Beyond the blue Mountains

Katharine Masterman

Katharine Masterman awakened early that December day, but the sunshine was already streaming into her bedroom. She experienced a disappointment, for as soon as she was fully awake she remembered that Christmas Day was still three weeks off, and realized that she had only dreamed that it was Christmas Day, and that she was at the breakfast table looking at the presents piled high beside her plate. Three weeks to go I It might as well have been three years, for three weeks is an age when one is ten years old.

She threw aside her mosquito net, and got out of bed. This was her own room, right at the top of the house where the nurseries were. From her window she could see the dazzling sea, and cockatoos and parakeets, white and so brilliantly coloured that it was sheer pleasure to watch them. She stood there, watching them now, and forgot her dream in her desire to fly as they could. She spread out her arms and swooped about the room, uttering cries of delight, until the exertion made her so hot that she remembered the boys in the next room. In a moment she would have them running in, swooping about her room crying: "I'm a cockatoo!

I can fly fastest!" They always imitated her; they were so very young.

James was eight, Martin six and a half, and little Edward just four.

She felt superior in wisdom; ten was so very much older than even James, and she had heard Margery say that girls grow up quicker than boys.

She sat down on her bed, swinging her legs to and fro, wondering what she would do today. It must be a special day because she had dreamed it was Christmas. No day of course could be like Christmas Day, but it could be made exciting. But how?

She was tall for her age, rather thin, with blue-green eyes and a little more red in her hair than Carolan had had at her age; she had a quiet introspective air, reminiscent of her father, and her mouth was like his too. She drove the entire household to distraction with her capacity for asking questions. Where? Why? What...? Almost every sentence she spoke began like that. She would sit quietly watching people, seeing behind them the background of all they had told her over a number of years, all skilfully fitted together by herself until it made a complete picture. At some time they had all felt a little uncomfortable before the candid scrutiny of those calm blue-green eyes.

She would pull them up sharply over any small divergence from a previous story.

"Oh, but before, you said ..." It was disconcerting. But they loved her; she was the favourite of all the children, although James was the eldest son, and Martin and Edward were boys, and people wanted boys.

She knew though, by the way Mamma looked at her and Papa looked at her, and the way Margery said: "Now, what do you want in my kitchen?" that they loved her best of all.

It was good to be loved; it gave one such a sense of happy security.

Papa took her out to the stations with him sometimes; she would ride beside him in her neat outfit, and when they met people, who always had something to say to her, Papa got quite pink as though he liked very much hearing them say what a fine girl she was becoming.

She had a less clear picture of Papa than of anyone. She supposed that was because he was so important.

"Your father is a very busy man!”

"Your father is a very clever man!" How often had she heard that. But she didn't know things about him as she did about Margery and Miss Kelly and Poll and Wando. He was just Papa, a very clever man and a very busy man, who went pink when people stopped to talk to her.

Conversation with him was not always satisfactory; he would not be lured into disclosures. Mamma could be lured more easily than he could.

"Papa, do you wish I were a boy?”

"No.”

"But don't you want boys?”

"Why ... yes.”

"The eldest is always supposed to be a boy. Why did you have me a girl?”

"You cannot choose these matters, Katharine.”

"Why not, Papa?”

"Because they are arranged for us.”

"Who arranges them?”

"Does not Miss Kelly teach you to read your Bible?”

"Yes, Papa, but there is nothing about arranging there. Do you have to pray hard if you want a first-born boy?”

"Yes.”

"Then didn't you pray?”

Her questions were relentless, and Papa always, sooner or later, took the grown-up way out.

"Little girls should not ask so many questions.”

"Oh... but Papa, didn't you pray? I should have thought God ought to have answered your prayers. I think it mean of Him not to have made me a boy if you wanted a boy.”

"Hush, Katharine!”

"Why must I hush?”

"Because it is unsuitable for you to talk in this way.”

"Of first-borns and God?”

"Yes.”

"But in the Bible there is a lot about first-borns and God. God killed all the first-borns.

"Oh, Papa, suppose He killed all the first-borns in Sydney! That would be me ... oh, but it wouldn't, because it would be the first-born boys.

That would be James.”

"Now look here, nobody is going to kill any first-borns in Sydney.”

"But how do you know, Papa?”

"Because I do.”

"He told you? Oh, but Papa, if He told you that, couldn't you have asked Him why He didn't make your first-born a boy?”

"We will drop this ridiculous subject.”

No. you could not talk to Papa. There were lots of things she wanted to say to him. She almost said on that occasion: "Papa, perhaps it is something to do with your First Wife." But she dared not; there was something about Papa which could be very forbidding. But she knew there was a First Wife. She had heard Margery talking to Miss Kelly about it, talking in whispers in the way grown-ups do talk about a shocking subject, even when they do not know there is someone listening who should not hear.

Margery whispered: "It fair gives me the creeps to go up to that first floor.”

"That was where it happened, was it?" whispered back Miss Kelly.

"That was where it happened. And him and her ..." The whispers were so low-pitched that it was impossible to hear from outside the kitchen door. Him and her? Who? Papa and Mamma, or Papa and the First Wife?

"Positive of it!" said Margery.

"You only have to work it out. Miss Katharine will tell you that.”

She herself tell them? How could she, when she did not know!

"Not," said Margery, 'that I blame them... him or her!”

Blame whom? Papa and Mamma? Of Papa and the First Wife?

Exciting! Fascinating! Not that she thought much about it, for you cannot go on being excited about something that consistently remains a mystery. It was only when some overheard word came to her ears, or she was oppressed by the silence of the first floor where the guest rooms were, that she thought that the discovery of the secret would be the most exciting thing that could happen. At other times the thought of the Blue Mountains excited her far more.

Wando had told her about the Blue Mountains. Wando was very, very dark, with a wrinkled face and black eyes and hair and a chocolate brown body. He had fascinating feet with stubbed and broken toes; and he worked for Papa and went out with him and the men when they were going to make a journey. He called Katherine "Missy Kat', which made her laugh so much every time she heard it, that she enjoyed going to the little hut where he lived, almost more than anything else. She liked Wando, and he liked Missy Kat. He wore a pair of trousers that were too shoe for him, and a coloured shirt because he was a Christian;" when he was alone in the hut he discarded the shirt and trousers and wore a bit of dirty rag round his middle. Katharine agreed with him that it was a good idea to discard the discomforts of Christianity when there was no one to see you. He fascinated her; he was very, very old, and, she believed, sad because he was remembering the days before the white men came to his country. Papa had told her about that, about Governor Phillip's sailing into Botany Bay with a transport of convicts. Papa thought it an exciting story; he often tried to tell her about it. and she would pretend that she thought it exciting too. because it was pleasant to see clever Papa looking rather like Martin telling Edward the story of Dick Whittington. He talked of pioneers and the responsibility of being a daughter of a new and growing country.

"But I thought I was your daughter. Papa.”

"You are. but you are also a daughter of this great country." Papa used to tell of the arrival of the first fleet, and the black men shouting "Warawara!" at them as they approached. She always meant to ask Wando if he were there, but she never remembered to; she was always more interested in the things he had to tell in his funny English. He had been a mighty hunter in his youth, and it was only now that he was an old man and the white men had come to his country, disturbing its ways, that he was content to live in a hut and accompany parties on expeditions into the hitherto unexplored bush. They were wonderful stories he had to tell of the days before the white men came. Katharine could catch at the excitement of the hunt. Wando had hunted with a spear, stalking the kangaroo, pitting his man's cunning against the timidity of the creature and its keen sense of smell. Wando, in sentences of one or two words, called up the thrill of the hunt.

Katharine could feel his creeping closer to his prey, his body smeared with clay to hold in the thrill of it. She could rejoice when the kangaroo was slung across Wando's shoulder. You cooked kangaroo in his skin, Wando told her, because it kept in all the juices of the meat.

"Good! Missy Kat. Good!" he would say. smacking his lips; and his eyes would look back and back to those days before the white men came.

She asked him, every time she saw him, how he had lost the two toes of his right foot. He could not remember, but when she asked he would look back and back and remember other things. Katharine liked to hear how one of his wives had fallen from a tree which she had climbed after wild honey, and had died. He had had four wives, and this matter of wives was baffling. Wando talked easily of them as though a man could have as many of them as he could get, and yet because Papa had had a First Wife, Margery and Miss Kelly whispered together, and there was mystery on the first floor.

It was Wando who told her about the Blue Mountains. Papa had pointed them out to her when she was quite a little girl.

"Why do you call them blue? They are not blue!" Papa did not know.

Papa was so clever that he only knew things which it was important for him to know. There was nothing exciting for Papa about the Blue Mountains; they were just mountains which hemmed him in. Beyond them there might be China. That was how Papa saw them; but to Katharine the most important thing about them was that they were blue. She discovered why they were blue; it was that curtain of mist hanging over them. It got bluer the more you looked. The Blue Mountains! The blue, blue mountains.

"Mamma, do you not want to ride over the Blue Mountains?”

"No one can. They are impassable.”

"Will no one ever know what is on the other side of the Blue Mountains?”

"Very likely not.”

"I would like to ride over the top of the Blue Mountains. Mamma, couldn't I try? I am sure I could ride over the Blue Mountains; I'd ride and ride until I got to the blue part, and then I'd be over the top__' Mamma wasn't listening. Mamma's maid was dressing her for the evening. Mamma was big and glorious; shimmering and shining, with a green pendant hanging round her neck. Mamma was very important, but Papa was not quite so important, because of Mamma. She had heard that whispered once at a party. Whispering again! There are some questions it is better not to ask, because if you ask them, people are put on their guard, and then you cannot ask questions which they will answer unthinkingly.

Wando knew a lot about the Blue Mountains. When she talked of them to him, his face wrinkled up and his eyes grew smaller and smaller; he didn't like to talk about the Blue Mountains. But she danced round him. Mamma and Papa could not be asked certain questions. Not so Wando. Wando should answer.

Beyond the Blue Mountains was a world none dare enter.

"I would dare, Wando! I would dare!”

"No, no, Missy Kat! No!”

His mouth worked; his flat nose wriggled; they did that when he was frightened.

"Wando, what is beyond the Blue Mountains?”

He told her, whispering as Margery whispered to Miss Kelly when she talked of the First Wife. A vast lake was on the other side of the blue curtains, and there lived fair people, people like gods.

"I will go, Wando. I will go and see them.”

He shook his head violently. She must not go.

She did not believe anyone would not be glad to see her.

But in the mountains lived many evil spirits, and these evil spirits would never, never let anyone pass through their mountains.

"What would they do, Wando, if anyone tried to pass through their mountains?”

Wando's deep black eyes were pools in which was hidden this unmentionable knowledge. His silence told more than any white man's words could have done. She trembled with horror at the thought of what those evil spirits would do to anyone who tried to pass through their mountains.

What was it that fascinated her so much about the Blue Mountains? The horror and the beauty. Those wicked spirits had chosen a blue curtain for their mountains; not black nor. hideously purple, but lovely blue.

She had gone back to her window. The sea was blue. There was blue in the gorgeous colours of the parakeets.

Somehow the Blue Mountains were fixed to her idea of an exciting day that must be exciting because she had awakened and thought it was Christmas.

She went into the boys' room and prodded them. They were all sleeping in different beds all three of them. Edward and James were very much alike one little and one big but Martin wasn't like either of them.

Martin was very quiet and dreamy; they said he would be clever. He was very pretty; people noticed him because he was pretty, and James because he was bright, and Edward because he was the baby.

She said: "I dreamed it was Christmas." And they all sat up and looked at her and thought of Christmas.

"I've been up hours." she said loftily.

"I've been flying.”

"Flying!”

"I've been a parakeet a lovely one ... all blue and red, and particularly blue." She pretended to fly about the room, flapping her arms for wings. Very soon they were all out of bed, doing the same, which brought Miss Kelly in.

Katharine stopped being a parakeet, to think of Miss Kelly and Miss Kelly's brother who had been a convict. As a result of much questioning at opportune moments, Katharine had pieced together a good deal of Miss Kelly's story. Back in England, four years ago. Miss Kelly's brother had run amuck.

"Amuck! Amuck! Amuck!" whispered Katharine, who loved words for their sounds as well as for their meanings. If you broke into a confidence, to ask the meaning of words, a grown-up was liable to remember you were an inquisitive child, and grown-up people like to ask questions, not to answer them. Amuck? They said that Mr. Jennings ran the store where it was possible to buy any sort of goods you could think of. They said Governor Macquarie ran the country. Amuck must be something like a store or a country; only something bad, because running amuck resulted in Miss Kelly's brother becoming a convict; and Miss Kelly loved him so much that she followed him out to Sydney to have a home for him when he stopped being a convict. It was a very sad story, because Miss Kelly's brother had been sent to Van Diemen's Land where he had died.

"Van Diemen's Land!" murmured Katharine, when she wanted to frighten herself. In the dark she said it to herself, when she was alone in bed at night. It made her think of red devils with cloven hooves and pitchforks made entirely of fire. One of Papa's servants had said: "Van Diemen's Land, Missy that's hell on earth!" Surely hell in hell could be no more terrible than hell on earth. She tried to talk to James about it, but James was never easy to talk to.

"It's only convicts that go there," said James.

"But it's hell, James, hell on earth!" James thought that didn't matter because they were only convicts. But Miss Kelly's brother had gone there and he had died there. It made Miss Kelly terribly sad at times; it made her snappy. Mamma said: "You must be kind to Miss Kelly, because she has suffered a lot.”

So Miss Kelly came in and said: "What is all this noise?”

"We're birds!" Katharine told her.

"You're nothing of the sort," said Miss Kelly.

"You're a naughty girl and three naughty boys!”

Miss Kelly spoke in short clipped sentences. She dispelled any make-believe merely by talking of it. You could never be anything but what people actually thought you were, with Miss Kelly looking on.

"Now come," said Miss Kelly without a smile; she rarely smiled; she seemed to hate to see people laughing, and when they laughed it must remind her of her poor brother's going to Van Diemen's Land to be prodded with flaming pitchforks by the demons there, because naturally the demons would laugh while they prodded.

"Breakfast in half an hour. Do you want to wake your poor Papa and Mamma?”

"They are not poor, are they, Miss Kelly?" asked Martin anxiously.

"They're rich!”

Katharine tried painstakingly to explain to him what Miss Kelly meant, because she thought others cared as deeply as she did about getting to the truth of even the smallest details.

"She does hot mean they are poor because they haven't money. She means poor to get woken up too early in the morning.”

Martin irritated Katharine. His mind flew from one subject to chase one that momentarily appealed to him more.

"Is Papa very rich?”

"Of course he is very rich!" said Katharine grandly.

"The richest man in the world?”

"Is he, Miss Kelly?" asked Katharine, now very interested to know.

"Of course not," said James, very superior.

"That would be Governor Macquarie.”

Katharine wished she had thought of that. Of course the richest man in the world must be Governor Macquarie.

"Is he the richest man in the world?" persisted Katharine.

"Is he, Miss Kelly?”

Miss Kelly said: "Rich indeed I And very free with other people's money, if you'll be asking me. We must have roads here, buildings there ... He'll be trying to make Sydney rival London. That's what he's after!”

Katharine wanted to say: "Why do you hate people who other people think are cleverer than other people, Miss Kelly?" but Martin was chasing a new idea.

"Miss Kelly, tell us about London.”

"I'll tell you something else.”

"What, Miss Kelly? Oh, what?”

"If you don't get dressed, and quick about it, there'll be no breakfast for you.”

"We'd rather hear about London than have breakfast," said Katharine with dignity.

That made Miss Kelly angry.

"Oh, you would, would you! It's a pity you can't taste a bit of starving for a while, then you wouldn't be so ready to say No to good food.”

"Miss Kelly, how do you taste starving?”

They all laughed, Martin and James throwing themselves on their beds in sudden amusement, lifting their legs high in the air and trying to touch the ceiling. Edward scrambled up and tried to do the same just as Miss Kelly put a stop to it.Poor Edward.he always wanted to imitate the others and was generally too late.

Only Katharine knew that Miss Kelly's sudden flush of anger meant she was thinking of her brother, so she did not laugh but said sharply: "Come on, you three! Get washed.”

"Oh!" wailed James.

"We want Miss Kelly to tell us about London.”

Edward became so excited that he nearly choked. They all stared at him.

"Mamma..." he stammered.

"Mamma... went to London." He looked up expectantly to see the result of his statement. Poor Edward! The things he said never meant anything.

Katharine walked out of the room; she was beginning to feel hungry.

The porringers from which they ate their bread and milk were blue. If you put your head right in, you could imagine you were in the heart of the Blue Mountains. The pieces of bread floating about in the milk, were pioneers trying to climb the Blue Mountains. The evil spirits had sent down a big milky lake to drown them. She must disperse the lake as quickly as possible.

"Katharine!" said Miss Kelly, turning the lake into a bowl of milk, and the mountains into a porringer.

"Don't drink so fast!

Milk needs digesting.”

Miss Kelly gave them lessons after breakfast. Reading, writing, arithmetic, a little French and Latin. How dull were lessons as taught by Miss Kelly. The boys were difficult this morning; Katharine's dream of Christmas had upset them. The heat was intense. Katharine almost dozed. Miss Kelly gave the two boys dictation; it was all about Christmas in the Old Country, the snow on the trees, and the stage coach rattling down the road. It was very dull. That was not the sort of thing she wanted to hear about the Old Country. Edward was scratching on a slate. Edward was very silly, he could not make his letters yet. Katharine was supposed to be reading Monsieur Moliere's Le Misanthrope, in French; she could not understand a word of it.

Through the window she saw Papa and Mamma. They came out into the yard, and Papa was dressed for a journey. Mamma was very beautiful in a dress of muslin with green ribbons. Mamma was one of the most beautiful women in Sydney, she had heard people say. People looked sly when they talked of Mamma. Why? Why? That was the sort of thing she wanted to know; not Latin, not Greek, not French.

A happy couple. They kissed. Katharine had seen them kiss often. Papa kissed Mamma as though he didn't want to stop a make-it-last-as-long-as-I-can sort of kiss.

She wished she were going out with Papa. How pleasant to ride along on her own mare, a present from Papa who said she rode well enough to be done with ponies! Where was Papa going? Why hadn't he taken her with him? A day which had begun with a dream of Christmas is not the day to be spent idling over a lesson book.

