Midsummer's Eve

Outback

THE DAYS WHICH FOLLOWED were full of new experiences.

Helena and Matthew went through a marriage ceremony in accordance with the custom here; and my parents with Jacco went to the property which was some two hundred miles north of Sydney. I wanted to go with them but Helena was so frightened at being left without me that I said I would stay behind. My father’s idea was that he and my mother should “spy out the land” and find out what living conditions at the property would be like. He knew there was a dwelling house and that in the interests of the property it had been added to over the years; but he did want to make sure that conditions would not be too primitive, and before we moved out he wished to investigate.

The manager of the property had come to Sydney to welcome us. He was a man of about thirty with strong features and dark curly hair. His skin was very bronzed and his hearty manner seemed to us a little brash, but I think that was more or less natural to people here for although they had originally come from England, life here had changed them. I had the idea that some of them despised us for our courteous manners and more refined way of speaking. Gregory Donnelly was a man of the country. Strong, uncompromising, independent, contemptuous of those unlike himself, a man who would be ready to face any difficulty and, I imagined, make a good job of extricating himself. He was what Mrs. Penlock would have called “a real man.” I felt a faint revulsion towards him on the first day we met.

“Hi … ya,” he said. “So here you are, Sir Jake. I’ve been expecting you for years. We’ve got a lot to show you.”

“This is my wife,” said my father.

“Lady Cadorson,” replied Gregory Donnelly, bowing his head with a gesture of respect which he managed to convey that he did not feel.

“My son … my daughter …”

Did I imagine it or did his eyes linger on me with a hint of speculation? I felt myself growing hot under his scrutiny. I felt he was trying to see too much of me, to sum me up in a somewhat crude manner.

“So what’s your plan, Sir Jake?”

“I’m coming out to take a look at things. We all want to come out. We have two more with us … a relative of my wife and the man she will be married to very soon. We didn’t expect they would be with us, and I am wondering what accommodation there is out there. That’s what I want to make sure of.”

“Well, there ought to be room. There’s a shack adjoining the place which I could move into. Casual labour use it, but there’s no one there now.”

“We’ll come and take a look,” said my mother.

“That’s best, Lady Cadorson. I don’t promise the ladies there’ll be what they’re used to.”

“We shall probably be able to get a few things in Sydney,” suggested my mother.

“Reckon there’ll be no trouble at all. It’s a fine town, Sydney. Every time you come in there’s something new. Buildings seem to spring up overnight. There’s plenty of labour about. Should be another cargo coming in soon.”

My mother looked horrified to hear human beings referred to as cargo—criminals though they might be.

Gregory Donnelly had a meal with us and there was a great deal of discussion about what would be needed. Helena and Matthew had been introduced to him. I saw his quick appraisal and dismissal of Helena which angered me. There was an arrogance about him which I found distinctly irritating. He was a disturbing man; his essential masculinity made one think of relationships between men and women and I would rather not be disturbed by such thoughts.

Matthew was very interested to meet him and I could see that he was preparing to ask him many questions.

There was no lack of conversation. Gregory Donnelly made sure of that.

Jacco asked how long the journey out to the property would take.

“Depends,” said Gregory Donnelly. “Good horses might do the journey in a couple of days. You can take a buggy. There are two inns where you can spend a night. I usually camp down somewhere. I know the place. Been coming in and out of Sydney for years.”

“You make it sound simple, Mr. Donnelly,” said Jacco.

“I’m Greg,” he said. “We don’t stand on ceremony out here. I don’t know myself as Mr. Donnelly. That all right with you, Jacco?”

“That’s all right,” said Jacco, and Gregory Donnelly turned his eyes on me.

“That goes for all round,” he went on. He looked rather apologetically at my father. “Better to fall in with the ways of the natives. Makes for the easy way.”

“I’m quickly realizing that,” said my father.

And from then on he was Greg.

The nicest thing about him was his pride in his country. He talked of it with glowing enthusiasm. “There’s something about a town that grows under your eyes. There have been men here whose names will always live in Sydney, though they’ve gone now. Their names are on our streets. When you think a short time ago there was nothing here … Settlers are coming in now. Oh no, Miss, er … Annora, we’re not all convicts now.”

“We know that,” I retorted. “There were two people on board with us. They’ve come out to get land.”

