur liked her. And Arthur’s sisters—it would be nice to know them and to talk to them. She went over and over in her mind the talks she would have with Polly and Nina, and perhaps Elizabeth Henty, some day.
A few weeks before the ball she had seen Arthur riding through the township with his sisters and a girl who was staying at Warria. He had not seen her, and Sophie was glad, because suddenly she had felt shy and confused at the thought of talking to him before a lot of people. Besides, they all looked so jolly, and were having such a good time, that she would not have known what to say to Arthur, or to his sisters, just then.
When she told Mrs. Woods and Martha M’Cready about the invitation, they smiled and teased her.
“Oh, that tells a tale!” they said.
Sophie laughed. She felt silly, and she was blushing, they said. But she was very happy at having been asked to the ball. For weeks before she found herself singing “Caro Nome” as she sat at work, went about the house, or with Potch after the goats in the late afternoon.
Arthur liked that song better than any other, and its melody had become mingled and interwoven with all her thoughts of him.
The twilight was deepening, on the evening a few days before the dance, when Bully Bryant and Roy O’Mara came up to Rouminof’s hut, calling Sophie. She was washing milk tins and tea dishes, and went to the door singing to herself, a candle throwing a fluttering light before her.
“Your father sent us along for you, Sophie,” Bully explained. “There’s a bit of a celebration on at Newton’s tonight, and the boys want you to sing for them.”
Sophie turned from them, going into the house to put down her candle.
“All right,” she said, pleased at the idea.
Michael came into the hut through, the back door. From his own room he had heard Bully calling and then explaining why he and Roy O’Mara were there.
“Don’t go, Sophie,” Michael said.
“But why, Michael?” Disappointment clouded Sophie’s first bright pleasure that the men had sent for her to sing to them, and her eagerness to do as they asked.
“It’s not right … not good for you to sing down there when the boys ’ve been drinking,” Michael said, unable to express clearly his opposition to her singing at Newton’s.
“Don’t be a spoilsport, Michael,” the boys at the door called when they saw he was trying to dissuade Sophie.
“Come along, Sophie,” Roy called.
She looked from Bully and Roy to Michael, hesitating. Theirs was the call of youth to youth, of youth to gaiety and adventure. She turned away from Michael.
“I’m going, Michael,” she said quickly, and swung to the door. Michael heard her laughing as she went off along the track with Bully and Roy.
“Did you know Mr. Armitage is up?” Roy stopped to call back.
“No,” Michael said.
“Came up by the coach this evening,” Roy said, and ran after Bully and Sophie.
It was a rowdy night at Newton’s. Shearing was just over at Warria sheds, and men with cheques to burn were crowding the bar and passages. Sophie was hailed with cheers as she neared the veranda. Her father staggered out towards her, waving his arms crazily. Sophie was surprised when she found the crowd waiting for her. There were so many strangers in it—rough men with heavy, inflamed faces—hardly one she knew among them. A murmur and boisterous clamour of voices came from the bar. The men on the veranda made way for her.
Her heart quailed when she looked into the big earthen-floored bar, and saw its crowd of rough-haired, sun-red men, still wearing the clothes they had been working in, grey flannel shirts and dungarees, blood-splashed, grimy, and greasy with the “yolk” of fleeces they had been handling. The smell of sheep and the sweat of long days of shearing and struggling with restless beasts were in the air, with fumes of rank tobacco and the flat, stale smell of beer. The hanging lamp over the bar threw only a dim light through the fog of smoke the men had put up, and which from the doorway completely obscured Peter Newton where he stood behind the bar.
Sophie hung back.
“I’m not going in there,” she said.
“Did you know Mr. Armitage was up?” Roy asked.
“No,” she said.
He explained how Mr. Armitage had come unexpectedly by the coach that evening. Sophie saw him among the men on the veranda.
“I’ll sing here,” she told Bully and Roy, leaning against a veranda post.
She was a little afraid. But she knew she had always pleased Ridge folk when she sang to them, so she put back her head and sang a song of youth and youthful happiness she had sung on the veranda at Newton’s before. It did not matter that the words were in Italian, which nobody understood. The dancing joyousness and laughing music of her notes carried the men with them. The applause was noisy and enthusiastic. Sophie laughed, delighted, yet almost afraid of her success.
Big and broad-shouldered, Bully Bryant stood at a little distance from her, in front of everybody. Arthur Henty, leaning against the wall near the door of the bar, smiled softly, foolishly, when she glanced at him. He had been drinking, too, and was watching, and listening to her, with the same look in his eyes as Bully.
Sophie caught the excitement about her. An exhilaration of pleasure thrilled her. It was crude wine which went to her head, this admiration and applause of strangers and of the men she had known since she was a child. There was a wonderful elation in having them beg her to sing. They looked actually hungry to hear her. She found Arthur Henty’s eyes resting on her with the expression she knew in them. An imp of recklessness entered her. Her father beat the air as if he were leading an orchestra, and she threw herself into the Shadow Song, singing with an abandonment that carried her beyond consciousness of her surroundings.
She sang again and again, and always in response to an eager tumult of cheers, thudding of feet, joggling of glasses, chorus of broken cries: “Encore, encore, Sophie!” An instinct of mischief and coquetry urging, she glanced sometimes at Arthur, sometimes at Bully. Then with a glance at Arthur, and for a last number, she began “Caro Nome,” and gave to her singing all the glamour and tenderness, the wild sweetness, the aria had come to have for her, because she had sung it so often to Arthur when they met and were walking along the road together. She was so carried away by her singing, she did not realise what had happened until afterwards.
She only knew that suddenly, roughly, she was grasped and lifted. She saw Bully’s face flaming before her own, gazed with terror and horror into his eyes. His face was thrown against hers—and obliterated.
“Are you all right?” someone asked after a moment.
Awaking from the daze and bewilderment, Sophie looked up.
John Armitage was standing beside her; Potch nearby. They were on the outskirts of the crowd on the veranda.
“Yes,” she said.
The men on the veranda had broken into two parties; one was surging towards the bar door, the other moving off down the road out of the town. Michael came towards her.
“Thank you, Mr. Armitage,” he said.
“Oh, Potch looked after her. I couldn’t get near,” John Armitage said.
An extraordinary quiet took possession of Sophie. When she was going down the road with Potch and Michael, she said:
“Did Bully kiss me, Michael?”
“Yes,” he replied.
“I don’t know what happened then?”
“Arthur Henty knocked him down,” Michael said.
She looked at him with scared eyes.
“They want to fight it out … but they’re both drunk. The boys are trying to stop it.”
“Oh, Michael!” Sophie cried on a little gasping breath; and looking into her eyes he read her contrition, asking forgiveness, understanding all that he had not been able to explain to her. She did not say, “I’ll never sing there, like that, any more.” Her feeling was too deep for words; but Michael knew she never would.