A smell of coffee came up from below, reminding her of Margery. She sidled off her chair.

"Miss Kelly, I cannot read here; the dictation disturbs me. Could I go to my own room?”

"Yes," said Miss Kelly, 'you may.”

Katherine wandered downstairs. Moliere under her arm. On the first floor she paused. First Wife. Did a first wife always have her room on the first floor? Silent it was on the first floor. Margery always hurried past it. If she came up, she liked someone to come with her; she would rather have Edward with her than no one. Katharine opened a door and peeped in. The toilet-room. The guests used that. Papa bad had another toilet-room put on the second floor. Hip-bath and mirror and cupboards and table, with dusting powder on the table. Old haunting perfume. She tiptoed in, and as she looked at herself in the long glass, tried to think of the house without Mamma, and if Mamma was not there neither she nor James, Martin and Edward could be either, for they were all Mamma's children. Why did grown-ups try to keep so much from you? There were three doors leading out of the toilet-room. One she had just opened from the corridor; the other two merely led to two rooms, just ordinary bedrooms with big canopied beds. Nothing there to excite one. She went into one of the bedrooms.

A sudden sound startled her. A footstep in the toilet-room. A ghost?

Yes, that was it: there were ghosts on the first floor. Not ghosts perhaps, but a ghost; the ghost of Papa's first wife. She was terrified; she ran to the bed. She got into it and drew the curtains.

She peeped through them. Her heart beat so loudly that it was like the strokes of the blacksmith's hammer. The door was pushed open slowly, and Mamma came into the room-Mamma's face was working queerly; she had never seen Mamma look like that; had never known Mamma could look frightened just like a child. One could not imagine Mamma like a child. Mamma looked all round the room. She was breathing queerly; her breath made gasping noises. Poor Mamma so frightened. Hastily she pulled back the bed curtains, but in that split second when the curtains began to move. Mamma's face went white and she caught her breath, so that it whistled like the wind in the eucalyptus trees in the cove.

"Mamma!" cried Katharine; and then Mamma saw who it was behind the curtains, and the colour came back to her face, and she came nearer, and Katharine did not know whether she was very, very angry or not.

"Did you think I was a ghost?" said Katharine.

"What nonsense!" retorted Mamma.

"There are no ghosts.”

"You looked very frightened.”

"You were peeping out at me, you bad girl!" Mamma's voice was soft and loving, not as though she thought Katharine was a bad girl at all; so Katharine stood on the bed and put her arms round Mamma's neck, and Mamma hugged her suddenly and fiercely, and when Mamma did that Katharine loved her more than anyone in the world. It meant that Mamma loved her best too, even though she was not a boy and everybody wanted boys.

"Katharine, what are you doing here? Why aren't you in the schoolroom?”

"Because the boys are doing dictation, and I am studying in my own room.”

Mamma raised her eyebrows, and when she did that she did it so funnily that it always made Katharine laugh.

"And I came downstairs and when I got to the first floor I thought I wanted to have a look at it.”

"Katharine, you are always prowling about the first floor.

What is prowling?" , "Well... just going there and peeping about.

Why?

"I don't know," lied Katharine, because somehow it was impossible to talk of the ghost of the First Wife to Mamma.

"You shouldn't do things without knowing why you do them.”

"Do grown-ups always know why they do things?”

Carolan, shaken more than she cared to admit to herself, smiled at this disconcerting daughter who had evidently heard some gossip about these rooms ... possibly about Lucille. What? And how could one ask a child without making it seem very important? Was she to be haunted all her life?

"I do not think they do, always.”

Katharine brought her knees up to her chin, and rolled about on the bed that had been Lucille's This was delightful. This was delicious. A tate-d-tate with the most exciting of all grownups. Mamma!

"Why do they do them if they do not know why?”

"Because they are stupid.”

Stupid? So grown-ups were stupid as well as children. It was exciting; surely there was nothing you could not ask Mamma when she talked like that. Mamma was unlike herself today.

"Why is it so quiet here, Mamma ... on this floor, I mean? Why doesn't Margery like coming here ... even in daylight?”

"What?" said Mamma sharply.

"Margery told you that!”

"She didn't tell me. She just doesn't. Why, she would even bring Edward ... Edward ... rather than come alone. Edward wouldn't know what to do if he saw a ghost. I don't suppose he even knows what a ghost is!”

Mamma stood up suddenly. The dignified Mamma, grown-up now, no longer ready to share a confidence.

"You are very silly, Katharine. If Edward knows nothing of ghosts he is wiser than you, for there are no ghosts, and let me hear no more of this foolishness. It is time you went back to your lessons. It is cold in here.”

"But Mamma, I am boiling... It is hot!”

"It is cool after the rest of the house," said Mamma, and Katharine noticed that her hands were very cold.

"Come along," said Mamma, and pulled her off the bed quite roughly. And then Mamma's mood changed. Mamma did change quickly all the time.

"What about a pick-a-back?" Katharine leaped onto the bed, and Mamma presented her back, and she put her arms round Mamma's neck and Mamma ran with her out of the room. Katharine was shrieking with laughter.

"Now, back to your room at once! And see that you learn your lessons.”

Mamma started up the stairs with her.

"Miss Kelly is in a bad mood today," said Katherine.

"It is because I dreamed it was Christmas, and that made her remember about her brother in Van Diemen's Land, because he will never, never spend Christmas with her again!”

"Be kind to Miss Kelly, because she has been unhappy.”

"You told me that before. I am kind to her. I see that the boys are too.”

Mamma picked her up suddenly and they ran up the rest of the stairs just as though, thought Katharine, Mamma was afraid someone would catch them if they did not hurry.

It was a queer morning.

Mamma had dinner with them because Papa was not at home, and Edward spilled the contents of his plate into his lap.

Then Miss Kelly said that Edward deserved to be whipped, or at least to go without his dinner, which set Edward crying. But Mamma comforted him: she said it was not Edward's fault, and people should never be blamed unless the wrong things they did were their own faults.

Mamma took Edward onto her lap and fed him with a spoon so that it was as though he had done something clever instead of naughty.

Then followed the drowsy afternoon. Mamma slept; so did Edward. Martin and James went off together. That left Katharine to herself.

She went down to the kitchen. She liked the kitchen in the afternoon.

Margery usually dozed in her chair, and it was while dozing that Margery could be relied on to be even more indiscreet than usual. Poll always washed the kitchen floor in the afternoon. Katharine liked to watch her mop swamping the stones.

"Hello, young mischief!" said Margery, She was sitting there, her knees apart, a fat hand on each knee. Amy washed the dishes; Poll was getting ready to start on the floor.

"I dreamed it was Christmas," said Katharine.

"Glad I'll be when that's all over! There was never anything for making work like Christmas. I'd rather have twenty men about the house than Christmas.”

"Twenty is rather a lot." said Katharine, pulling a chair close to Margery's.

"I'd manage 'em," said Margery with a wink.

"And keen 'em in order every man jack of 'em!”

That was where Margery differed from Miss Kelly. Miss Kelly dispelled illusion; Margery developed it.

"Would you make them do all the work, Margery?”

"That I would!”

"Mop the floor and peel potatoes?”

"You bet I would.”

"Then what would Amy and Poll do?”

"They'd run round after the men give "em half a chance! Not that I'd say they was the sort to attract men neither of 'em!”

"Wouldn't you, Margery?”

"No, I wouldn't.”

Katharine knew about Poll's baby; she had got that out of Margery.

"And don't you let on to your Ma or your Papa that I've told you," she had said.

"Why not, Margery?”

"Because it ain't right you should know such things.”

"Why Margery?”

"You being only a child.”

"How long will it be before I can know things like that?”

"Well, that I can't say. There's some as picks it up sharp, and there's some as don't. You ... being your mother's daughter... There!

Me tongue's running away with me.”

At the time Katharine had been so intrigued by the thought of Margery's tongue running away with her, that she had forgotten the real issue.

That was like Margery; you had to watch her or she would draw a red herring across the path, which afterwards you would discover was not worth pursuit. But in spite of this trick of Margery's she had many unguarded moments. Poll had murdered her baby because it wasn't right that she should have a baby. Amy had been sent out for hiding a highwayman. Amy was middle-aged and cheerful. She didn't talk very much about herself, but Margery liked to talk about her. Katharine heard quite a lot about Amy; how she had loved the highwayman, but how he was a rollicking, roistering type of fellow who had just made use of her. and when he was hanged by the neck, poor Amy had been sent for transportation for seven years for letting him use her house to hide himself and his plunder.

Margery could give her pictures of the Old Country, that were far more real than anything Miss Kelly taught. Miss Kelly taught words; Margery taught life. Margery could be coaxed into telling of journeys with one of her husbands, a pedlar. Could there be anything more desirable than to be the wife of a pedlar?

"What did you sell, Margery?”

"Everything you can lay your tongue to. lovey.”

"Lay your tongue to! What a lovely way to express yourself.

"Margery, I wish Papa would let you teach us, instead of Miss Kelly.”

"Lor' love me! I ain't the scollard she is.”

"Her brother went to Van Diemen's Land, Margery.”

"So I hear, poor soul.”

"Do you know what it's like there, Margery?”

"It's the most terrible thing that could befall a man, I've heard.”

What joy there was in talking to her. She suggested a hundred and one forbidden things. When she talked of men, her lips quivered and she pressed them together as though she was afraid something would slip out that you shouldn't hear because you were a child. She gave away so much that was exciting; how much more exciting must be those things which she suppressed. There was always the hope that she would tell more. Sometimes when she drank and drank she would say something, then clap her hand over her mouth or look over her shoulder and say: "Don't you get saying a word I tell you, to your Papa or Ma!”

Poll was slopping water all over the kitchen floor. Soon Katharine and Margery, perched on their chairs, would be marooned on islands.

The sea's getting higher every minute, Margery.”

There now, is it? And then what'll we do?”

"We'll be drowned or we may be rescued. Margery, have you ever been marooned?”

"No. But I've known plenty of sailors!”

"Sailors! Oh, Margery! Do tell.”

"Sailors is much the same as other men, in a manner of speaking. They go off to sea though, and they comes home again and that makes a bit of difference.”

"Did you ever have a sailor husband, Margery?”

"In a manner of speaking.”

"Did he go off to sea and come home again?”

"He did. And a bit too soon sometimes. A sailor ought always to let a woman know when he's coming home.”

"Was he your first, Margery?”

"Oh, no, ducky! Not by a long chalk.”

"Margery, my Papa had a First Wife, didn't he?" Margery looked over her shoulder. Katharine took the glass from the table and handed it to Margery.

"Here. Margery, have a drink. I know Papa had a First Wife.”

Margery drank and smacked her lips.

"Old-fashioned little thing, you are no bones about it!" Katharine knelt on her chair and leaned towards Margery; she put her face so close that Margery could see the fine texture of child's skin; like milk it was for whiteness, and she'd got a powdering of freckles across her nose, which made her skin look all the more fair. Dead spit of what her mother must have been at her age. And she'd be such another, with her wheedling ways. Little monkey! Still, Margery looked forward to her visits. It was pleasant to know the child came down so often to see her, to talk to her. She'd had a fondness for the child ever since she was born; had never taken to the boys one half so much. She put out a hand and touched the tender young cheek.

"It is a smut?" said Katharine.

"No, not a smut." It made you feel funny, thought Margery. Here she was. a lovely bit of flesh and blood. Golly, it did something to you to see her; bright eyes, and what a tongue, eh! What a one for questions! There was no stopping her. What's this? What's that? It made you feel sort of powerful to know that you had had a hand in the making of her. But for you, things might have been very different. She might not have been sitting there now. Her mother might have gone off with that Marcus, and the mistress might still have been... Margery shut off from that. Mustn't think like that ... not with the child there, staring at you so close she'd see any flicker of your eyelids.

It would be "Margery, what are you thinking of?" in a minute, if she knew anything! Besides, no one could say... All that was done with, had been done with eleven years back.

And now what had the little girl on her mind? She was a regular one for getting things on her mind.

"I know Papa had a First Wife!" What did she mean? Margery knew she ought to turn the conversation, but for the life of her she couldn't.

"What's this?" she said.

"What's this?”

"Papa had a First Wife!" whispered Katharine.

"Well, what of it? What of it? There's no law in this country to stop a man marrying again if his first wife's dead, that I know of "Oh.” said Katharine.

"She is dead then!”

"Of course she is.”

"Margery, did you know her?”

"Know her!" said Margery.

"Know her!" Purple colour was in Margery's cheeks. The children had to know some time, hadn't they? It was the talk of Sydney at one time.

To marry so soon after... People were shocked. She wondered the master did it. But there was something headstrong about the master. Marrying like that two months after she died, and the baby born a cool three and a half months later this Katharine here. No wonder the child felt something was wrong! No wonder people talked! No wonder they were still talking!

"Yes," said Margery, "I knew her." This was success undreamed of.

"Oh, Margery, what was she like?”

"Sickly." Here, this wasn't the way to talk to a child, this wasn't.

Oh, but things got dull in a kitchen. And since she'd married the master, the excitement seemed to die down. There they were like any other couple, eating together, sleeping together and having children.

There was something in those two that overcame scandal, just as it would overcome most things that stood in their way. They fought all the gossipings. all the slanders. For a time Mr. Masterman was very unpopular. And she went about the house, carrying her child with the dignity of a queen. But there had been a certain triumph about her in the last months of her first pregnancy, as though she had worked out something and brought it off. That was the impression she gave. It wasn't until after the child was born that that room, where the first Mrs. Masterman had died, seemed to take on a special significance. It was only then that she made it into a guest room and moved up to the second floor.

Murder's a funny thing. It won't let you test. It would make you feel a bit funny to have had a hand in murder. You'd keep remembering, thinking of the one you'd killed. I wouldn't like to be no murderer.

Did she murder the first Mrs. Masterman? Or did he?

Overdose of a drug she took for sleeplessness. Nobody knew where she'd got it from. Nobody knew she'd been taking it When people took overdoses of drugs just in time to let Their husbands marry girls who were in trouble, you couldn't help sitting up and taking notice. You couldn't help feeling this delicious creepy feeling all over you.

"Sickly?" prompted Katharine.

"Always ill.”

"Did Papa love her very much?”

"Now how should I know?”

"You would know. Were you in the kitchen then?”

"Yes I was then.”

"You must have known, Margery. You know everything.”

Such flattery was irresistible.

"And what if I did?”

"Then you shouldn't say you didn't know!”

"If I have any cheek from you, Miss, I'll get down the whip over the mantel.”

"That's for convicts, Margery, not for me.”

"Well, and are you so far removed from convicts...”

"What, Margery?" . It was getting dangerous, but Margery liked danger.

"What do you mean, Margery? I'm not so far removed...”

"One man's as good as another. Miss. That's what I mean.”

"A convict is as good as a free man?”

"As a man he might be.”

As a man! What did she mean? Intriguing Margery!

"Oh, I like talking to you!" She put her arms round Margery's neck.

"Here, steady! Trying to strangle me?”

"You smell of grog.”

"Well, and it's a good thing to smell of.”

"My Mamma smells of violets.”

"I've no doubt she does. There's some that gets on better than others in this world.”

"Do you mean Mamma got on better than you? Is that why she smells of violets and you smell of grog?”

Sharp as a packet of needles, this child was. I wish she was mine.

Golly, wouldn't I love her. A regular one she'll be when she grows up; she'll be the honey and the men will be the flies. I reckon I see a nice match being made up there for her. Madame Carolan will want the best for her daughter. And where would she be, eh, if the first Mrs.

Masterman hadn't died at exactly the right minute! Did she do it? Or did she egg him on to do it? Not the master! I wouldn't believe that of the master. But her ... "Your Mamma did get on better than me.”

"You mean when the First Wife died, she married my Papa. If he had married you, would you have smelt of violets?”

Margery came as near to blushing as she could. The idea of the master so far forgetting himself as to marry her!

There was never any question of your father's marrying me, you silly baby!" she said angrily.

There was only a question of his marrying my Mamma?”

"Of course. What do you take him for! He was never one for running after the women.”

"Wasn't he, Margery?”

"He married, and there was an end of it.”

"No it wasn't, Margery. There was the First Wife, and then there was Mamma.”

"You're too sharp by half!”

"Margery, where was Mamma when he was married to the First Wife?”

She was getting to know too much. If Margery let out that her precious Mamma was an ex-convict, there'd be the very devil to pay. And I wouldn't want to come up against Madame Carolan, no. thank you. At present there was a mocking affection between them, a little light blackmail practised by them both. Margery often thought, when the mistress came to the kitchen to give her orders and across the table their eyes met. Why, I could tell a few things to those children of yours. I could tell 'em how you first come to my kitchen, a shivering, lousy scrap with your loveliness hid in filth; I could whisper outside how you was always up in the mistress's room aye, and in the master's room too. I could give a few hints that it was more than likely you had something to do with that sudden death of hers.

And Carolan's green eyes said I could tell what you were up to down here ... James creeping into the basement... The way you used to squirm and wriggle on that bed ... in front of the others. Who is it now? Not James, for he's married to Jin, and she doubtless keeps him in order by showing him the knife she wears concealed in her clothes. But there is someone. The master would not want that sort of thing going on in his basement!

No, by God he wouldn't! And when it goes on upstairs it's different, eh? Even when it's necessary to put a poor sick lady out of the way to straighten things out! Not that Margery'd tell. Why, she'd half murder anyone who hinted a word of it ... anyone from outside. Her master and mistress were the best in Sydney, she'd maintain. And without a doubt it was upstairs Madame Carolan belonged, not down here in the kitchen. Still, there was no harm in thinking about it when you were in your own kitchen, even though sometimes it did give you a funny feeling in the pit of your stomach to think you had, in a way, had a hand in it.

But now this little imp had stumbled on something. Surely the most inquisitive child that ever was. So pretty though ... you could eat her, bless her... and fond of old Margery too.

"Margery, where was Mamma__? You know...”

Now that would be dangerous. Keep off that!

"How should I know? A man's second wife don't usually put in an appearance till his first's dead and buried.”

That satisfied her, made her pensive.

"She lived on the first floor, didn't she ?”

"Who?”

The First Wife.”

"Well, yes... she did.”

"I know what it is. Mamma's afraid.”

"Afraid? What of?”