“Going cheaply, ha. Well, why not? Get the place going. We’ve got a lot to be thankful for. MacArthur brought the sheep here. We call him the father of the sheep industry, and that is quite something now. We’ve got wool and we’ve got meat. Why, they call some wool Botany Bay. That was where they first came out to with their load of prisoners and when they saw this harbour they came here and they called the place after some important gent in England.”

“Viscount Sydney,” said my mother.

“That’s the fellow, but Macquarie is the man who made the place what it is. He said this was going to be a capital city of the world and believe me it’s fast becoming one. He’s built roads, houses, bridges, factories … We’ve even got our own newspaper. Yes, the Sydney Gazette. You can read all about it in there.”

Matthew said: “I’m interested in the convicts. I’m writing a book about them and I’ve come to collect information.”

“Well, take my advice, Matt.” He had already taken upon himself to give what he considered an appropriate version of Matthew’s name. “Don’t let them know what they’re saying is going into a book or they’ll shut up like clams. You’ve got to get them to talk naturally. Let it come out in conversation. I’ll show you a few of them on the property. They’ll be ready to talk.”

“That will be wonderful,” cried Matthew.

“I see you’re looking at me hopefully. Well, sorry to disappoint you. I’m not one of them. Came from Yorkshire. My father was a settler and it was Sir Jake here who put him in charge of the property. He died five years ago and I took over. I wasn’t born here, but then, who was? But I’ve adopted it. It’s my country and I’m proud of the way it’s going.”

He talked a great deal about the city and the property, the price of wool, of droughts, plagues of insects and of forest fires, which were a continual source of anxiety during the summer months.

I found myself listening with interest and wondered what my father thought of him.

I discovered later that evening.

“He’s certainly got a good opinion of himself,” said Jacco.

“I think we might well find a great number of his sort here,” my father pointed out.

“Surely there could only be one Greg,” said my mother. “Really he is most forceful … democratic, I suppose he would call it … insisting on Christian names so soon.”

“I thought your manager might be a little more subservient,” I said.

“We mustn’t expect that here. I imagine they are no respecters of position. It’s the way of the country.”

“He’s brash,” I said.

“I thought you took quite a dislike to him,” Jacco told me. “I thought he should have shown more respect to Papa.”

“Oh, he wasn’t disrespectful,” my father defended him. “That’s what you call masculine dignity.”

“I thought it was arrogance,” I insisted.

“I believe he’s a good man from what I gather,” said my father firmly. “Well, we shall find out.”

“I don’t see why we should delay looking at the property,” said Jacco.

“No reason at all. We’ll go as soon as Greg can arrange the transport.” He looked at my mother.

“I’ll be all right on horseback,” she said. “I’ve been riding all my life, haven’t I? A few miles of this bush or whatever they call it isn’t going to worry me.”

“It’ll be a bit rough going. We shall stay the nights at those inns.”

“Well, I must say I don’t fancy bivouacking—even under the expert guidance of our Greg.”

“No. I shall insist on the inns.”

“Helena can’t come,” I said.

“Oh dear,” said my mother.

“Matthew can take care of her,” put in Jacco. “After all, that’s his job now.”

“She’s nervous still. She clings in spite of everything.”

My mother said: “I think Annora had better stay here while we investigate. She’s right about Helena. The poor girl is in a nervous state. She went through a lot with poor little John Milward. To my mind he ought to know what’s happened. Anyway, you stay here, Annora. We’ll report. Trust me to see that when you come to the property you have as much comfort as I can get for you.”

“I’m longing to see it all.”

“So are we all,” said Jacco. “I don’t see why Matthew Hume can’t look after Helena.”

However it was finally decided that I should stay and a few days later my father and mother and Jacco set out, under the guidance of Greg, to see the property. They had acquired good horses and all that they would need for the journey. It had all been arranged with efficiency, said my father, by Greg.

Helena and I were together all the time. Matthew was out all day and would come back full of excitement. He talked to people and when he returned he kept to his room writing copious notes.

The relationship between him and Helena was a very unusual one. I was sure he thought that he had done his good deed by marrying her and there his responsibility ended. Helena said: “It was wonderful of him, but it is not like a marriage, Annora. It couldn’t be … after John. There couldn’t be anyone else for me.”

“Not after he deserted you!”

“He didn’t know about the baby.”

“He ought to,” I said.