Katharine leaned right over and whispered to Margery, because Poll's mop was getting nearer and nearer.

"Of her ghost!”

Margery was very superstitious; she began to tremble like a jelly.

Could it really be? What did the child know? There was something in the house ... come to think of it, had been for a long time ... She couldn't lay a name to it, couldn't explain it. Just something... "Did she tell you?”

"Oh, no! She pretended it wasn't. You see, I was there.”

"What's this?”

"I was hiding in the bed and I had the curtains drawn, and poor Mamma thought I was the ghost.”

Margery drew a deep breath.

"You were trying to frighten your poor Mamma. I hope she spanked you hard.”

"She didn't.”

"She's saving it up for your Papa to do when he comes home.”

"She isn't; she laughed. But, Margery, when she came in she must have heard me behind the curtains; she thought I was a ghost... the First Wife!”

"How did you know?”

"I did know, Margery. Perhaps ... the First Wife lived down there, didn't she? And she wouldn't like Mamma being Papa's wife now. First Wives don't, do they?”

"You know too much!”

Margery got to her feet.

"Here, Poll, going to take all day to swab this floor? You're too slow by half! You'll be feeling the whip about your shoulders, my girl...”

She wasn't really thinking of Poll, nor of the floor swabbing, nor of the whip. Madame Carolan had looked frightened, had she! Why? She wasn't the sort to show fear without a reason. The first Mrs.

Masterman ... Margery couldn't remember much what she looked like.

Sickly. Fair. Suppose ... Oh, just suppose ... She had died sudden, hadn't she! People who'd been wronged came back to haunt them that had wronged them, didn't they? And Margery had had a hand in it ... what you might call an innocent hand. She knew nothing of a drug. It wasn't likely she'd murder a woman just so as another woman could have her husband! But hadn't she thrown Esther to that Marcus, and because of that hadn't Madame Carolan gone to the master!

People would say. Don't be silly ,.. 'twasn't none of your doing! But how could you know that a ghost saw things that way!

I ain't going to have much peace as long as I live in this house. And what do ghosts care for houses? If I went, mightn't it follow me? Oh, Lor', I'm frightened. Proper scared, that's me! I wouldn't have done it if I'd knowed how she'd take it. I wouldn't think anyone would kill themselves just because another woman was in trouble. Turn her out... that's what I'd have done; not took drugs!

"I believe you're frightened," said Katharine.

"You start thinking again, Miss Know-all!”

"Margery, do you think the First Wife is really angry about Mamma's being here?”

"No, Miss Nosey. I don't! And what's more, I don't want to hear another word about ghosts and your Mamma. Don't you know ladies don't discuss such things in kitchens?”

"No," said Katharine.

"I didn't.”

"Well, it's time you learned. Here! You run along. I've got work to do.”

"Oh, Margery, you haven't got work to do!”

"Whose kitchen is this? Do you want me to put you out and complain to your Mamma?”

"Oh, Margery, I thought you liked me here.”

There's a time for everything. You'll get your feet wet. We can't have Poll holding up her cleaning for you!”

"She usually washes all round us!”

"Well, she ain't today!”

Margery was seriously rattled. She hadn't liked the talk about ghosts.

She was frightened... that's what she was.

"Get out, you little faggot you!”

By God, she thought, she'll be worming everything out of me before I know where I am. It ain't safe with a Miss Nosey like her about.

You simply could not stay in a kitchen where you so obviously were not wanted. Katharine walked gingerly, but with dignity, over the wet floor of the kitchen. She went out into the yard.

It was hot, but she did not feel the heat as Mamma did. nor as Margery did, nor Amy and Poll; she had been born to it. It would be pleasant, riding beyond the town. The sea was. inviting; it was such a beautiful blue; but no, today was a special day. It was afternoon yet ... and ages and ages before darkness fell. She could go far... explore! She loved exploring.

She went back into the house by way of the kitchen: Margery was still sitting in her chair.

"Ah! You're soon back!”

But Katharine would not stay where she was not wanted. Margery should not have an opportunity of turning her out twice in one day.

"I am not staying; I am going riding.”

"In the heat of the day?”

"Call this heat?”

"Oh no, me lady, I call it midwinter!”

Katharine skipped upstairs. Even the first floor interested her but fleetingly. She wanted to be away. When she came down she was in her neat and modish riding kit, wearing the straw hat which she herself felt to be unnecessary, but which was worn as a concession to Mamma.

She went back through the kitchen. Margery softened towards her.

Regular little beauty! And of course she wanted to know ... Come to think of it, it might be rather fun to tell her.? Take a bit of the tilt out of that head of yours, me love, if you was to hear that your fine Mamma was nothing but a convict when she first come out here.”

"Here ..." said Margery.

Katharine paused at the door, one hand on her hip, and in those clothes she looked the dead spit of what her mother must have looked sixteen or so years back.

"I'm in a hurry," she said.

"Indeed you are, me lady! I tell you it's too hot to go off riding.

Wait till it cools off a bit.”

"I don't feel hot.”

"Here! Come back and have a talk with old Margery." But no! Her mind was made up now. She wanted to feel her horse beneath her; she wanted to ride and ride. The time for confidences was past.

"We can talk any time.”

"Oh, can we. Miss? It takes two to have a bit of a conversation.”

"Goodbye, Margery! Goodbye, Poll! Goodbye, Amy!" And she was off, her red hair flying out under the straw hat, her sharp little chin as determined as ever her mother's was.

She rode out of the town away from the sea. Today she had what Margery would call the wind in her tail. It was all due to waking with that dream of Christmas in her mind. She had thought something really exciting was going to happen when she had hidden behind those bed curtains. She had a feeling that something might have happened, had she not called to Mamma. But then, she could not bear to see Mamma frightened.

It was hot, riding in open country, and when she came to a clump of trees she rested in their shade. Behind her the town lay like a toy town, the buildings all huddled together higgledy-piggledy, an uneven, untidy town; and beyond it the lovely harbour which Papa said was the finest in the world; and Papa ought to know because he had been to the Old Country, and said they had nothing like it there.

It was very lonely out there. There was, she knew, miles and miles of loneliness. She did not feel oppressed by the thought of that, although she did like to have people around her; she liked to watch them, to listen to them, to learn about them. She lay on the grass, musing. She looked, without noticing them, at the scrubby hills and the bush that ran right down to the water's edge. The silver barks of the gum trees were pretty, she thought vaguely. Far away in the distance she saw a long-legged kangaroo with a baby in her pouch. She watched idly, Kangaroos were good to eat, if you cooked them in their skins; you cooked them in cooking pits. Years and years ago, before Papa and the white men came, there was no township down there. Where did the black men live? She must ask Wando. Mamma did not like her to talk too much to Wando. Young ladies of Sydney did not talk to the natives, did not make friends of them. How could you make friends?

Friends were ... or weren't. You didn't make them. The kangaroo had leaped out of sight. Mamma and Margery told her about animals in the Old Country. There weren't kangaroos, not koalas. Mamma had never seen those until she came to Sydney; nor had Papa. Fancy never having seen a kangaroo with a baby in her pouch, or two koalas clinging to each other, looking sillier than two babies, sillier than Edward. Fancy never seeing emus on their long funny legs, rushing about as though they were in a very great hurry like Papa, only not really like Papa because they were too scared to come near you, and Papa would never be scared of anything. He wouldn't be scared of a ghost on the first floor.

She stood up and stretched herself; she was tired of resting. There were hours and hours before dark. So she mounted her horse and rode on. Her thoughts were mixed, flitting from subject to subject. Miss Kelly and her brother; Margery exciting Margery who had been transported for marrying too many men. What an exciting thing to be transported for! She thought of Poll and her baby, and Amy and her highwayman; of Mamma and Papa and the First Wife, and the room which "had been the First Wife's bedroom that room at night with a moon peeping through the windows... showing what?

She was near enough now to see the outline of the mountains clearly.

Beautiful they were, shrouded in blue mystery. She wondered what the time was. She had no idea except that she was getting thirsty. She was not supposed to go too far from home. She had set out. she knew, with some ridiculous idea of trying to make a way through the mountains; but with her thirst growing every minute, and her throat hot and parched, she realized that to dream in one's bedroom is one thing, and to make those dreams a reality another. The wise thing to do was to go home. She turned her horse away from the mountains. Around ha were miles of bush, clumps of hills on which stood the tall eucalyptus trees. The brush was thicker here; there were few distinguishing features. A sudden fear came to her. Riding beside Papa, she knew now, she had always felt so safe because she had not even thought of safety. Margery said: "By golly, I wouldn't be the one for staying out after dark in this place. Felons can stay felons even though they may well be free men.”

Loneliness! Alone in a world of bush and scrub and eucalyptus trees; somewhere before one, a mighty ocean; somewhere behind one, the vast impenetrable Blue Mountains. She could not really be lost. She was full of fancies today. She began to canter across the scrub. She had not noticed how rough it had been coming; perhaps it had not been so rough; perhaps she was not going back the way that she had come.

After an hour or so there was no sign of the settlement, and her horse was lagging. There were the mountains, seeming nearer than when she had been going towards them. She seemed to see queer shapes behind that blue curtain; evil spirits who beckoned and laughed to contemplate what they would do to her if she dared set foot in their mountains.

She turned her back on them and rode on. She was hot and tired, and very dirty, and the changelessness of the scene was dispiriting. On and on she went without getting anywhere she recognized. She would be very late home, and Mamma would be cross.

She slipped off her mare, tied her to a tree and lay down under it. She must try to think which way she had come, to work out the way home. She thought now of the people Papa talked of -Bass and Flinders, Torres, Magellan, Dampier. Captain Cook -that glorious band, said Papa, through whose courage our land was founded. She had heard of them, she had read of their exploits; she had imagined herself sailing with them, and she had longed to; but this was different. This was loneliness; this was being lost. If only Papa were here, being lost might be quite an adventure. But that could not be, foe the moment Papa appeared you would cease to be lost.

Lying on the ground, her ear close to the earth, she thought she heard the thump, thump of horses' hooves far, fat away. She listened again.

No doubt at all, but miles away, for they were so faint, and in the bush, so Papa said, you can hear for miles. She stood up and looked around her. There was no sign of a rider, only the interminable scrub and blinding sun. and the quivering curtain of blue on the mountains.

She put her hands to her mouth and called: "Coo-eeeI Coo-ccc!”

She laid her ear to the ground; she could still heat the thud-thud of hoofs. Did they sound louder, of was that just hope?

"Coo-ccc!" she called again, and it seemed to her that, over the scrub, came an answering shout.

"Coo-ccc! Coo-ccc!" she called again, and the voice called back. It was like a duet; she called, and the voice answered, and it went on like that for the best part of an hour. Once there was a frightening gap between her call and the answer, and she began to sob and laugh with relief when she heard the call again.

She watched the speck on the horizon until her eyes ached. It disappeared, and she thought she had imagined it. It came again. It did not grow any larger. It could not be a horse and rider. Then what was it?”

"Coo... eel' she called, and the voice called back; the speck grew a little bigger, and hope swelled up again.

It was a horse and rider, and she was astonished, as they came nearer and nearer, to see that the rider was a boy not much older than herself. He looked startled to see her, but he said casually enough, as though he spent his life answering Coo-ees in the bush: "Hello! You lost?”

"Well," she said, "I'm found now!”

He was attending to his horse, loosening the girths, removing the bit for the horse to graze. She felt irritated because he was more concerned for his mount than he was for her. Country manners, she thought haughtily, for she knew at once that he did not come from Sydney. She told him she did, hoping to command his respect.

He whistled.

"That's a goodish way to come!" His cool blue eyes took in each detail of her well-cut clothes.

"What made them let you out alone?”

"I often come out alone.”

He raised his eyebrows.

"Ever heard of bushrangers?" he asked.

"Yes, I have then!”

"Well' he said mocking.

"Well, what would you say if I told you I was one?”

"I shouldn't believe you.”

"Oh, and why not?”

"Because you're only a boy.”

"There are boy bushrangers...”

"Well, if you were one, you'd have cut my throat by now or put a bullet through my heart.”

"Look here," he said, crestfallen, 'who's lost?”

"Nobody now. I was, but I'm found.”

"You're city smart, ain't you!" His skin was bronzed with the sun; through slits, brilliant blue eyes peeped out at her.

"Your mother shouldn't let you out," he said.

"She didn't.”

"Suppose I was to kidnap you, and not let you go home?”

"What would you do with me?”

"Take you back to the station and make you work.”

"You live on a station then? I tell you what if you kidnapped me, you would be clapped in jail. My Papa would see to that!”

"Don't you be too sure. Who is your Papa?”

"Mr. Masterman.”

The boy laughed at her dignity.

"He's very important," she persisted.

"And a very clever man!”

"I bet he's not half as important as his daughter!”

"I don't know what you mean.”

"I mean I don't care ... that' he snapped his fingers with a fine display of indifference 'for your father. And I'll tell you something else I'm no bushranger. If you like, I'll take you back to the station and give you something to eat. We don't get many visitors.”

"Ate you a convict?" she asked.

"No. But Father was, and my mother was.”

"Are they desperate?”

"Very desperate!" he said mockingly. He was a very fascinating, but very arrogant young person. He didn't mean half he said though, and that made it exciting because you had to separate the things he did mean from the things he didn't.

"Please take me there," she said, "I am hungry and thirsty." Which meant of course that she didn't care how desperate his family was.

"It's a long ride," he said.

"Feel fit for it? But I can promise something good to eat at the end of it. They're killing a fat calf today, and there's plenty of meat.”

"What is your name?" she asked him. He told her it was Henry Jedborough, but he wouldn't tell her how old he was. That was his own grim secret. She had told him she was ten, and he seemed to think that was very little to be. He was only about her height, but broader, more sturdy; he looked strong, and his skin was almost as brown as a native's.

He told her that yesterday they had had a very successful muster. He loved a muster. As he talked she could almost see him, cracking his stock-whip, riding magnificently, darting here and there amongst the straying herds bullocks and calves and heifers going where he insisted they should.

She told him that she had longed to cross the mountains.

"But no one ever has," she said.

"They will.." he said.

"There are evil spirits in the mountains," she told him.

"And they have decreed that no one shall pass.”

He laughed shrilly, mockingly, and his laughter both angered and humiliated her.

"You are a silly girl! You've been listening to natives.”

"I did talk to Wando.”

"And you believe that?”

"Not' she lied, blushing to the red roots of her hair.

"I am glad to hear it," he said.

"There are no evil spirits in the mountains; it is the dangerous ravines that make it so hard to get across. But one day men will get across ... My father will be one of them.”

"Your father... the convict?”

"Ex-convict!" he reminded her.

"He went on an expedition; it failed, but he says one day someone will find the way across, and then ... and then...”

"Yes?" said Katharine breathlessly.

"We shall see what is on the other side.”

"Do you think it will be very wonderful on the other side?”

"Of course! My father says we are shut off here, confined to a small space. He wants to find new land. My father always wants to find new places.”

"He sounds nice.”

"Nice!" He was scornful again. What could a little town girl know of the magnificence of his father!

She caught his excitement; she wanted to meet this man, the ex-convict who not only wanted to find new lands but set out with an expedition to do so.

She was a little disappointed in him when she saw him. He was lying in a hammock on a veranda; his shirt was open, showing a chest the colour of mahogany. His dark hair waved slightly, and his blue eyes peered out through even narrower slits than Henry's, and there were masses of wrinkles round them. They were very merry eyes, and it was a very merry face. But she had expected a giant, from Henry's talk.

Henry said: "Father, this is a girl I found. She was lost in the bush.”

He rolled himself out of the hammock.

"Well, well!" he said, and looked at her as though he knew a lot about her. Then he said: "This is an honour. We don't often get visitors on our lonely station. Go and tell your mother to have an extra place laid for our guest. Henry.”

Henry went in, and she and the man stood looking at each other, she smiling shyly.

"What is your name, little girl?" he asked.

"Katharine Masterman.”

Something queer happened to his face then; his eyes seemed to open a bit wider.

"Of Sydney?" he asked in a voice that didn't tell her anything.

"Yes. How did you know?”

"Ah!" he said mysteriously.

"You have a look of Katharine Masterman of Sydney.”

"What do you mean?”

"It did not surprise me to hear you are Katharine Masterman of Sydney.

Just that.”

"Then perhaps you know my Papa?”

"No, I cannot claim that honour. I once knew your mother.”

"She did not tell me.”

"Did she not? That was a little remiss of her, I fear. You are astonishingly like her.”

"Margery says that." % "Ah! Margery.”

"You knew Margery too?”

"Well, yes, I knew Margery." She clapped her hands. This was indeed coming among friends.

"Though," he went on, 'it is many years since I set eyes on her.”

"She did not tell me she knew you.”

"Dear me! They do not appear to have done me justice in the Masterman household. How is your mother?”

"She is well, thank you.”

"And what brothers and sisters have you?”

"James and Martin. There is Edward too, but he is only a baby.”

"Hardly reached the status of brother yet then.”

"What?" said Katharine.

"Come here and let me look at you.”

He held out a hand and took hers; his merry eyes searched her face.

"You are doubtless hungry?" he asked.

"It seems a long time since I ate," she told him.

"I'll warrant it does. They are cooking some veal in there.”

"I can smell it.”

"And the smell pleases you?”

She lifted her eyes ecstatically, which made him laugh.

Henry appeared, and said: "It won't be ready for half an hour.”

"Get a glass of something for our guest, Henry." said his father.

"And bring me a drink too.”

Henry disappeared, and when he came back carrying a tray, he was not alone; there was a woman, a pale, thin woman with an unhappy face and beautiful hair that curled and rioted about her face as if in defiance of its unhappiness.

"Esther," said the man and he talked as though it was a great joke 'this is Miss Katharine Masterman, Carolan's girl.”

Katharine wondered why the woman seemed to mind so much that she was Katharine Masterman, Carolan's girl. Katharine stood up and curtsied.

The woman said: "How... how did she get here?”

"Henry brought her. She was lost in the bush." Katharine thought it was due to her to explain.

"I rode out and I didn't realize how far I had come. And then I coo-eed and... Henry found me.”

"Your mother will be anxious." The woman looked at the man.

"You could take her back now. If you did, you could get her there before dark.”

"Why, Esther," said the man, "Miss Masterman is very hungry. It would be churlish to send her away without food.”