“Oh, I couldn’t bear that. I wouldn’t want him to come back to me because he thought he ought to. I think that would be something between us all our lives, and it would have its effect on the child. He might resent it because it was due to the child that he had come back. After all,” she added with unexpected rationality, “if he had wanted to marry me, he would, no matter what anyone said. I mean if it had been the most important thing in the world …”

We took one of the buggies and went to the shops. There we bought clothes for the baby. I think Helena enjoyed that. We rode through the town and when we saw Hyde Park, we felt quite near home.

“These are our people, Helena,” I said. “We shouldn’t feel that we are strangers in a strange land.”

“I’m glad to be here with you, Annora. What should I have done if I had had to face all this at home?”

“There would have been a way. There always is.”

“But this was like a miracle. Your planning to come out here … and then my coming, too. Suppose I had been at home!”

“Your mother would have helped you.”

“I know. But I think I should have died of shame.”

“People don’t die of shame.”

“I should have done what I nearly did.”

“No more talk of that,” I said briskly. “I think this gown is absolutely lovely. Oh, Helena, I can’t wait for the baby. I’m already thinking of it as ours.”

It was quite a pleasant morning really. When we were back in the hotel we examined the clothes, put them away carefully and talked of the baby. I was thinking of my parents and wondering what they were doing. I imagined them, riding out in this strange land, and beside them, leading them, would be the boastful Greg.

Those days seemed long. I was waiting impatiently for the return of my family. I longed to hear what they had found at Sealands Creek.

Matthew was exuberant. He was succeeding beyond his expectations. He was taking Greg’s advice and not telling those he spoke to that he was recording their words. That way they spoke frankly.

When we dined in the evening he talked continuously of what he had discovered that day. He did not ask what we had been doing or how Helena was feeling. I have noticed since how so many of those who devote themselves to doing good for the masses have little time for the individual. True, Matthew had married Helena as an act of uncalculated goodness; but that was a spectacular event. It was the small things he had not time for.

I started to tell him about our shopping expedition but changed my mind.

“I met this fellow,” he was saying. “He’s been on the hulks before he came out. What luck for me! I have very little on the hulks. He told me they lived on board and left the hulk each day to do ten hours’ hard labour. His hulk was in the river … some of them were in the docks. He described it to me so that I could almost see it. I’m getting it on paper tonight so that I don’t forget a detail. There is a lower deck with a passage down the middle … and on each side of the passage the space is divided into wards. They have about twenty of them all jammed together for there is little space. There are no beds. They sleep in the darkness on the floor. It’s a terrible life. Many of them are glad when they leave the hulks for the journey across the sea. What these people suffer! It’s uncivilized. It’s got to be abolished sooner or later. I’m going to see this comes about. I’m not going to rest until I do.”

“I suppose,” I commented, “this is how things get done in the world. People like you protest forcibly through the right channels.”

“That’s so. Many of the men riot. They ill-treat … or attempt to ill-treat … their guards. That’s not the way. It has to be done peaceably … with words … words. That is where the strength lies.”

“And it is people like you, Matthew, who do it. I wish you all success.”

“I can’t do much until I get into Parliament and when I do that, all that I learn here will be of the utmost use to me.”

How could one talk to such a man about baby clothes!

My parents came back without Jacco.

They said: “He’s staying. He’s quite fascinated by the place and he’s all right with Greg and the people there.”

“It’s better than I thought it would be,” my mother explained. “It’s a long rambling sort of house, all on one floor. There are several rooms though, and we can all sleep there in moderate comfort. Greg, who was living there, says he’ll move out while we’re in residence. There’s a sort of cottage close by to which he can go. They call it a shack. The temporary hands sleep there when they come to help with shearing and that sort of thing. There are other shacks too where the workmen sleep. It’s quite a little village in a way. Apparently there are acres of land so your father is quite a landowner here. He says Greg’s been adding to it when the opportunity has arisen and he’s made quite a place of it.”

“I’m impressed,” said my father. “He’s certainly done a good job.”

“You’re not going to get so pleased with it that you want to stay?” I asked anxiously.

My father laid his hand on my shoulder. “Don’t be afraid of that.”

“But we shall have to stay until Helena’s baby is born,” my mother pointed out.

“Yes, I know.”

“After that we’ll go. I think that will be quite long enough … even for Jacco.”