"Carolan will be frantic!”

"I wonder," he said, and he looked quite cruel then.

Katharine had not thought of that. She stood up.

"I must go. Mamma will be worried.”

The man stood up. He seemed to have thrown off his laziness now, and his eyes smouldered.

He said to Katharine: "Do not worry. It is too late for you to go now.

You must stay the night here. In the morning I or my son will take you back. It would be possible though to get a message to your parents that you were safe.”

She smiled. How clever of him. And how kind! For, much as she did not want Mamma worried, she did want to continue this adventure. There was more in it than being lost and found, than being hungry and smelling the good smell of roasting meat; there was more in it than meeting new people. There was something about these people that was exciting, mysterious; she sensed that as soon as the man began to talk, and more so when the woman came in. She was his wife, and Henry's mother; he was her husband; they were like Mamma and Papa, but very different too. Papa looked at Mamma when she was in the room, as though he saw no one else; and Mamma smiled at Papa, and said that he was a very clever, busy man. But these two tried not to look at each other, and when they did look it was different somehow. Then of course there was Henry quite the most exciting of the three. The man and the woman went out and left her with Henry on the veranda.

"Have you any brothers and sisters?" she asked.

"Not real brothers and sisters.”

"How can you have not real ones?”

"You can. You can have half-brothers and sisters. They have your father, but not your mother.”

It sounded very complicated.

"I've got a half-sister here. She is two years old and her name is Elizabeth. She lives here; she is the daughter of the servant.”

Katharine was puzzled. The boy looked wise, and she thought he must be clever, and as she did not like to display her ignorance in front of him she asked no more questions.

The man came back, and stretched himself out in the hammock.

"She wants to go over the Blue Mountains." said Henry.

"She believed that there are evil spirits there." Katharine blushed, and hotly denied it. That's just a native story," said the man kindly.

"I know!" said Katharine.

"She didn't... till I told her.”

"Do not be so unmannerly, Henry," said the man.

"I am sure she knew.”

"Is it unmannerly to tell the truth?”

"Very often, my boy.”

"You're a convict, aren't you?" said Katharine.

"I was.”

"Were you very wicked?”

"Very!”

Katharine laughed, because it was very comical to hear a grown man say he was very wicked.

"What did you do?" she asked.

He was a wonderful talker better than Margery and his eyes danced with merriment as he talked. Never had the Old Country become so real for her. She began to see it as Marcus had seen it nearly twenty years ago. She saw clearly the cobbled streets of London, red brick buildings and old inns with their signs creaking in the wind and blistered by the sun; she saw nearby meadows and the clustering villages of Brentford and Chiswick, Chelsea and Kensington. Link boys, crossing sweepers, barefooted and hungry, and the great, riding by in their carriages; cock-fighting and the baiting of bulls and bears out at Tothill Fields; drunken people clustered round the gin shops; the bucks so gorgeously attired, the beggars with their sores and rags; pick-pockets and fools; street criers; here and there a sedan chair.

The London of which he talked was an exciting one, filled with exciting people. There was Mr. Sheridan and Charles James Fox in league with the profligate Prince against the half-crazy king. There was the wild Princess of Wales. It was like something out of a story book, and yet wonderfully real. He made Katharine wonder whether even Papa was such an important man compared with these gorgeously apparelled and most amazing people of London Town.

Even when they were seated round the table he went on talking. He set out to charm Carolan's daughter, and he did so as successfully as he had charmed Carolan herself.

The meat was good and fresh, and Katharine was hungry, but it was not the food she remembered from that meal, but the talk and the lazy merry eyes of the man and the softness of his voice and the flow of his words. He could, in one sentence, make a picture full of detail. He did not hint by a word, a look or a gesture, that he was talking to a child; he made her feel important, convinced her that he enjoyed talking as much as she enjoyed listening, and he gave pleasure as naturally as he took it. His conversation was peppered with wonderful names that she was to repeat over and over to herself and remember for years to come. Seven Dials. Cripplegate. The Temple. Brooks's and Almack's. The Fleet. Coffee Houses. Chocolate Houses. The Blue Lion in Newgate Street. Islington. Chancery Lane. Covent Garden. The King's Theatre. Haymarket. St. Martin's. Turnbull Street. Chick Lane. Jack Ketch's Warren. The Charlies. Drury Lane. Bawdy Houses.

Gambling Houses. London, London, London! The Old Country.

Besides this man, his wife, Esther, and Henry, there came to the table a man named Blake, his wife May and their two children a boy and a girl; there was also Elizabeth, the little girl of two, who, Henry had said, was his half-sister, and who, when they had finished eating, sat on Marcus's knee and watched his mouth while he talked and talked.

Esther, Katharine did not greatly care for, because she tried to stop him all the time, tried to remind him that he was talking to children, which she did not seem to realize was just what they loved to forget.

She kept saying "Marcus!" in a shocked voice which seemed to irritate Henry and certainly irritated Katharine almost beyond endurance.

But he took no notice of her and went on to describe the wicked things he had done in London, how he was one of the rogues who preyed upon those ladies and gentlemen in their fine clothes and carriages; and he told it so that you were on his side against the fine ladies and gentlemen, and somehow would always be on his side, whatever he did.

"You, my dear Miss Masterman, can have no conception of the extravagances of our pleasure gardens." Then he talked of Ranelagh and Vauxhall, and she saw the pleasure gardens and she walked in the avenues with him, she watched the fireworks and she was at the concert, and it was the most exciting time she had ever known. She drank hot punch and syllabub and shared oysters with this man, and Mr. Handel's music and Mr. Mozart's music was the background of the scene, for now and then he would burst into song.

He drank a good deal, and he told her then of how on out occasion at Vauxhall he had stolen the purse of a fine lady who had gone there to meet her lover. She dared not raise a hue and cry because it must not be known that she had gone there to meet her lover.

When he told that story, which was no more shocking than others he had told, Esther got up from the table.

"You are devilish I' she said, and burst into tears. And he just looked at her, cruelly, without saying anything, but Katharine could see he hated her and she hated him. She ran out of tie room, crying, which made Katharine very uncomfortable at first, but the other children hardly seemed to notice, and guessing that the reason they did not was because they had seen it happen many times before, she did not care either; for after all, she would care only on their account, and if they did not, where was the sense in her doing so? She was rather glad Esther had gone; she had tried to spoil the fun anyway. They could be more rollickingly gay without her.

When the meal was over, they sat on, talking. Darkness had come and lamps were lighted. Then Elizabeth's mother came in and took the child away; she was a comely girl with a fat, stupid face, and the man Marcus kissed the little girl tenderly and the servant girl lightly, which seemed a very extraordinary thing to do, but none of the others appeared to think so. She tried to imagine Papa's kissing Poll or Amy.

It was quite impossible!

They gathered round the table when it had been cleared of the food; two tame dingoes stretched themselves out on the floor.

Then Marcus took a map and spread it on the table, and she and Henry pored over it with him. There was Sydney, a big black dot, and there was the coast and the sea, and Port Jackson and Botany Bay ... and then, all furry looking, like a great caterpillar, wound the Blue Mountains. And beyond the Blue Mountains was a blank space.

Oh, it was wonderful to lean over that table and to see his face with its wrinkled skin and merry blue eyes in the lamplight, to be there ... one of them ... to listen to him as he talked and pointed with his finger at the places, now and then throwing out a word for her alone.

"What do you think, Miss Masterman?”

"Do you not think so?" As though she were not only a grown-up but an explorer. She knew now why Henry adored him; she was not disappointed in him now. Once she cut into the most exciting conversation to say: "May I come here again? May I come often?" And he did not reprove her for interrupting; he seemed glad that she had interrupted, for he stretched out a hand quickly and gripped hers so that it hurt. He said: "Come as often as you like, Miss Masterman. Or perhaps I may call you Katharine...”

He talked of how he and others had tried to cross the mountains; how they had hacked away at the brushwood, how they had camped in deep gullies, how they had followed what they had thought might prove to be a way over the mountains, only to be disappointed. He told of dwindling stores, of the necessity for return, of weariness, and cold and heat, and sleeplessness.

They adored him because at one moment he was a child with them, delighting in the things that delight children, and the next he was a man, and they man and woman with him.

The woman spoilt it all by putting her curly head round the door and saying: "It is time Henry went to bed; it is time she did too.”

And strangely enough he did not protest, but folded up the map, and the lovely evening was over.

Katharine had a little room with a narrow bed in it, a basin and jug and a washstand and chest of drawers. The woman lent her a nightgown, and when she brought it in, Katharine could see that she had been crying. But Katharine was too tired to think much of her, and was soon asleep; and when she awakened in the morning, remembered where she was with a delicious sense of excitement. She washed hastily and went downstairs to find Marcus on the veranda, where the fat servant brought her bread and milk.

Marcus said: "We will ride back to Sydney as soon as you are ready." He seemed less happy than he had been last night, wistful and very sorry that she was going. When she had finished her bread and milk, and Had eaten newly baked cakes, and drunk coffee, he said very earnestly: "I hope you will come again. It is not such a long ride out from Sydney, if you know the direct way to come. You must watch as we ride back, and take note of best way to come.”

"Thank you very much!”

"You are not sorry you were lost?”

"No, I am glad. I have loved it. I shall certainly come again.. often. May I come often ?”

"It could not be too often for me.”

"I am glad you like me.”

"Does that mean you like me?”

"You are different from other people.”

"Different from your father?”

"Oh, yes! Very different from him.”

"Yet you do not dislike me? You must be very fond of him.”

"Why, yes. He is very clever, you know. And very important.”

"And he amuses you... as I did last night?”

"Oh ... Papa is not like that. He does not talk... very mud Except about the First Fleet and Mr. Bass and Mr. Flinders... and then only a little. He does not talk like you do.”

"And you liked the way I talked, did you not?" She was puzzled. She did not know what he wanted her to say, but had stopped thinking solely about him because her thoughts had switched to Papa and Mamma. She hoped they had not been frightened.

She said: "He is the best father in the world.”

"How do you know?" he said, just like Martin might have said Mamma says so.”

Then he dropped the subject, and she was glad.

She said goodbye to Henry, who intimated very definitely that she must come again. She said goodbye to Esther and Mr. Blake ' and all the children. Then she rode back with Marcus.

He talked fascinatingly as they rode, pointing out landmarks; he explained the difference in the grasses and the trees, and compared them with those of the Old Country. He sang songs he had known in the Old Country, and she was sorry when they came into Sydney.

Mamma came out into the yard. She was very white, and there were dark shadows under her eyes, and she stared at them as though they were ghosts.

"Hello, Mamma!" she called uneasily.

"I was lost.”

"Katharine!" said Carolan stonily, looking at the man. Katharine slipped off her horse; she stood there holding the bridle nervously.

Marcus said: "Carolan, your little daughter was rescued by my son. Do you not think that a rather charming sequel to ... everything?”

Mamma called to one of the men to take Katharine's horse. Mamma was white and haughty. Margery appeared; she had been crying. She screamed out when she saw Katharine: "Oh, my little love! My own little love!" And Katherine, frightened for some reason of which she was only partly aware, ran to Margery as if for protection, and Margery knelt on the stones of the yard and put her arms about her.

"Scared out of me wits, lovey. Why, you scared me out of me natural...

Why, whatever was you up to?”

"I was lost, and Henry found me. and..." Margery's body had gone taut; she was no longer thinking of Katharine; she was staring over Katharine's head at Marcus.

Papa appeared. His face shone with sudden joy when he saw Katharine, and Katharine knew then that they had had no message, and had been very frightened.

She ran to Papa; he lifted her up; she kissed him and went on kissing to try to explain by kisses that she would rather have given up her exciting evening than that he and Mamma should be worried like this.

Then Mamma turned her head and said: "It is all right now. She was lost. This... gentleman brought her home.”

Papa hugged Katharine and said: "Bring him in! Bring him in!”

They went into the house, and when they were inside. Mamma took Katharine from Papa's arms, and her eyes were cold and very angry.

"Go to your room at once, Katharine!" she said, and her voice was like ice, and sharp like the edge of a knife; and Katharine went in shame because she knew she ought to have insisted on coming home, and that Esther had been right; that that jaunty, exciting, lovely man Marcus had not kept his word about sending a message.

She went to her room and waited there, feeling that something awful was going to happen. It was not very long before she heard Marcus ride away. She hoped they had been nice to him, for he had been very nice to her. She hoped they had given him refreshment; it would be awful if Mamma were not nice to him just because he had forgotten to send that message.

James and Martin came in.

"Where have you been?" demanded James.

"I was lost." What a glorious account of her adventure she had imagined herself giving James. And now she had nothing to say except "I was lost." which they knew already.

"We had a search party I' cried James excitedly.

"Lanthorns and flaming torches!" screeched Martin.

"We thought you'd been murdered, you see," said James cheerfully.

"I might have been," she said.

"Yes," said James with unnecessary melancholy, 'but you weren't.”

Miss Kelly came in.

"I wonder you're not ashamed," she said.

"I never saw such a fuss. I think what you deserve is a thorough good whipping.”

Miss Kelly bustled the boys out and turned the key in the lock.

It was some time before Mamma came in. Katharine threw herself against her.

"Mammal Why am I locked up here? It wasn't my fault; I was lost ...

Anybody might get lost... And then I heard Henry's horse. It was exciting; I coo-eed and he coo-eed, and then he came and took me to his home.”

"Yes?" said Mamma in an odd, stony voice.

"And then it was such fun, Mamma. Oh, he has been every-where. And he told us, Mamma. He told us all about it. All about London and the Old Country. He talks differently from anyone else different from Margery or Papa, or even you. He tells you things, and you see them, and oh.

Mamma, don't you like him?

Can he come here? He would like to. It's nicer here than there ... and I think they quarrel a lot. She looks at him as if she hates him. and he doesn't care a bit when she cries, and he kisses the servant, and there's an Elizabeth. Henry says he's got half-brothers and sisters. Henry's nice. Oh. Mamma, can they come?”

"Really, Katharine, I haven't the faintest notion of what you're saying. You are most incoherent. And it was very, very naughty of you to go off like that; and I am going to punish you for being so thoughtless. Your father and I were very worried.”

"Oh, but Mamma, the man came. She said you would be worried; he said he would send a man to tell you where I was.”

"Who is she?”

The one they call Esther.”

"Esther." said Mamma faintly. And then: "Of course, no man was sent.”

"Oh. but he said ...". "He is a liar," said Mamma.

"Oh, but Mamma, I'm sure there is a mistake. I know he said I must ask him...”

"He has gone now.”

"I am going there again, Mamma. They asked me. He and Henry said I must go again.”

"You will never see them again," said Mamma. Katharine was incredulous. She could find nothing to say.

"And," said Mamma, 'you will stay here for the rest of the day alone.”

Mamma went out then. She had been pale, but now her face was flushed, her eyes hard as the glittering stones in the pendant she wore round her neck.

Katharine heard the key turn in the lock. She was angry with Mamma, angry with Papa even, poor Papa who had done nothing but be very pleased because she was home again. Still, she was angry with the whole world, for more than anything she wanted to see Marcus and Henry again.

"And I will!" she said. She went over to the Bible on the chest of drawers, the Bible which Miss Kelly had given her last Christmas. She laid her hands on it and swore as she did when she and James played Judge and Prisoners. But there was no jest this; it was a solemn vow.

"With God's help, so I will," she said. Her eyes were resolute, her mind made up.

Carolan was dressing for her dinner-party. It was a very important dinner-party, a sort of coming out for Katharine. She was seventeen.

Carolan's thoughts must go back to a similar occasion nearly twenty years ago, when she was going to her first ball. A green dress she had worn; she was wearing a green dress now. How different though, this rather plump and still beautiful woman, poised and confident, the mother of five sons and one daughter, Mrs. Masterman of Sydney. How different from that slender girl who had gone down to the hall at Haredon to dance with Everard.

Audrey, her maid, was ready to do her hair. Audrey's eyes, meeting hers in the mirror, sparkled with admiration. She had rescued Audrey from the kitchen, much as Lucille had rea her all those years ago, and the girl was her willing slave. _. could hardly remember now what Lucille had looked like, and yet the memory of her was as evergreen as the fir trees which had grown so abundantly in the damp climate of Haredon. There was everything to remind her in this house. Why did they not leave it? Simply because together they never broached the subject; they dared not. If she said to Gunnar: "Let us leave this house," he would know she was thinking of Lucille. And what they had been trying to do all the time, all through those eighteen years, was to show each other, without mentioning the subject, that neither of them ever thought of Lucille.

It was a ridiculous pretence; she knew he thought of her often. She knew the shadow of his first wife lay heavy across the happiness he might have enjoyed with his second.

Audrey said: "Pearls, Madam?" And she smiled her assent. He: smile was charming as it ever was. She always tried to be charming to the servants, particularly if they had been convicts. Behind each of them she would see a grim shadow of Newgate that could make hideous memories rush back at her, and whatever had been their crime, she would make excuses for them. Of Audrey she knew little except that she was sentenced to transportation for fourteen years, and had, by all accounts, been a desperate creature. And yet here was Audrey, almost gentle, pliable, eager to please. She never asked questions of Audrey; it occurred to her that the girl might not wish to talk, but because there was a daintiness about her which most lacked, she had taken her to be her maid, and Audrey was grateful.

"Audrey clasped the pearls about her neck and stood back to admire.

They are lovely, Madam.”

A gift from Gunnar one of his many gifts. She was fond of him, though at times he irritated her almost beyond endurance. His ideas were so conventional that they bored her; she knew, almost to the phrase, what he would say on almost any subject. His conduct was absolutely what it should have been except on one occasion; and how ironical it was that her tenderness for him should be just because of that lapse.

She smiled faintly at her reflection in the mirror. Ripe womanhood, full sensuous lips, and green eyes that flashed from mood to mood with a speed that could be disastrous. She was her mother's daughter; she belonged to that procession of women to whom numerous love-affairs were as natural as eating and drinking. But there was a certain strength in her which the others had lacked; perhaps it had grown up in the evil soil of Newgate, because that fetid air had nourished it. A glance from a pair of merry eyes, admiring, passionate and she was as ready for adventure as her mother had been. But she had resisted every time, for she could not forget that her husband had jeopardized not only his soul but and ironical as it might seem, this was of almost as great importance to him his position here in Sydney, for love of her.

Gunnar was really a man after Lachlan Macquarie's own heart, and but for that eighteen-year-old scandal, what position might not Gunnar have held under the greatest governor New South Wales had ever known!

Macquarie and his saintly Elizabeth had not been ruling when it happened, but there were those only too ready to tell him the story which they had preserved, as though it was something precious, through the reign of turbulent Bligh and the period of usurpation that followed before the coming of Macquarie. Gunnar admired the governor almost to idolatry; and the governor admired Gunnar; but that was that ancient scandal that had attached itself to poor Gunnar and dragged him down from the heights which, but for it, he would certainly have attained.

It was not the fact that he had married a convict; it was the circumstances in which he had married her. There were many convicts, and once they were free it should not be remembered against them that they had suffered transportation. Everyone knew that the laws of the old Country, and its conditions, were such as to breed convicts. A convict can become a respectable man in a new country many of them had for that reckless daring which may have driven them to crime, turned to good effect, can be the very quality needed to found a new nation. No, the fact that Mrs. Masterman had begun her life in Sydney as a convict was not really as important as that clinging scandal about Masterman's first wife.

And here I am, back at it, thought Carolan. Eighteen years ago it happened, and I still think of it as though it were yesterday.

Tonight was Katharine's party, a joyous occasion. Katharine! Sweet daughter. Anything was surely worth while to have had Katharine. Five sons she had borne Gunnar, willingly doing her duty one pregnancy following close on another accepting the discomfort, the pain and the danger; and all because she was determined to do her duty, to give him those sons he had wanted. He had got them; he had paid dearly for them, and he should not be disappointed. Queer, that it should be Katharine whom they loved best of all. The daughter; and every time he looked at her, did he think as she did of those months immediately previous to her birth? Was it that that made her specially dear? No, not It was the charm of Katharine; the sweetness of her. Carolan's daughter. Her eyes had lost that tinge of green, and were blue as speedwells you found in the lanes of the Old Country; her hair was a deeper shade of red; her chin determined as Carolan's had been twenty years ago, so that one was fearful for Katherine. The boys were like their father calmer, assured; they possessed humour, though Gunnar had none, but that would not hinder their way of life. She could see them, years ahead, important men in the town, of perhaps in other towns, perhaps back in England. Martin and Edward both had a yearning for England. James would most likely take over his father's activities; and it was too soon to see what little Joseph and Stephen were going to do. The boys were safe, but Katharine she was not so sure. Gunnar had wanted her educated in England; he had advanced ideas on education for such an unimaginative man. James was soon to leave for England, but Katharine she would not allow to go.

"But, my dear," said Gunnar. 'she needs more than Sydney can give her.

There are things she must learn, which she can only acquire at home... the way to behave manners are necessarily a little rough here...”

"No," she said, 'no I should not have a moment's peace. How do we know what would happen to her?”

She had had a frightful vision of life's catching up reckless Katharine as it had caught up innocent Carolan. Newgate. The prison ship. But why should she be so caught, a young lady of substance? But how can you know what evil fate is in store!

She had her way. She remembered lying in the dark with him. holding him in her arms.

"Gunnar, I could not bear it! What happened to me..." And he had soothed her and comforted her. Katharine should not leave her. It was for moments like that she almost loved him.

And now Katharine had grown secretive, her blue eyes full of dreams, her thoughts far away. You spoke to her and she did not answer; and she made no confidences in her mother. Sometimes Carolan thought she knew. Had it begun years ago when the child was only ten years old, and had disappeared one day and come back the next morning with Marcus ?

The thought of Marcus angered her, and comforted her and hurt her. So insolent he had looked, standing there in the yard. She knew he had kept the child purposely to hurt her, Carolan, that he wanted to hurt her as she had hurt him. Insolently he had looked at her, hating her and loving her as she hated and loved him. Gunnar had stood there, exasperatingly unobservant. seeing in this man a kind friend who had looked after his daughter and brought her safely home.

It had seemed to her that Marcus's eyes had said something else too, that they pleaded for a moment alone with her; they seemed to say: "Carolan, Carolan, we must meet again. Where, Carolan, where?" And her heart had beaten faster with excitement, and her need of him then was as great as her love for her children. He had seen that, and hope had leaped into his eyes. But Gunnar had been there, seeing nothing, his voice calm, his manner slightly pompous as he thanked Marcus with the charm and courtesy a successful man can afford to give to one who is not so successful.

"My dear sir, we are deeply indebted to you. We shall never forget...”

And because he was such a good man, because he had always striven so hard to lead the right sort of life ... no, not because of that.

Because of that one lapse when for her sake ... She let her thoughts swerve. Not that again! Not that. But it was the reason why she had turned from Marcus and ever since not known whether she was glad or sorry. All she knew was that her life was full of regrets ... regrets for ... she was not sure what. Life was a compromise, when for people like herself and Marcus who knew how to live recklessly, it should have been glorious. Up in the heights, and perhaps occasionally for Marcus could never be faithful to one woman even if she was Carolan down in the depths. But never, never this unexciting, boring level.

And that day when Marcus had come into the yard with Katharine was a bitter day, for it had lost her something of Katharine. She had been too harsh with the child, blaming her because she had stupidly wanted to blame someone for that for which she herself was entirely to blame.

"You shall never go there again!" she had said, and Katharine had answered with stubborn silence. If your daughter was so like you that the resemblance frightened you, you could often guess her thoughts. She had gone there, of course she had gone. She had felt the irresistible charm of Marcus. There was a boy, Henry ... Esther's child. He would doubtless be as like his father as Katharine was like her mother.

The child often absented herself all day. She would ride off in the morning and not return until sundown. Where had she been? She would come back, flushed with sunshine and laughter, and happiness looked out of her eyes. And when there had been that talk of going to England, how stubbornly she had set her heart against it!

"I do not want to go to England! I will not go to England!" Why?

Because, if she went, she would miss those long days when she absented herself from her own home and went to that of Marcus.

Carolan had seen the boy, Henry. He had inherited that subtle attractiveness from his father. He was young and crude of course, but it was there, and Katharine possibly did not look for polish. Dark he was, dark as Marcus, with that quickness of eye; she had heard him call to someone in the town, and his voice had that lilting quality which belonged to Marcus's.

Katharine was young, only just seventeen. It might be that she thought she loved the boy, because it was the first time anyone had talked of love to her. So she had contrived to arrange parties for her, gatherings where she could meet charming people. That was not difficult, for Sydney was no longer a mere settlement, Macquarie had vowed it should take its place among the cities of the world, and surely he was keeping his word. From the Cove it looked magnificent nowadays, unrecognizable as that notch potch of buildings it had been on her arrival. It was gracious and stately; large houses of hewn stone had taken the place of the smaller ones, and the number of warehouses had grown on the waterside to keep pace with the growing population and prosperity. Sydney would soon grow into a great town, busy and beautiful. There were young men of substance in the town who had shown signs of becoming very interested in the fresh young charms of Masterman's daughter; and not least among these was Sir Anthony Greymore, recently out from England, a young man, sophisticated and charming, wealthy and serious-minded enough to make a good husband. He surely, if anyone, could wean Katharine from Henry.

I will not let her marry Marcus's son! thought Carolan. I will not!

Even though, for a time, she thinks her heart is broken. He will be like his father. I see it in him.

Audrey was looking at her oddly, comb poised.

"I am sorry, Audrey. I am fidgeting." Audrey's eyes in the mirror worshipped her. Where else could a convict find such a kind mistress?

Gunnar came in. He had just ridden home. He looked tanned and healthy. He was in a hurry for he was late, but he would be ready at precisely the right moment when he must descend to greet his guests. He would never be late. His dressing-room would be in perfect order and he would know just where to find everything. How wrong it was to get exasperated over someone's virtues!

Audrey had finished her hair and the result was most attractive.

"You don't look much older than Miss Katharine, M'am. You might be her older sister. People could easy take you for that." What flattery!

She looked years older than Katharine and most definitely she looked Katharine's mother.

She felt an acute desire to be Katharine's age, to be going to her first ball where she would be told by Everard that he loved her. Had she known what was waiting for her. how she would have pleaded with him to let nothing stand in the way of marriage! Had she never come to London she would never am known Marcus. She could not wish that. No, perhaps if she could live her life again, she would go back to that day when Margery had told her that Clementine Smith and Marcus were lovers.

She shrugged her shoulders impatiently. Had she not been fortunate?

The life she had shared with Gunnar had dignity, security; and life with Marcus would never have given her either.

Gunnar came in from his dressing-room; he wanted to talk to her, she could tell by his manner, so she dismissed Audrey.

"Well," she said, playing with her fan of green tinged ostrich feathers.

He smiled at her, admiring her beauty which never failed to stir him, admiring her adroitness in dismissing Audrey without his having to tell her that he had something to say.

"I was late," he said, 'because I met young Greymore. He asked .. for permission to approach Katharine.”

"And most willingly you gave it!”

She laughed, and he laughed too, though he was never sure of her laughter. To him this seemed a matter of the deepest gravity; the betrothal of their daughter was surely no matter for laughter.

"I gave it, of course," he said.

"I hope she will accept him," said Carolan pensively.

"I should hate it if she were reluctant.”

"I was wondering if we should warn her, and tell her what our wishes are.”

Dear Gunnar! Did he know his daughter so little that he thought they had only to tell her Their wishes and they would immediately become hers?

"She may be difficult," she warned him tenderly.

"She is very sensible," he said.

"And it is a good match.”

She stood up then. He was sitting on her bed. She took his head and held it against her breast. He was always moved by these sudden displays of affection; they were so unexpected. Why should she embrace him now, while they were discussing this very important matter of their daughter's marriage?

She said: "You think everybody can be as sensible as you, my dear.”

"Oh, I think Katharine has her share of common sense." Oh, no! she wanted to say. There is no great common sense in our Katharine, because she has little of you in her; she is all mine. Reckless, adventuring. And yet there was a time when you... "Gunnar," she said, 'if she refuses him, what then?”

He said confidently: "We will talk to her. He is very eager. He seems to me the sort who'll not take no for an answer.”

"She worries me, Gunnar. Sometimes I wonder whether she has not formed some attachment.”

"But, Carolan, with whom?”

"How should I know.”

"But surely there would have been some evidence...”

He did not see the evidence of bright eyes, of that absent manner, of that shine of happiness. He would never see that. Blind Gunnar. How did he ever love blindly himself?

"I am determined," said Carolan fiercely, 'that she shall make the right sort of marriage. I think she needs that sort of marriage. The boys will choose wisely... one feels that instinctively. Or if they do not, it will not be so important. But Katharine ...”

She saw his face in the glass, and she knew he was thinking of the coming of Katharine; how she, Carolan, had talked of marrying Tom Blake; he was remembering it all vividly, for it lay across his life as darkly as it lay across hers.

She turned to him then, clinging to him in sudden tenderness.

"Oh, Gunnar, you have done so much for us all. You have made me so happy.”

"My dear!" he said in a husky voice. But the shadow was still in his eyes. Lucille was there.

Margery knocked at Katharine's door and tiptoed into the room.

Katharine was standing before her mirror, admiring herself in her blue ball dress with its masses of yellow lace. Audrey, before starting on Carolan's hair, had dressed Katharine's and it hung in curls about her shoulders. Margery clasped her hands together and rocked herself with delight.

"My little love! My little dear. The men will be at your beck and call tonight!”

"How your thoughts run on men!" said Katharine, and Margery cackled with glee.

She was more outspoken, this Katharine, than her mother had been. Not quite the same brand of haughtiness. Ready to enjoy a little joke. And up to mischief, if Margery knew anything!

"Pity Ac isn't going to be here tonight!" Margery nudged her.

"Who?" said Katharine defiantly.

"You know who! Him who you sneak out to meet, me darling. Tell old Margery.”

"You know too much.”

"Well, what's an old woman to do? The gentlemen don't come calling on me now, you know.”

"You must not tell, Margery. You haven't told?”

"I'd cut me tongue out rather.”

"Only sometimes I've thought that Mamma seemed to know. Margery, if you told I'd never speak to you again!”

"Not me, lovey. Not me! And if she was to know, what of it? Do you think she's never ...”

She could silence with a look, the little beauty, and her with a secret on her conscience too! Old Margery had seen him. He was forever hanging about the yard, he was. And there was no mistaking where he'd come from; the look of him told you that. And his father all over again! He knew how to get round a woman, no mistake, and he'd got round her little ladyship till she was yearning for him. The things you could find out, if you kept your eyes open!

Margery finished lamely: "A pity he can't come here tonight! Pity he can't be introduced to your Ma and the master, and we can't hear the wedding bells ring out! That's how I'd like this to end.”

"Parents," said Katharine, 'have such ridiculous ideas!”

"Parents was young once, me lady!" Ah! That they was! And well I remember the two of them. Madam Carolan. flaunting herself in her mistress's clothes, and you, me lady, well on the way before you should have been. And that... what I don't like thinking of... and me having a hand in it, so's I'm frightened to show me face on that first floor.

I wish we'd get out of. this house. But ghosts don't mind where you go; they follow. And they don't need a-carriage, nor a stage... not they! And as sure as I'm Margery Green there's a ghost in this house, though I ain't and God forbid I ever should clapped eyes on it!

"Yes, Margery, but they've got this Sir Anthony in mind.”

"Ah! Marry him, me pretty dear, and you'll be a real live ladyship.

There's some who.wouldn't say no to that, I'll be bound!”

"I thought you'd talk sense, Margery!" Sweet balm, that was. Madam and the master, they didn't talk sense, but old Margery did, according to this lovely bit of flesh and blood. Margery put her hand on the bare shoulder, though it was risking her ladyship's displeasure, for she was never one for being touched ... except by some most likely ...

I never saw a child take after her mother more. And why not, and who are they to say her nay? What of them, eh? With the mistress lying in her bed, poor sickly lady. No, no, don't think of that, Margery; it ain't nice to think of. I wish we'd leave this house, but would that be any good? Ghosts don't need the stage.

"Look here, my dearie, love's a game for them that plays it. It's not for them outside to give a hand. That's Margery's motto.”

"I agree, Margery!”

How her eyes flashed! Trouble coming, dear as daylight. Mrs. Carolan born again. Imagine telling her all those years ago who she was to love! Funny how people forget what they were lite when they were young! Now Margery Green, she remembered all too well!

Katharine had dreams in her eyes; she was thinking of long days in the sunshine, riding out to the station; he came to meet her. At first he had pretended to think her just a foolish girl when together they had listened to Marcus. But when the Blue Mountains had been crossed, they both seemed to grow up suddenly. Marcus, deeply regretting that he had not been one of the gallant band that first crossed the mountains, told them the story in his inimitable way, and it was as exciting as though they themselves had found the road.

"No matter how difficult a project may seem," said Marcus, 'stick to it, and you'll get across as sure as men got across the Blue Mountains!”

She had ridden out to them, and kept her secret; she had planned and contrived, and it had been worth it. How she loved the sunny veranda and the talk of the two of them! Marcus smoking his Negrohead, drinking his grog, watching them, loving them, talking to them, welcoming her into his home. Sometimes he called her Carolan.

"That's my mother, you know. I'm Katharine.”

"Of course! Of course! I forgot. I used to know your mother once.”

And she had felt resentful towards Mamma, who, for no reason at all, had taken such a dislike to him, doubtless thinking him lacking in culture because he was not dabbling in politics, and did not attend the local functions, and was as different from Papa as it was possible for any man to be. Was Mamma perhaps a little snobbish? Her values were wrong surely since she tried to prevent her daughter's friendship with a man like Marcus. She knew that Mamma had come out on the transport ship; she could not help knowing. One of the girls at school told her; it was a great shock. It made her look upon convicts in a different way; at one time, she feared, she had thought them sub-human.

"Are convicts real men and women?" Martin had once asked. She had been rather like Martin. But Mamma had been a convict, and Marcus and Esther. Convicts were ordinary people, and two of them Marcus and Mamma were among those she loved the best in the world. So Mamma should not have been snobbish about Marcus. She felt a slight estrangement between herself and Mamma then, but afterwards when she drew from Margery the story of the First Wife, she warmed to Mamma again. Poor Mamma, a servant in this house where now she was mistress, and Papa unhappy with his first wife! What a different picture from the house as it was today, and how proud Mamma must have suffered! It was really a good thing when the First Wife died, and Papa discovered that he loved Mamma. Vaguely from a long way back she remembered a certain fear about the First Wife. What an inquisitive and imaginative little creature she must have been in those days! Probing; scenting mystery; drawing out Margery and Mamma and anyone who would respond in the smallest way! Then she had discovered Henry and Marcus, and the house with the veranda and they filled her thoughts. She did not remember thinking very much about the first floor after that.

What would Mamma say if she knew she had been present at their musters!

Papa too! But what a thrill to ride beside Henry!

"You'd better keep close, young Katharine." That was Henry before he knew he loved her.

"A bullock on the run can be pretty savage. Keep near me!" That moment when the bull dashed into the plain with the cattle at his heels hundreds of them; she longed to join with them, with Marcus and Henry and Mr. Blake. She would one day. They would not let her at first; they said it was dangerous. She loved to hear the crack of the stock-whip, to see the skill with which they guided the cattle in the direction they must go. She was enormously proud of Henry. And then one day they let her join in, and it was after that that Henry gave her his first present, a stock-whip with a myall handle that smelt like violets.

She longed to stay at the station with them, to sit on the veranda with them till darkness came; to listen to the singing of the sheep-washers when their day's work was done, and to heat the talk of the knockabout men who came for the shearings of to do odd fencing jobs. She would have loved to come in after dark with Henry, just the two of them alone, and cook their own meals ... beef steak or bacon, or perhaps, after a muster, a fat calf.

Marcus had promised them their own station when they were married. They could go to it now ... if they were married. Marcus would put no objection in the way. It was possible to discuss all one's plans before Marcus. He never attempted to foil you; his suggestions were helpful, not destructive.

He said: "You'll be my daughter, Katharine. Fancy that. I wished you were my daughter right from the very first moment I saw you!”