“And we’ll make ourselves as comfortable as possible while we’re here,” said my mother. “We’re going shopping tomorrow. I want some beds and linen chiefly. And we shall take some food with us. There is a township nearer than Sydney but that is a bit primitive. I think about a week will be enough to do all we need.”

There followed a week of activity. My mother and I shopped. Sometimes Helena came with us. She was moving into a stage of greater discomfort now and became very tired by the middle of the day. I insisted that she rest, which she did without much persuasion.

She was to come with us and so would Matthew at first, but naturally he would want to move about, otherwise how could he find the material he sought. He would be out looking for it, of course, and while he did Helena would be staying with us.

We were now in the height of summer and the heat was trying. My father said it would be more tolerable in the country. Unfamiliar insects plagued us considerably and seemed to take a special fancy to our English skins. The flies were a pest. I had never seen so many.

At home it would be winter and from afar that seemed preferable to this overpowering heat. Each morning we were awakened by the sun streaming into our rooms; and there it stayed all day and no blinds could keep it out.

The day before we were ready to leave Greg arrived. I heard his voice before I saw him. He was talking to my father in the foyer of the hotel.

“I thought you might need a guide. It’s easy to get lost in the bush. So I’ve come to offer myself. Some of the stuff’s arrived. I’ve set it up where I thought you’d want it. If it’s wrong, no need to fret. Some of the boys will soon shift it round to please you.”

My father said: “That is good of you. I thought I knew my way. Remember, it’s not my first visit; we did find our way back. But it will be a help to have someone who is familiar with the country.”

“Good-o,” said Greg. “We’ll start at dawn tomorrow. Then we can get a good way in the morning. We can pull up for rest somewhere out of the sun if that’s possible. Think it might be. Then start off again in the late afternoon. That way we avoid the worst of the heat.”

I could see that he was going to put himself in charge; but I did realize that as he was on familiar terrain it was better so.

Helena could not ride and there was a buggy which Greg would drive. My mother and I would ride in it with Helena. My father and Matthew would go on horseback.

It was rather pleasant in the early morning. We set off with Greg in the driving seat, taking charge of the two grey horses. With the sun not yet up in its full fury the air was comparatively cool. We left the town behind and came into the open country. Gregory talked over his shoulder to us as he drove along pointing out the great eucalyptus trees which were such a feature of the landscape.

“We call them gums,” he said. “All over Australia you’ll find gums.”

The yellow bushes enchanted me. They seemed to be as ubiquitous as the gum trees.

“Wattle,” he said. “That’s another of our plants. When you see wattle like that you know you’re in Australia.”

“We call it mimosa at home,” I said.

“That’s wattle,” he said firmly.

Now we had come to what he called “the scrub,” which consisted of stunted shrubs. “You have to be careful not to wander out here. You can get lost. People have been known to walk for days looking for the way and then find themselves back where they started because they’ve been walking in circles.”

There were some beautiful birds. I recognized the parrots and cockatoos and he pointed out others—lyre birds, regent birds and fly catchers.

“They,” I said, “must be very useful here.”

“You’re referring to our fly population. You have to admit there are a few in the world who love us.”

The morning was wearing on and the sun climbing high.

“Soon,” shouted Greg to the riders, “we’ll call a halt.”

He found a patch of trees—tall eucalyptus. There was not a great deal of shade. The country was rocky here and he led us to a mass of projecting stones beneath which it was almost like a cave.

“There’s a little creek here,” he said. “It should give the horses some refreshment. And the boulder will give us a little shade. This is where we stay.”

It was pleasant lying under the boulder while my mother handed round cold meat and bread which we had brought with us. There was ale to drink.

Greg had stretched himself out close to me. He said: “Now we’ll stay here. No hurry. No use going off till it’s a bit cooler. We’ll do better that way and we’ll just about get to a little place I know where we can stay the night. They are few and far between … these accommodation places. Not enough to keep ’em going. This one’s run by a couple whose main business is farming. Taking the odd guests is a bonus. It helps to make ends meet.”

“You know your way around and we’re lucky to have you, Greg,” said my father.

“Should do,” replied Greg, conceding the point. “I’ve been hereabouts quite a bit.”

I asked Helena if she were comfortable and she said she was.

“I should try to sleep,” I said.

“We should all try to sleep,” added Greg.