He was a darling. If it would not have been so utterly disloyal to Papa who really was the best father in the world she would have told him she would have loved to have him for a father. A father-in-law was almost a father anyway. She flung her arms round his neck and kissed him when he told them about the station. He liked that ... and yet, oddly enough it embarrassed him. He said: "Katharine, Katharine! My sweet little Katharine, I'd have given twenty stations for that." One didn't always believe all he said. That about giving twenty stations for a hug was just his way of telling you how pleased he was. Perhaps all of his stories weren't exactly true, but that didn't matter; he made them more exciting because he knew you liked them that way. He spoke her name oddly, slurring it, making it a mixture of Carolan and Katharine; there was a similarity between the two, and he had a curious way of rolling them into one. She loved him next to Henry and Mamma and Papa, and there really was no one like Marcus in the whole world.

Henry's mother she could never like, and she believed Henry's mother did not like her and did not really want Henry to marry her; Katharine believed she protested to both Henry and Marcus.

Not that anything would stop them. She and Henry were meant for each other; Henry was as sure of that as she was. When she had lain with her ear to the ground; when she had coo-eed over the bush, she had been on the threshold of a new LIFE. Well, she knew that now I His eyes burned when he looked at her. He was eighteen. Papa would say: "Good gracious! How very young!" But Papa just did not understand.

She could recall indeed she could never forget the wonder of that day when Henry ceased to think of her as a little girl, and thought of her as Katharine. It was the day he had given her the stock-whip, and that gift represented more than the mere adventure of a muster shared; it was the adventure of finding each other. She was fourteen then. He was fifteen, but he seemed a good deal older; he had seemed a man when she first met him, and he had been little more than eleven then. They were shy at first, and Marcus knew why! He watched them with amused tenderness, and encouraged them to love each other.

She was sixteen when Henry said he loved her. It was there in that spot where he had first found her, and how deeply she had been touched by that sentiment which had led him to tell her there! They had lain on the harsh grass, and she had heard his heart beating, where once she had listened to the thud of his horse's hooves.

He talked of their life together, and she saw the station they would share; she loved the life he lived; it was the only life for such as they were. Fresh air, sunshine, and a new life beyond the Blue Mountains where the town of Bathurst was beginning to grow, and where the land was good, with grazing for millions of sheep.

So they talked and planned, and made love and dreamed of the life they would lead beyond the Blue Mountains.

Margery watched her and saw the dreams in her eyes, and whispered: "Tell Margery ... Tell old Margery. Is it an elopement, ducky? You can trust old Margery.”

Katharine shook herself out of her dreams, and shook old Margery by the shoulders.

"Stop it, Margery! Isn't it bad enough? How can I hurt them! I love them. How can I be happy ... even there beyond the Blue Mountains with Henry ... if they aren't happy too! How can I, Margery?”

"A new home, eh, t'other side the Blue Mountains? I don't like the sound of that, ducky. Why not nearer home ?”

"Oh, Margery, don't be silly! We want to go there, and that's where the station is.”

"The station! What station?”

"Our new home. Oh, Margery, you've no right to make me tell. It's a secret...”

"There, there, dearie! A station miles away ... the other side of the Blue Mountains, eh?”

"It's wonderful land, Margery. Marcus ... People say it was well worth all the trouble to discover. It's fine land ...”

"Two little 'uns like you two 'ull want a bit of looking after, lovey.

What about taking old Margery along of you?”

"You wouldn't want to leave Mamma, Margery!”

"I might.”

"You wouldn't, Margery... after all these years.”

"There's things I ain't altogether pleased about in this house. I reckon it wants pulling down, and a fresh one built in a new place.”

"Why, Margery? Why?”

"I feel like it. And how d'you think I'd be liking it, with you eloping off to the other side of the Blue Mountains ?”

Katharine laughed and flung her arms round Margery's neck.

"Promise, not a word, Margery! Swear!”

"I swear!”

"Margery, if you were to break your word, I'd ... I'd get somebody's ghost to haunt you for the rest of your days." Margery shrieked and turned pale. Katharine laughed.

"Swear then, Margery... Quick!”

"I swear," said the old woman.

"And, Margery?”

"Y ... yes, Miss Katharine?”

"I'll see about it. We ... we'll discuss it. I think it would be fun to have you around. I must go down now, Papa will frown if I am not there to help them receive the first of the guests." She went to the door. Margery was still shaking; her face was the colour of cheese.

"Margery," she said, turning back, 'do you believe this house is haunted?”

Margery did not speak.

"You do, Margery. I know you do, and I know by whom!”

"Don't speak of it. Miss Katharine. It's better not to. You don't know...”

"On the contrary, I do know!" She grimaced mockingly.

"First Wife! That's it, isn't it?" She went out, slamming the door.

Margery could not stop herself from trembling. Ah, she thought, my pretty dear, you think you're clever! You think you're smart. You laugh at ghosts, do you! Well, there's a lot you've got to learn, me dearie. You don't know what happened to the poor sickly lady. Margery looked furtively over her shoulder.

"I was always fond of the poor lady," she said aloud, 'fond of her and sorry for her." She paused, as though waiting for some response. There was none, and she continued musing, Oh yes, me fine lady, you ain't so clever! Ah, but when you're seventeen you think you know life; you think life is all living snug in a nice cattle station, and making love in the sunshine. Oh no, me darling, it ain't all that simple. And he's such another as his father, I'll be bound, from what I've seen. He'll like the women and the women will like him. Well, it's a different way you've chose from your lady mother, and I hope you'll be happy. And I'll be there ... I'll keep you to that, me darling. I'll like to be there. I'll watch him for you, dearie, and then when you find love's young dream ain't as pretty as you thought, you'll have old Margery.

The candles were lighted in the drawing-room. It was bright with gay company, but how she longed for the shade of the veranda, and Henry, sitting close, leaning against one another whilst they talked of their home beyond the Blue Mountains! Mamma was watching her closely, and there was that hideous Miss Grant watching Mamma as she was always watching let, slyly, as though she knew something, as though she had caught Mamma doing something wrong.

Instead of candles she saw tall eucalyptus trees; their barks shone bright silver in sunshine.

"Waiting is silly." Henry had said.

"We can't wait, Katharine won't wait!”

Miss Grant sidled over.

"Why, Miss Katharine, how grown-up you're looking tonight! It seems only yesterday that you were but a little baby.”

Poor Miss Grant! Homesick and angry, despising everything in the new country because of her nostalgia for the old. One imagined her coming over with her father, Major Grant, years and years ago. How dreary!

Poor Miss Grant!

"Only yesterday!" she continued.

"I remember well the day you were born.”

"Do you? That is kind of you.”

Mamma was looking anxious. Dear Mamma! How lovely she was, but strained tonight! She looked as if she were trying to catch what Miss Grant was saying.

"Kind! Oh, dear me no! The whole town was so interested..”

"In my being born? I suppose they were interested in all the babies.”

"Not all, Miss Katharine. Not all! I said you were a very special baby.”

"I'm sure I was most ordinary really.”

Wouldn't it have been fun if Henry could have come tonight. She should have been bold and gone straight to Papa and Mamma and told them. Why should she not?

"You were a rather ... shall we say a much-heralded link baby!”

What on earth was the facetious little woman talking about? She probably adored babies. People who were never likely to have any often did. She thought of herself and Henry having babies... lots of them.

She smiled.

"Ah! You are amused. We did not think it exactly amusing!”

"I'm sorry," said Katharine.

"What did you say?”

Mamma came over.

"Katharine, Lady Greymore wants to talk to you. Over there.

She is waiting for you.”

Lady Greymore said: "Hello, my dear. I must tell you that you look charming tonight... charming ... La! How beautiful it is to be young!

Your dress is most becoming. Come, tell me, was it your own choice? Or did Mamma help you? I'll whisper to you that you'll love the London gowns. They would make anything here look positively provincial!”

Katharine murmured that she was sure they would.

"And you, my dear, would be a great success in London. Of that I am certain. They would love you because you are so different. And when they heard that you had come from Botany Bay, they would be so amused!

After all, it would be something of a joke.”

"Why?" said Katharine.

"Why! Who in England has not heard of Botany Bay! But they do not expect lovely young girls to come out of the place, I assure you!”

"Doubtless they know little about it, and think they know a good deal!”

"La! What asperity! But it becomes you, child___It becomes you. Here are the men coming back. And, ah! Anthony has seen you. He is coming over, dear boy." He was very elegant; she was interested in his elegance; it was such a contrast to the manliness of the men she had known.

Papa was always well dressed, always neat; but never, never had he aspired to elegance! As for Henry, she had never seen him in anything but riding kit, and a shirt open at the front. Marcus sometimes wore gay coats, but they were Sydney made and very sombre compared with this blue satin affair from London which Sit Anthony wore so carelessly, as though there were nothing very special about it. A faint perfume followed him as he moved. His snuff box was of silver and lapis lazuli, his eyeglass a pretty thing of light tortoiseshell. But he had pleasant eyes, very blue and warm too as they rested on Katharine. She liked him better than she liked his mother.

"Ah!" said Sir Anthony.

"How I have looked forward to tonight!”

Lady Greymore moved away, leaving them together. He bent his head close to hers and he talked. He talked rather excitingly, in a way which recalled Marcus. He talked of the rich side of London life though, and it was that mingling of the rich and squalid that had made Marcus's descriptions so fascinating. He talked of gambling and balls, of the Regent growing fatter every day and indulging in amours with the grandmothers for whom he showed such preference. He gave her a picture of a spacious house in a London square, and lovely rooms that were really old as nothing in this country could be old; he showed her a picture of a gracious life, of entertaining clever people, of listening to and perhaps one day contributing to their wit. Politics and fashion, wonderful clothes which would be out of place in this settlement. It was a gay picture he showed her.

In the next room, which had been cleared for dancing, some musicians were playing Mr. Mozart's music. It was beautiful; she longed to dance; her feet tapped in time to the music.

The dancing here," he said, 'is years behind the times. In London we have the new dances ... You will be enchanted by London, Miss Katharine.”

"I do not think I shall go to London. Perhaps later ..." She smiled into a future. Henry, said Marcus, was made for prosperity; he was not content to ship his wool to London; he wanted to go there to hunt out the best markets. Henry said: "We shall go to London, you and I, and we shall see if it is as grand a place as they tell us." She pictured Henry and herself, walking hand in hand along the riverside; looking together at that frightful Newgate at whose name Mamma's face turned pale; visiting the chocolate houses; listening to the talk; riding about the town in a carriage. She had dreamed of London, but only with Henry by her side.

"Why should you not go to London?" He leaned so close that she could smell the wine on his breath; it mingled with the perfume in his clothes; she noticed his long white hands. One did not see such hands in this part of the world, idle hands, carefully manicured ... women's hands! Her own were well shaped but burned brown by the sun, and the nails were short; useful little hands they were.

"Well, because my home is here.”

"Why should your home always be here?" His hand was laid delicately on her arm, and she shivered though it was warm and caressing.

"Would you not like to go to London? I shall be returning soon. I could take you ...”

"Oh, no!. she said.

"That could not be.”

"Could it not, Katharine? It would be delightful ..." His fingers ran up her arm. It seemed sacrilege that anyone but Henry should touch her. She shrank back.

"No, no!" she said.

"You cannot mean...”

"I mean I will marry you, Katharine. I will take you back Home where you belong. You never belonged to this society of felons." Hot blood ran into her cheeks. How dared he talk of her home like this. This stupid fop! What did he know of the men who had made this country? He talked of felons ... slightingly, sneeringly. Marcus. Her own mother.

She said earnestly: "I would have you know that this country is being built; by great men. They are pioneers. They came here to make a new land; my father is one of them." She had stood up.

"Felons!" she said.

"You talk of felons. Who was it who made these felons? Your England!

Her wicked laws. Her cruelty! And she sent them here ingloriously, to fend for themselves ... eleven ships, and five packed full with sick and starving men and women. England did that... and not yet forty years ago! And already here we have our own Sydney. It is young, but it will be great. We have crossed the Blue Mountains! New country is opened up. These men have had a hand in that... these felons, as you call them! And I would have you know that we are not all felons.”

"Gad!" he said, amused and liking her fervour.

"What a patriotic little soul it is! And, Dammed, it becomes you, Katharine. I'd like well to hear you make that speech in your own drawing-room.”

"I mean it," she said, 'and am I not making it here in my own drawing-room?”

"In your father's, my dear. Listen, Katharine. I'll go and tell your father now that you've promised to marry me. You need not look so frightened. I tell you, I have already spoken to him.”

"You have spoken to my father?" He came nearer, his lips close to her ear, his eyes burning.

"He is delighted to receive me as his son-in-law, my dear.”

"But... I...”

"Hal Ha! A spirited young lady, as I saw at once when I first made your acquaintance! Remember, Katharine? You were on horseback, and Dammed if I ever saw a woman cut a better figure. And you are sweet as honey, and lovely as a garden of English spring flowers! Dammed. I can scarce wait to take you back!”

"I am not coming.”

He rocked back on his heels. A very self-opinionated young man. He did not believe that any Sydney-born young woman, with parents who, though among the wealthiest in the town, were for some reason not so well received even in Sydney society as they might have been, could really say No to him. She was a coquette then, for all her frank looks. She wanted wooing, did she! Dammed, he was ready enough to do the wooing. He put his hands on her shoulders.

"You are coming, my love," he said. I'm in love with you. You shall be my wife, I mean it!”

"No!" she said.

Margery was standing in the doorway, open-mouthed.

"Pray excuse me." said Katharine coldly, and went over to Margery. He stood, staring after her, fumbling for his eyeglass and his dignity.

Margery said: "Lor'!" and drew her into the passage, on the other side of which was the open door through which came the sound of music and laughter.

"Come... quickly," said Margery in a hoarse whisper.

"If your Ma was to know...”

Henry was in the kitchen. Katharine ran to him, and they dung together, kissing.

"How beautiful you are!" said Henry. She laughed almost hysterically; Henry in lamplight was such a contrast to Sir Anthony, satin-coated in candlelight. She took his hand and kissed it. She found it difficult to stop kissing it.

Henry touched her white shoulder wonderingly; then the lace and the soft material of her gown.

"You are so beautiful." he repeated.

"You are so beautiful!”

She said: "It is the dress. I would rather be in my riding kit, on the veranda with you.”

He kissed her and they looked at each other incredulously as though they could not wholly believe in the existence of each other "Why did you come?" she asked breathlessly.

"I thought of you in there ... dancing ... being so beautiful that every man must love you.”

"Stupid!" she said, and they kissed again, and his hands caressed her bare shoulders.

Margery was crying in the corner. The beauty of it! The beauty! Oh, to be young ... seventeen and eighteen, and to believe love went on for ever! The lovely children ... and me lord in there making love to her and wanting to marry her, and her wanting the other! Poor little soul!

Funny listening to their lovers' talk. It didn't mean anything but "I want you! I want you." They thought it did though, poor little innocents. You can't go on wanting for ever though, and what's a station beyond the Blue Mountains compared with a grand house in London Town! Muck and squalor, gaudy lights, and the poor and the beggars, and the lords and ladies. London! I hate you. London, I love you!

Why is it, when you think of London, you get a pain inside you that nothing could ease but a sight of the wicked old city? If you was wise, me lady, you'd choose London Town. But love and wisdom never was two to go hand in hand. Your lady mother's right, and so is the master, and what are they going to do about it, eh? And who's going to win ... you, me darling, and your rampaging lover, or wise Mamma who knows more than she'd like you to think she knows and your Papa who was born wise? And here's old Margery, watching and taking a hand. Who let him into her kitchen, eh? Who gives him bits of gossip, eh? It's nice to know you've got a hand in things ... when you're old and there's nothing much left to you but a glass of grog at the kitchen table.

He stroked Katharine's shoulders and stooped and kissed them; he murmured again and again that she was beautiful and that he had forgotten how beautiful; and neither of them gave a thought to old Margery standing there, watching them with glistening eyes.

The door opened and Carolan came in. her eyes flashing fire, but behind the fire was fear for this daughter whom she loved better than anything in the world.

"Katharine!" she said, and Katharine swung round, all defiance, ready for the fight.

"It is time you and Henry met. Mamma.”

"Henry?" said Carolan coldly.

Henry bowed.

Ah I thought Margery. He's not got the manners of the gentleman in the blue satin coat, but he's got some sort of charm, and you can see with half an eye where he gets that!

"Henry Jedborough," said Katharine, in a dignified manner.

"We are going to be married.”

Carolan turned pale.

She said: This is rather sudden, is it not?" And her eyes, as they rested on the young man, were like cold green emeralds.

"No," said Henry, jauntily.

"Katharine and I arranged it some time ago. We are tired of waiting.”

"Yes, Mamma," said Katharine, 'that is right.”

"I do not recollect your having asked my permission to propose marriage to my daughter, sir. But perhaps you have spoken to her father?”

"No!" he said, hating her because he knew she meant "Who is this crude unmannerly creature who ignores all the rules laid down by decent society?”

"We thought." he added, 'that it was a matter for us to decide.”

I know why she hates him so, thought Margery. In this light, where you can't notice the difference so much, he's the living image of his father.

"Katharine," said Carolan, ignoring him. 'it was very ill-mannered of you to leave your guests. Go back at once)' "Mamma!”

"Go back at once!”

"Mamma, please understand ...”

"My dear child, this is not the time to conduct a ridiculous scene. Mr.

... Mr. ... your friend can call upon your father tomorrow. I must really ask him to go now." Henry bowed. He had his dignity. He said: "Goodbye, my darling." And then, defiantly: "I shall see you tomorrow." And there in front of Carolan and Margery he took her into his arms and kissed her several times right on the mouth. She was quivering with desire for him in spite of the scene that had just taken place, in spite of the spectators. That was how it was when you were young, thought Margery. Love swamped everything; when young lovers kissed, they forgot everyone else. Ah! That was how it was when you were young.

He said: "Darling, promise me. Don't let them...”

"No, no, no!" she cried.

They will try ...”

They will not succeed.”

"Remember... the station ... the two of us ... beyond the Blue Mountains.”

The two of us," she said, 'darling, beyond the Blue Mountains.”

He kissed her hands he could not tear himself away.

Carolan was stamping her foot in fury.

When he had gone she looked coldly at her daughter.

"Go upstairs at once," she said.

"People are wondering what has happened to you. I am ashamed ...”

Katharine was ready to obey. She loved her mother very dearly, for indeed they were much alike, those two, and they had been very close until this Henry came. She went slowly back to the music and the guests, but she had a remote look in her eyes for her thoughts were with Henry galloping home under the stars.