So having eaten we lay there through that hot afternoon. I half dozed and found myself thinking of all that had happened in London and how far away all that seemed from this land of hot sun, bright birds, tall eucalyptus and the seemingly endless scrub. I thought of poor tormented Joe and wondered what he was doing now; I thought of Rolf who had a habit of forcing his way into my thoughts. Would he be riding round his estate making plans to enlarge it?

I had fallen asleep.

I was awakened by movement all around me.

I heard Greg cry: “Come on now. Time to get moving.”

And soon we were riding through that sun-baked land. We went at a good pace. Greg said: “Want to make sure of our beds for tonight.”

It was just getting dark when we arrived. It was a small house of one storey. A woman came to the door as we approached. She must have heard the clatter of horses’ hoofs and the wheels of the buggy. It had not been the most comfortable of rides, particularly the last part when we had travelled at some speed.

I looked anxiously at Helena. She was pale but that was not unusual.

“Was it very uncomfortable?” I whispered to her.

“Well … a little.”

“We do go at a spanking pace.”

“But you feel safe with Greg,” she said; and I had to agree with that.

We were taken in to a room which was already laid for a meal. Steaks were cooking on a big stove in a kitchen where the heat must have been intolerable.

“I’ve made some dampers,” said our hostess. “They should go down a treat.”

And we sat down and ate as we were, although Mother, Helena and I would have preferred to wash first. But we were hungry and the food tasted good.

The woman and her husband—Gladys and Tom Pickory—hovered about us while we ate. They kept refilling the tankards from which we drank beer. We were far more tired than we had realized and I could scarcely keep my eyes open.

There were only two rooms available. My mother, Helena and I were put in one, my father, Matthew and Greg in the other. We were given some water in which to wash but there was not much of it. However we lay in the one big bed and were soon fast asleep.

We were to leave at dawn, the procedure being as before so that we could get as far as possible before the intense heat of the day.

I had a few words with Mrs. Pickory before we left. She said Mr. Donnelly had told her he would endeavour to bring her a party. He had called in on his way to Sydney. “Sometimes he calls in and stays a night on his journeys back and forth. He tells other people about us. We’re working this up into a real little business, thanks to Mr. Donnelly.”

I noticed how her eyes shone when she spoke of him as though there was something godlike about him. I supposed it was that innate masculinity, that sense of power which appealed to some people. Even Helena had said she felt safe with him.

Then we were off again. The scenery all around was the same as we had seen before. I could understand how people got lost in what Greg called the outback.

With customary efficiency he found us a spot to rest and eat just as he had on the previous day and in due course we were on our way to the next house of accommodation; and after that it would be Sealands Creek and Cadorsons.

We were going along at a fair pace when something happened. My father called: “Look out. The wheel’s coming off.”

Greg brought the buggy to an abrupt halt. He leaped down and stood for a few seconds looking at the wheel. My father had dismounted.

“I can see what it is,” said Gregory. “I’ve got tools in the buggy. Wouldn’t travel without them. It’ll take a little time, though.”

He was looking round him. “There’s a bit of shade over there. Not much. But it will have to do. All right. Ladies out. We’ll get to work.”

I sat down with Helena and my mother close to a wattle bush. The heat was intense and the flies swarmed round us. As we fought them off I watched the men at work.

Gregory was giving orders. Of course he would, I thought. But in these circumstances he would know what to do. My father worked with him. Matthew stood by trying to help but I doubted he was much use.

It was almost two hours before we were able to resume our journey.

Darkness was descending on us. “We can’t get to that house tonight,” said Gregory.

“What do you propose?” asked my father. “Go on through the night?”

“The horses need a rest. There is only one thing for it. We’ll camp. Leave it to me. We’ll look for a spot. I do this journey fairly often to and from Sydney. I think I know where we might stop for a rest … and we’ll be off early in the morning.”

So that was what we did.

There were sleeping bags in the buggy—one for each of us women; and there were a few rugs which would serve for the men.

Gregory said: “We’ll light a fire. That’ll scare off any dingo who might feel like investigating. Come on, everybody.”

We gathered branches of what he called boree—a kind of wattle which he told us made good firewood, and he produced a tin with a lid and a wire handle.

“It’s a billycan,” he said, “something a man can’t do without in the outback. It’ll brew us some hot tea in no time. You’ll see.”

My mother said: “You seem to have taken precautions against any eventuality.”

“That’s what you learn in the bush, my lady.”