Carolan turned on Margery.

"You arranged that meeting, did you? Did you?”

"Now, now," said Margery.

"What's all the excitement? If a young gent comes knocking on my door and asks for Miss Katharine, what should I do but ask him in?" Carolan, as always, was indiscreet when angry.

"I believe you arranged it, you wicked woman!”

"Here!" said Margery truculently, for, as she told herself, she was all on Miss Katharine's side, love being love and the stuff that makes the world go round. And, she reasoned, it's hard when someone who was as ready to love as most, forgets it! She thought: I don't like this house. There's ghosts in this house. I'd like to go with them two young ones, that I would. My goodness, there'll be some fireworks there. She ain't going to lose her lover like you did, Madam Carolan.

He ain't going to let that happen.

Perhaps children is wiser than their parents, because, if they wasn't, how would things get moving on at all? I'm for the young ones ... whatever you say. And she's promised I'm to go with them and he won't say no. I'm his friend. Haven't I shown him I'm on his side! And he's his father all over again and don't mind handing out a bit of flattery even to an old woman. He's made that way, and my little lady will want someone to look after her, I'm thinking. That's my home with them, on the other side of the Blue Mountains, so I ain't afraid of you, Madam Carolan, that I ain't! And I knows too much about you to pretend I ami Carolan was looking at her arrogantly.

"I said that you probably arranged it. You let him in. You doubtless suggested he should come in. You meddling old woman!”

Margery felt sorry for her. If you know human nature, she was thinking, you know what's behind words. What she meant was"You meddled in my life!" And that boy was the dead spit of his father, and she was thinking back years and years, and wanting his father, never having forgotten him. never having forgotten how, through her own pride, she had lost him.

Then Margery was angry with her, for she reasoned, had not Madam Carolan seen what interfering could do, and yet she wanted to interfere with them two lovely young things, wanted to tear them apart when they were yearning for one another, wanted to thrust the little dear into a pair of blue satin arms just because there was a grand tide and money there!

"I believe in helping young lovers!" said Margery boldly.

"And Madam, I'll tell you here and now, it ain't for you to go criticizing what I might do.”

That started Carolan: her lips quivered with anger.

"You are insolent," she said.

"Oh, Madam," said Margery, seeing herself safe in that station with her two young lovers, 'have you forgotten what it's like to be in love? It ain't so long ago since...”

Insolence!" cried Carolan, her eyes flashing with rage.

"Ah! Now you're like the poor shivering mite you was when you first came into my kitchen. Head full of plans, that was you. And the way you treated that poor boy's father, and the way you went to the master, and then ... and then ..." Margery could not say it. But she lifted her eyes upwards to the first floor, and there was terror in Margery's eyes, and the terror communicated itself to Carolan. for her pride collapsed before her fear. She was as superstitious as Margery.

Margery thought afterwards that something icy touched her. and even when she found that Henry had left the door open she still thought it must have been that poor sickly lady's ghost.

Carolan recovered herself.

That will do!" she cried, and she turned and walked slowly back to her guests. Yes, there were ghosts in the house. Whatever your idea of ghosts, they were there.

Margery came up the stairs and knocked at the bedroom door. If the master was there she would make some excuse. He was not there. Carolan was in front of her, mirror fixing a lace collar on her gown; Audrey was hanging clothes in a cupboard.

Carolan looked up: her eyes smouldered as she was remembering last night's scene with Margery.

"Yes?" she said coldly.

Margery sidled over and turned her back to Audrey. She said in a soft voice: "It is a letter that was brought for you.”

She held out an envelope across which was scrawled "Mrs. Masterman.

Carolan took it.

"It was brought to me kitchen this morning.”

How long ago? wondered Carolan. Had Margery found some means of opening it and read it?

The kitchen?" said Carolan casually. That's an odd place to deliver a letter. All right. Margery. Thank you.”

As soon as Margery had gone. Carolan tore open the letter.

Dear Mrs. Masterman, she read. Would you be so good as to grant me an interview? I think there is much to be discussed concerning out children. Perhaps Katharine would tell you where she was once lost and where Henry found her. These two young people have made that spot their meeting place; could we make it ours? I shall be there this afternoon at four o'clock. If you are not there this afternoon, I will be there tomorrow, because I hope so much that I shall see you. William Henry Jedborough.

She crumpled the letter. How like him. What insolence! She had determined that Katharine should not marry Henry Jed-borough; what good did Marcus think he could do by this meeting? Did he think he could be so persuasive? He was ever one to over-rate his powers.

She had not seen him since that day he had ridden in with Katharine.

She had said she hoped she would never see him again. This marriage was impossible. How could the two families unite! Esther and Marcus!

What memories! At all costs Katharine must not be allowed to marry Henry.

She shivered, thinking of last night's scene in the kitchen, with that insolent Margery almost blackmailing her, and Katharine going back to the guests and acting as though she were a being from another world, until one wanted to slap her. But Anthony Greymore seemed to have found that will-o'-the-wisp mood attractive. Oh, Katharine, you little fool with your romantic ideas of love and life! Here is position, wealth, security... and you would throw all that away for a station in a wild country where bushrangers might deal death to you and your family one dark night. You want love, you say; Sir Anthony loves you, and you, foolish child, ought to know that it is wiser to accept love than to give it. And your Henry, what of him? He is his father all over again. How long will his love stay warm for you, my dear?

Oh no, this folly must be stopped; because I love you, Katharine, better than I love anyone else in the world. It is not because I cannot bear to meet Marcus that I want to stop this marriage; it is not because I hate Henry's mother for taking Marcus from me; it is for your sake, my dear... for your sake only.

She tore the note into many pieces. I wonder what he is like now. He will be over forty, past his prime. I am thirty-six. What years and years ago since I first saw him, and he stole my handkerchief! Thief I Rogue! Philanderer!

She thought of him in his room at Newgate, she standing at his shoulder while he fed her with pieces of chicken. She remembered the proposal he had made then. She thought of Lucy's looking in at the door, and Clementine Smith on the boat, and she was as angry with these two as she had been when she had discovered his relationship to them.

In the glass Mrs. Masterman looked back at her, smooth-faced, well-preserved, a lady of dignity; behind the mask of Mrs. Masterman, Carolan Haredon peeped out. Carolan Haredon was still there in spite of Mrs. Masterman.

She saw Audrey's reflection in the glass.

The girl's face was placid, a mask as concealing as the mask she herself wore.

"Audrey," she said on impulse, and the girl came swiftly to her.

"Audrey, I have often wondered what brought you here. Forgive me, Audrey, and do not answer if you prefer not to. It may be that you do not wish to speak of terrible things.”

Audrey's grey eyes filled with tears.

"You are so kind. Madam.”

"Kind!" Carolan laughed at herself in the glass. Not kind, not Selfish, and sometimes cruel and scheming and... "I wouldn't have believed anyone could be kind like you are," said Audrey.

"Not if it hadn't been for her. She talked to me ... she talked to me special, she did. She said, "Never despair, Audrey ... Life can't be all cruel," she said.

"That wouldn't be human nature. There's good and bad, bad and good.

Look for the good, Audrey!" She spoke to me special.”

"Audrey, you were at Newgate?”

Audrey nodded. She began to shiver. Carolan shivered too. The memory was such as to make one shiver after nearly twenty years.

"Tell me, Audrey... Tell me...”

The story came out by degrees. It was an ordinary enough story; Carolan had heard many like it in Newgate, and on the convict ship. The daughter of unknown parents, left on the doorstep of a lodging-house, where she was taken in because she might be useful; five years old. scrubbing floors, seven years old a fully fledged drudge; blows and curses; learning to steal, food first, then other things; then running away and eventually ending up in Mother Somebody-or-other's kitchen. The usual story of crime and violence. An innocent child turned into a criminal by a brutal system. She had been in the bridewell; she met people in the bridewell who said they would help her when she came out.

They did help her to go lower.

Carolan was fascinated by the expressions which crept over the girl's face as she talked. Depravity, cunning, lewdness... another Audrey posed before her. Her placidity was a veil which she lifted, and something horrible peeped out.

"And finally Newgate?" said Carolan, for she wished she had not started this.

Carolan had a picture of the girl's facing that crowd of wild beasts.

She thought of Esther, naked before them, of Kitty's going down, of herself and poor Millie bloody with battle. But this girl would have been prepared; she would have been one of them. She would be no innocent when she went to Newgate.

Audrey covered her face with her hands.

Carolan said: "And you drove from Newgate to the ship. It was horrible. My poor Audrey! Perhaps the most horrible ... because free people laughed at you and did not care. But do not think of it any more; it is too depressing.”

Audrey uncovered her face, and the veil of placidity was drawn over it again.

"We drove in a closed carriage. She said we must..." Audrey was herself now, the quiet, discreet maid.

"Who said it?" asked Carolan.

"She did.”

And Audrey told the incredible story about a lady who must surely be an angel. Carolan had not suspected Audrey of lying before.

"She walked in one day," said Audrey. The turnkey opened the door and he said: "Lady, you go in at your own risk. There's wild beasts in there!" And she walked in ... like an angel with the most beautiful smile you ever saw in your life, M'am. And she picked up one of the children, and he hadn't got no clothes on at all, M'am, and his face was half eaten away with sores, and she picked him up like she was his mother. And she was beautiful, M'am, though not as you're beautiful.

But beautiful different, M'am... beautiful like an angel would be...”

Audrey was romancing. If you had spent horrible weeks in Newgate, you knew it was no place to harbour angels. The poor child had had an hallucination.

"Audrey, finish your work and leave me. I wish to be alone." She picked up the fragments of Marcus's letter. What impudence! Of course I shall not meet you. And what would you do if I did? You would flatter; you would tell me you had never forgotten me, doubtless. You would ... She tried to still the absurd fluttering of her heart. It was not Marcus of whom she was thinking, she assured herself, but of that absurd flight of fancy of her maid. Newgate did something to you, turned the brain. If you stayed there too long, doubtless you would suffer from hallucinations.

A lady ... like an angel. She walked into that den of savages and she picked up one of the babies, naked, with his face half eaten away with some disease. Surely an angel... "Audrey!”

Audrey came over and stood before her.

"Who told you this story of a lady who was an angel?”

"I see it... I see it myself, M'am. He says to her: "Lady, you go in at your own risk," he says, and she walks in. And her skirt rustled like an angel's wings, and we was all afraid of her and somehow glad.

And she picks up one of the babies..." Did anyone else see this... vision?”

"But M'am, they all see. They was all there ... She wasn't no vision, M'am. She was Mrs. Fry!”

"I have never heard of Mrs. Fry," said Carolan.

"You will. Ma'am! The lady ... another what come ... said you will.

She come and read to us sometimes ... and then there was the needlework, and she said: "One day everybody will know about Mrs. Fry, know what she's done for you poor souls." Why should one waste one's time talking to a crazy maid! She slipped the torn pieces of paper into her pocket. I shall not go. Of course I shall not go.”

Katharine was missing all day. She was with her lover of course.

Carolan was tired and weary. She retired early and gave instructions that Miss Katharine was to come to her when she returned.

Katharine was sullen, already defiant, ready to forget the care of years for the sake of Marcus's son.

"I wonder you're not ashamed, chasing all over the countryside after that young man!”

"I am not ashamed, and do not chase after him. We met.”

"What do you think Sir Anthony will say if he hears?”

"I do not know, and I do not care!”

"You are a stupid girl, Katharine. Have you thought of what Sir Anthony is offering you?”

"Oh, Mamma. As if I wanted to be offered anything! Do not be so dreadfully behind the times. I suppose, before you married Papa, you decided it was right and proper that you should, and everything was just as it should be. People aren't like that... so much ... nowadays, thank heaven.”

Carolan's face was hot with shame. It was almost as though Lucille Masterman was in the room, laughing at her. All right and proper! That was funny. If Katharine knew it. And it was all for her I did it! Oh no. Carolan, for yourself as well. No, for my child; I could not have my child born without a name. I did all that for her, and see how she repays me? She deceives me, she flouts my authority! She is threatening to run away with a boy who will never be any good to her, because he is his father's son.

And Marcus and I will be related in some ridiculous way, and I shall have to see him, and... and... It was for her I did it this ungrateful girl, this wayward daughter. If she marries Henry Jedborough, it is the end of peace. It is Marcus coming back into my life. She must not marry Henry!

"You cannot marry without our consent," said Carolan coldly, 'and I assure you you will never have it.”

"Do you imagine you can keep us apart?" How like me she is! How her eyes flash! This is Carolan again, with her first love. Everard.

"We shall refuse our consent, your father and I.”

"My father, would give it if, you would. He would help us, I know.”

"Your father is all in favour of your marriage to Sir Anthony.”

"But you could make him in favour of my marriage with Henry.”

"As if I would! You are a stupid child. You know nothing of the world.”

"Does one need to know the world in order to know whom one wants to marry? You will be telling me next that unless one has been in England one cannot pick one's mate!”

"Don't be so stupid, Katharine!”

"It is you who are stupid, Mamma.”

"My head aches. You are grieving me very much. When I think of all I have done for you ...!" The old plaint of the defeated mother, she thought, fighting for that place in her child's affection which is lost to a lover.

"Oh, Mamma, please! I did not ask to come into the world, did I?”

No, she did not. It was I who wanted_her; it was I who used about No, she did not. It was I who wanted, .. ..-her before she was born, to get what I wanted.

"Katharine, you know how deeply your father and I feel; this. Cannot you realize that we know better than you do?”

"No, Mamma, you do not know better. It is for each person to manage his own life, surely. Because you made a good job of yours, it doesn't follow that you can make a good job of mine. Mamma, I do not want to go on deceiving you.”

"Oh no? You did that very successfully, for how many years?”

"Only because it was necessary. Please give your consent to our marriage, Mamma ... darling Mamma! We have loved each other so much, you and Papa and all of us. I am going to marry Henry; let us be happy about it.”

"My dear child, you talk romantic nonsense. It is your happiness we think of. You know how that boy has been brought up. You know what his father is a convict!”

"Mamma!”

"I was different, I tell you. It was a mistake. Good gracious, child, do you believe your own mother to be a felon?”

"No, no. Mammal Dearest Mamma...”

"It is very different with him. He was a thief. He was here before.

He escaped and was sent back again. I know his record.”

"His record, Mamma, is his affair. It is Henry I propose to marry.”

"But he is Henry's father!”

"Mamma, if you had done something terrible, you would not expect people to blame me!”

What did she mean? What did she know? It was that wicked old Margery.

Did she feel ghosts in this house?

"Oh, Mamma, I know you will be reasonable. You won't blame Henry because of what his father did?”

"I will never give my consent to your marriage with that boy.”

"You must know that we shall never give each other up.”

"I should advise you not to do anything rash. You are our daughter; you are seventeen years old; your father could have him sent to prison for abducting you.”

"Oh, Mamma, you could not be so cruel, so... so wicked!”

"There are many things I would do if I were driven to them ...”

"Mamma, you frighten me.”

"Ridiculous child! Why should I frighten you?”

"You must not be cruel to Henry, Mamma!”

"I hope you will be sensible, darling. You have no notion of how exciting life in London can be, if you have money and position. Suppose your father insisted on your marriage to Sir Anthony! You would be grateful to him to the end of your days.”

"If Papa knew how unhappy I should be, married to Sit Anthony, he would never force me to it... unless you insisted.”

"My dear child, do not stare at me like that.”

'you look different...”

"Stupid! Well, leave me now. It is for your father to decide.”

"No. Mamma, it is you who decide. You could persuade him, and I know he would want me to be happy. You could tell him how there is one way of making me happy.”

You ate stubborn, Katharine. Go to your room. My head aches. Think of what I have said to you. Think of what will be best for us all.”

Katharine went to the door. She looked dazed, as though she were seeing Henry dragged from her. Van Diemen's Land! It's hell on earth, and hell on earth is surely as bad as hell in belli "Audrey!" Carolan called, when Katharine had gone.

"My head aches. Sprinkle a little perfume on a handkerchief, and lay it across my forehead." Audrey gently did so. Thank you, Audrey.”

Sleepily she smiled, and thought of Gunnar, the cold man whom it was so easy to rouse to sudden passion, even now. Queer faithful Gunnar. She had chosen him and the house with its comforts. She had turned away from the station, back of beyond, and quick hates and quicker love. And she did not know now whether she had chosen the right way. No way is right -perhaps that is the answer. Here she was, a beauty at thirty-six; she did not eat recklessly of the sweets of life, as poor Kitty had done; she was plump, bat not over-fat. How would she have grown in the station? A slattern? That wild life would make demands on a woman, take toll of her beauty. And Marcus ever had a roving eye.

He would never have been true, and she would have hated him for that, and perhaps she would not have been true either, for she was hot-tempered and impulsive, and would have wanted to pay him back in his own coin.

How should you know which was the right road for you and no road was sunshine all the way I But she wanted so desperately to have done something fine with her life. She was full of memories tonight. There was something Esther once said about her being a pioneer; and she had answered that she would have liked to have been the Good Samaritan, but she greatly feared that she would have passed by on the other side of the road. It was only when she fell among thieves that she cared about other victims. And yet a woman had walked into that den of savages, and she had smiled, and her smile was the smile of an angel, and her dress rustled like the wings of an angel, and she picked up a naked child, suffering from some hideous disease. Without feat she had done these things, and only a saint could go among those caged beasts and be without fear. What power had she?

"Audrey! Audrey! Come here.”

Audrey came and stood by the bed.

"Bring a chair, Audrey, and sit down. I would hear more of this Mrs.

Fry.”

Audrey kept telling the story of her coming. It was like a miracle.

Dead silence, and her standing there. An angel. And she picked up the little child. And he was naked and his face was half eaten away ...

Only those who had lived in Newgate could understand that that was a miracle. Carolan, her face pressed against her pillow, saw it clearly, as though she had been there when it happened.

Audrey stumbled over her words, but she gave a picture of a changing Newgate. People who were taken in now did not suffer quite so intensely, as Carolan had suffered. Change had been worked by an angel in a Quaker gown. Audrey talked of the readings, of the sewing; how it was possible to earn money while you were in Newgate. There had been the visitation of this angel, and she had spread her wings over the prison and given her loving care to those sad people.

Tell me about her! Tell me about her! What does she look like?”

"I couldn't say ... She's different ... M'am. That's all you know...”

"Different? Different from me? Different from you?”

"She makes you feel you ain't all bad, M'am. She makes you feel you might have a chance." A chance? A chance? that's how she makes you feel.

"What sort of chance?”

"I dunno. Just a chance She's different.”

"Is she beautiful?”

"Not like you, M'am. Not that sort of beautiful. She's different ...

I dunno. She makes you feel you've got a chance.”

"Why did you not tell me about her before?"

"I dunno, M'am. You didn't ask. She come to us, Ma'm, when we was waiting on the ship, to sail, and she talked to us ... she talked lovely.”

"What did she say?”

"I dunno. She made you feel you wasn't all bad. She made you feel you'd got a chance ... And it was 'cos of her we'd come down closed, they said. She wanted us closed in. She said it ought to be ...”

Carolan said: "Leave me now, Audrey. I want to sleep. I have a headache." And Audrey went.

It was all coming back vividly. The arrival in Newgate, the fight, the talk, the smell, the ride to Portsmouth. Mamma, Millie, Esther so young and pure, praying in that foul place and the whale-oil lamp flickering in the opening high in the wall. The ship. The deck. Hot morning, and coloured birds of brilliant plumage, and the horrible man with the eyeglass, and Gunnar... What was the good of having lived I wanted to be a saint. I wanted to be like Mrs. Fry. I would have gone there; I would have been unafraid. I would have picked up the little child. I... I... I could have made them feel there was still a chance. But what have I done with my life? What indeed!

She began to shiver.

"You should have been a pioneer. You could have been, Carolan!" No, Esther, no! I should have passed by on the other side of the road.

But I wasn't all bad. I should have been a good wife to Everard. I should have cared for the poor and I should have understood their troubles and helped them. Perhaps if I had married Everard I should have been different. I might have been good -not wicked. I might even have been like you, Mrs. Fry.

"Marcus!" she cried.

He leaped from his saddle and tied his horse to the tree. She noticed his hands; they were brown with the weather.

He said: "I knew you would come!" with all the old confidence, and as though years had not passed since their last meeting.

"Carolan! Carolan! Why, you have scarcely changed at all!”

"Rubbish!" she said.

"I am years older. I am the mother of six children.”

"Well, Carolan, Carolan!”

She remembered his old habit of repeating her name; it still had power to move her.

This is a great day in my life!”

The old flattery that meant nothing. He would flatter old Margery just because he could not help flattering women.

"Are you glad to see me, Carolan? Do you find me changed?" He had come forward; he had taken her hands; his eyes were older, with experience, with weather; but the charm persisted.

"Naturally! Since I have come a fair ride to see you. But we did not come to talk of ourselves.”

"Did we not?" He was still holding her hands.

"Not such an uninteresting subject! Carolan, how has life been treating you, Carolan?”

"Very well, thanks. You too, I think.”

Very badly, Carolan, since I lost you.”

"Oh, Marcus, you are too old for that sort of talk, and I am too wise to listen to it. It is of our children that we must talk.”

"My Henry," he said, 'and your Katharine. What a sly old joker life is, Carolan! Would you have believed eighteen years ago, when we looked forward to our happiness, that one day we should meet in this wild spot to discuss the marriage of my son to your daughter?”

She was determined not to fall into that reckless mood which he was trying to draw round her like a web. She felt strong in her pride and her dignity and her knowledge that she was Mrs. Masterman of Sydney.

"It certainly does seem ironical, but as it happens to be a fact, shall we say what we came to say? Why did you want to see me?”

To beg you to put no obstacles in our children's way, Carolan. They are so young, and the young are so lovely, so helpless. It would be unbearable if they too were to lose their happiness. Could history repeat itself so cruelly? We must prevent that happening.”

"You are still the same," she said, angry without quite knowing why.

"You talk, and your words must not be taken seriously. You are suggesting, of course, that we lost our happiness; we did not. We are both well pleased with ourselves.”

"You found perfect happiness, Carolan?”

"Oh, let us stop this absurd, sentimental talk! Who ever found perfect happiness yet?”

"But if you cannot find it, Carolan, it is something to think you see it in your future. I thought that, Carolan, eighteen years ago in old Margery's kitchen.”

"When you decided to marry Esther? How is Esther?”

Real pain seemed to come into his eyes, but of course he was an adept at endowing each mood with a semblance of truth.

"No," he said, 'not then! It was when I thought I should marry you.

Oh, Carolan, Carolan, what a witch you were. You bewitched me. I had to obey you. I dreamed of you all day and all night. I believe I never stopped dreaming of you.”

She looked beyond him to the mountains. She thought of them as Katharine's mountains, because Katharine had loved to talk of them when she was a little girl.

"Listen, Marcus," she said.

"I love my daughter, more than anyone in the world, I love her, and I am very unhappy because she is angry with me. She is going away from me. If she were your daughter, would you not want the best possible for her?”

"Indeed I would, Carolan.”

"Well, understand this. There is a man who would marry her. He has everything money, position. He is kind and tolerant, and, I think, very much in love with her. He can take her to England; he can make her happy. But she is obsessed, and it is your son who has obsessed her. She sees no happiness but with him, and I will not have my daughter spoil her life!”

"Spoil her life, Carolan!" he said earnestly.

"Why should she spoil her life?”

"You know the life as well as I do. What is it, for a woman? She would have to live in the wilds; she would meet scarcely anyone. I can see her in London, sparkling for she is only budding and will bloom gloriously. London is her proper setting. Money... Position... that is what I want for my daughter. How do we know what will happen here?

This is a new country, heard stories of the terrible things that can happen on lonely stations. Men are more desperate here; laws are less rigid. No no! She would very soon forget your son. Oh, I imagine he is very like you were once; I imagine he knows how to charm a young girl. He will hurt her, I know he will... as you hurt me, as you must have hurt Esther and your Lucy and Clementine Smith and God knows who else. I want her to have security. Who knows better than I what can happen to a woman who is unprotected and ...”

"Carolan, Carolan, where is your good sense? She will be secure enough with Henry. He will love her, I promise you. He will look after her.”

She was emotional: it was not so much of Katharine that she was thinking, but of herself and Marcus, and tears of self-pity welled into her eyes, for his charm was potent as ever. And she thought of the years immediately behind her, and the ghost that had haunted her for eighteen years and of what wild, free happiness might have been hers for the taking.

He came to her and slipped his arm about her. He had seen the tears in her eyes.

"Carolan," he said, 'we are still young." She spun round to look at him, and he threw back his head and laughed.

"Carolan. Carolan! I am just past forty. Is that so very old? You are thirty-six surely in your prime. Carolan, look at those mountains!

Are they not beautiful? Do you feel them beckoning you? They are wild, they promise adventure; there is a new country beyond them.

Carolan, Carolan, why should you go back to Sydney? Why should you, why should you, my darling? This is linking up, my dear, linking up with eighteen years ago. You are mine, and I am yours... that was how it was then; that is how it is now. That cannot change.”

"Marcus!" she said.

"Marcus!”

He caught her to him and kissed her; she kissed him wonderingly.

"It is strange," she said, 'to feel young again. It is years since I felt young." She had lost control for a moment, but she was resolved it should be for no more than a moment. She wanted to capture that feeling of recklessness, she wanted to know again what it meant to love without thinking ... just to love. She had jail that moment; she would remember now.

That is all," she said.

He shook his head.

"Carolan, come away with me. Why should we not? You would have come with me... once.”

"Once!" she said.

"But so much has happened since then.”

"A moment ago," he said, "I thought you were still my sweet and beautiful Carolan whom I loved in your father's shop, and in Newgate, and on the ship and in Margery's kitchen. You broke my heart when you went to him.”

"And you mine when you went to her!”

"It was nothing, Carolan. Did you love him?”

"I am fond of him," she said.

He kissed her angrily.

"Why did you spoil our lives?”

"It was you who spoiled our lives, Marcus.”

"No, it was you... you with your conventional ideas.”

"It was you with your philandering, your lies, your cheating ... How do I know that even now you are not cheating! You may be laughing "Oh, this is funny! I am amusing myself with Mrs. Masterman of Sydney!”

"Do not speak his name.”

"It is my name I speak.”

"You are Carolan, nothing but Carolan! Why do I love your daughter?

Because she is so like you! Why was my life brighter when she came and sat on the veranda and talked to my boy, Henry? Because she is so like her mother.”

"Why do you always say the things I most want to hear?”

"Because I love you.”

"Oh, Marcus, it is too late to talk of love.”

"It is never too late to talk of love. Carolan, never go back to Sydney! We will go to England ... to London. It will be a different London from that wicked city in which we met. We will conquer it this time, Carolan.”

"It is too late. Do you think I would leave my children and my husband?”

"If I had twenty children I would leave them for you!”

"Please, Marcus, do not talk of it any more.”

"If I talk enough you will understand how it is we cannot throw away this chance of happiness.”

"There is no chance, Marcus. We lost our chance eighteen years ago.”

"My darling, while there are boats to carry us away from this place, there is still a chance.”

"I would never leave my family.”

"I am your family. I am your home. You are mine and I am yours. You must understand that.”

"But Marcus, people change in eighteen years. I have changed.”

He kissed her; he held her against him and he laughed with joy.

"You have not changed; you are my own sweet Carolan. You will never go back. Always I have vowed that if I could talk to you, if I could but hold you like this, I would never, never let you go again. I am no longer young, Carolan, I am old in wisdom. Never shall I let you go again, my darling. I will keep you by my side always. You are my comfort, my love, my darling!”

"I should not have come," she said sadly.

"I am only making you unhappy, and myself unhappy. I was resigned. I will never, never leave my husband. I have sworn that, Marcus.”

"What oaths you have sworn go for nothing, darling. You are mine you cannot deny that.”

"These oaths I have sworn in the dead of night, when I wake up trembling, or when I have been unable to sleep. I have sworn, Marcus.

He lies there beside me; sometimes he is sleepless too, and I wonder what he is thinking. I have said "I will never leave you, Gunnar. I will do all I can to make you happy." It is because of that... because of what happened, Marcus, I have never told anyone, but I will tell you now because I owe it to you, Marcus. I must tell you why I cannot go away with you. How I long to. I cannot pretend any more; I have always loved you. I could have killed you and Esther ... but there is no one but myself to blame; how well I know that now! Listen. Marcus.

I am a murderess. That is why I cannot go. Did you ever hear talk in Sydney? Did you hear how Lucille Masterman died? I was to have Ms child, Marcus, and I was alone and afraid, and I was brutalized; Newgate did that to me or so I tell myself! Perhaps it is just an excuse; perhaps if you are strong, nothing can maim you.

"She used to take a drug, Marcus. I knew about it; so did Gunnar. I used to think it would be so easy for her to take an overdose. She did not want to live; I did ... desperately. I wanted a good life for my child. How do we know what motives prompt our actions-- I tell myself I did it for my child; but did I? Did I do it for myself? He was so kind to me; he said I should go away to discreet and sympathetic people, but I laughed at that; I laughed it to scorn. No! I said, you must marry me; we must have a real home for my child, or I shall marry someone else. You remember Tom Blake would have married me then.

Gunnar loved me; he loved me as you would not believe he could love anybody; he wanted children, and she had cheated him. Marcus, do not look at me like that! Put your arms around me, hold me tight. She has haunted me since; she will go on haunting me. Sometimes I feel she will drive me mad. She was so weak, Marcus, and she did not greatly want to live. You see, the bottle was there; it should have been so easy. She had bought the stuff from an ex-convict who dealt in illicit medicines. She used to drug herself to get some sleep. She always imagined herself ill. And I think she knew how it was with me; I did my best to tell her ... without doing it in so many words. I put the idea in her head that it would be so easy... just an extra dose, and then she would sink into that deep peaceful sleep of which she had talked to me.”

Marcus took her by the shoulders, and looked into her eyes.

"Carolan, you... you killed her!”

She threw back her head.

"Yes," she cried, "I killed her! I killed her! No, no! I did not pour it out into the glass and give it to her; I did not kill her like that. I do not know who did that. Perhaps she took that overdose herself perhaps he gave it to her. Sometimes I picture his going into her room.

"You look tired, Lucille!" I can hear him saying it.

"Have you not some medicine that will make you sleep? Sleep a little; it will do you good. I will get it for you...”

You see. if he did that, I drove him to it. I taunted him with pictures of myself married to Tom Blake. I carried his child, and I threatened to cut him off from it. He is a strange strong man; I do not know whether he would do that; I have never known. Often I have thought it possible. It has been between us all our life together. Did he? I ask myself, but I have never dared ask him; I am afraid of the answer. But Marcus, listen. Whichever it was, whether she took that overdose herself, or whether he gave it to her, I am the murderess, for I created that situation which made it the only way out. For my daughter, I said! But it was not for my daughter it was for myself.”

She was sobbing wildly in his arms. She was laughing; she was crying.

"You see me, Marcus. I am wicked. There is no goodness in me. And I so wanted to be good, Marcus. Audrey baa told me of a woman, a wonderful woman. Marcus, she is changing Newgate. Were we to go there now perhaps we should not recognize the place. That is what I like to think ... We should not recognize it. She is a saint, this woman. How I envy her. I say to myself "That is what I might have been. And what am I... a murderess!”

He said: "Carolan, Carolan! How wild you are! What absurd things you say. You are not changed at all. You are still the same Carolan, the same sweet Carolan.”

"Please do not say my name like that. I cannot bear it. Do you not see that I will never leave him? You see what I have done. You have haunted my life; you will continue to do so. Oh, yes. I have thought of you constantly, longed for you ... No, no, please do not! It is useless. I cannot be happy with him because of you. I couldn't be happy with you, for always I would remember what he had done ... or perhaps he did not do... but he is good and has a strong conscience, and he suffers just as though he had done it, because he knows why she died. She died because of what we had done, and he knows and I know it.”

He said: "Carolan, I could make you forget.”

She answered: "Oh, Marcus, I am afraid for my sweet daughter. She is headstrong, as I was. Sometimes I think that the women of my family are doomed to sorrow. There is some story about my grandmother; my great grandmother too. And then my own poor Mamma; she has told me the story of how she lost her lover to the press gang. How different her life might have been had my father not been taken by the press gang!”

Marcus held her against him, stroking her hair.

"The press gang is done with. Carolan. It ended with the wars.”

"My Katharine will never lose her lover to the press gang then!”

"Oh, Carolan, Carolan. do you not see a new world opening before us?

We are going on ... on to better things. You tell me even our old evil Mother Newgate is changing her manners. Slowly but surely, my Carolan.

There is something here. Let us not think of our own little tragedies, darling. Look on... to our children and their children and their children ... generations of them... going on and on! The press gang gone, Newgate changing! And what changes will our Katharine and Henry know in their lifetimes!”

"Marcus, you see what I mean ... I want to make sure of safety for my daughter...”

"You cannot make sure of safety for anyone, my sweet Carolan.”

"But you can! You can!”

"No, darling. They will work out their own lives. We cannot interfere. People should never interfere; it is only the time in which we live that should influence us, and times are changing. Carolan.

What if your mother and father were young in these days? No press gang to rum their lives. Mother Newgate is changing her face! Who knows, some time there may be no Newgate at all, no possibility of the innocent, such as you were, being caught up with the law; no need for the weak, such as I was, to break the law. Carolan, Carolan, do you not see a wonderful world lying ahead of us?”

"You talk wildly. Marcus. You always did. There is much cruelty in the world still. There always will be. How can we overcome all the poverty and cruelty and injustice?”

"Look there, Carolan! Look to our own Blue Mountains. How long ago is it that we thought there was no way across that mighty barrier?

Impassable! people said. The natives told absurd stories of demons who had sworn we should never pass over their mountain. But we did, Carolan. We are across; and on the other side is a fertile country, undeveloped yet, undeveloped as the future. But it is there, and it is wonderful, and it is worth the heartbreak and the struggle to get across. That's how I see it, Carolan, the way across the Blue Mountains to a beautiful future. Our grandchildren, Carolan ... Our great great grandchildren ... they will have their difficulties, as far removed from us as it is possible to be. There will always be a range of mountains to be crossed perhaps, but the struggle is worth while, Carolan, when you get to the other side.”

"They want to live beyond the Blue Mountains," she whispered.

"Let them, Carolan! Oh, let them! Perhaps you are right: perhaps she would be wiser to marry her knight and go to London Town. But it is not for us to say. The future does not belong to us, Carolan, but to them. They must have freedom; we must give them that. You understand, Carolan. You do understand?”

"I am glad I came, Marcus.”

Do not go back, Carolan. Why should you? To a haunted house! I will make you forget there was ever such a woman as Lucille Masterman. You did not kill her! My child, you are not to blame. If she killed herself, who is to blame but herself! If he did it, let him take the blame. Come to me, Carolan. I will show you happiness.”

"You have shown me that our children must choose their own happiness, Marcus," she said, 'and that is a good deal. I shall think of what you said. I shall always think of it.”

"You will go back, Carolan?”

"Yes.”

"You broke my heart once. I mended it very roughly. Will you break it again?”

"No, Marcus, it was never broken. You will go back, and you will enjoy many moments in your life; sometimes you may think of me, and perhaps you will believe then that I alone could make you happy. You have not changed at all, Marcus. Your heart is strong it will not easily break.

I shall go back and be the same haughty, arrogant, though sometimes gracious, Mrs. Masterman. This afternoon I have cried like a foolish girl, but that is only a part of me. I am part foolish girl, part arrogant woman. I am soft, I am a schemer. Do not ask which is really me; I do not know. I yearn to be a saint like Mrs. Fry, and I am only a murderess. I could have been the saint perhaps; I was the murderess.

I was not strong enough. Events have made me what I am; they have made you what you are, Gunnar what he is. We are weak people, all of us. But now there is no press gang; Newgate is changing. There will be other changes. Marcus. And it will go on like that ... always ... for a hundred years, for two hundred years. However difficult the mountain range is to cross, it can always be crossed. I'll remember. Goodbye, Marcus. Goodbye!”

She did not look back at him as she mounted her horse. She held her head high and rode away, back to the house in Sydney, back to Gunnar and her family and the memory of Lucille Masterman.

She turned after a while though and saw him. a lonely figure against the background of the Blue Mountains.