“We’re certainly grateful for your experience,” added my father. We watched him make tea; from the buggy he produced cups for us to drink out of. They were tin but in spite of that the tea tasted good. We were very thirsty.

With an air of efficiency Gregory washed the cups and the tin can in the creek and put them back in the buggy.

“Now a good night’s sleep,” he said, “and we’ll be off at the streak of dawn. We might make Cadorsons by sundown.”

I lay in my sleeping bag looking up at the foreign sky with its unfamiliar stars. I found the Southern Cross which indicated clearly that I was on the other side of the world and made home seem very far away. I could not help thinking of what I called the cosy years; riding round with my father or Jacco, waiting for Jacco to come home for holidays, wondering what companions he would bring with him. But it had not been all cosy. There had been that Midsummer’s Eve which was something as fearful and horrifying as anything that had ever happened. Rolf … leaping over the fire, Rolf whom before then I had believed to be like one of the knights of the Round Table. Perhaps all men had their weaknesses … Joe with his ambitions and theft of Uncle Peter’s papers; John Milward who hadn’t the courage to face his family; Uncle Peter with his dubious clubs. It was a harsh world.

Thinking of that Midsummer’s Eve brought Digory back to my mind. Where was Digory? Somewhere under these stars? I wondered if he was finding life tolerable. He might be only a few miles away. While we were here I could try to find him. It might be difficult but not insuperable. Perhaps the omniscient Greg could be of use.

I should be wary of asking favours of him. I felt that might be rather unwise.

I dozed and woke suddenly to find someone standing over me. I started up. It was Gregory.

He put his fingers to his lips. “Don’t want to wake the company,” he whispered.

Floods of relief swept over me. I remembered that my father and mother with Matthew and Helena were within a few yards of me. I felt safe. For a moment, coming out of my sleep, I had thought I was alone with this man … alone out here in this wild country, and the thought terrified me.

“What’s the matter?” I asked.

He knelt down beside me. I could see his eyes gleaming in the starlight.

“All’s well,” he said. “I just came to see how you were.”

“Why?”

“I wanted to make sure you were comfortable.”

“I’m as comfortable as can be expected.”

“Not like a nice feather bed, eh?”

“Indeed no.”

“Be better when we get to the house. We’ll make you comfortable there. That’s what I aim to do, Annie.”

“My name is Annora,” I said.

“Very classy. I like Annie. It’s more friendly.”

“I do not like it.”

“Never mind, Annie. You’ll get used to it.”

I heard my father’s voice. “Anything wrong?”

“No, no.” Gregory was getting to his feet. “Thought I heard something prowling. Dingo, I reckon. They get a bit bold at night.”

“It’ll soon be time for getting up,” said my mother.

“A couple of hours yet,” replied Gregory.

I watched him move away and I lay there, my body trembling. There was something about his manner which filled me with apprehension.

We were ready to continue the journey at dawn. The day seemed very like the previous one, the country more or less the same, too. The land was dry and when we came to a creek Gregory looked at it anxiously to see how much water there was.

He said: “The greatest curse of this land is drought. Give us rain … just a little of what you get in the Old Country and I can tell you this would then be God’s Own Country.”

He was quite informative as we rode along, telling us how he had come out as a boy and fallen in love with the place right away.

“It grows on you, takes a grip of you. It may be that some of you will be affected in this same way,” he warned.

Just as the sun was beginning to fall before the horizon we arrived at our destination. It was bigger than I had imagined—a rather long low house of one storey. There were several buildings round it which looked like outhouses. We had ridden a long way without seeing any sign of habitation, so I imagined we were fairly isolated.

Jacco came running out of the house.

“I was afraid you wouldn’t make it before sundown,” he said.

He looked different. He wore no coat and his shirt was open at the neck; his face was bronzed; the country was already changing him.

“It’s lovely to see you, Jacco,” cried my mother. “How are you?”

“Fine, fine. I’ve had a great time. Come on in. Hello, Greg. Good to see you.”

Gregory leaped down. “Where’s everyone? They ought to be here. The ladies are exhausted. Maud got anything good brewing?”

“She has,” said Jacco.

Several people were coming towards us … men in buckskin trousers and open-necked shirts.

Jacco said authoritatively: “Wally, see to the horses.”

A woman came to the door of the house. She stood under the porch watching us. She was tall and rather plump, Junoesque in fact. She had abundant dark hair which, piled up on her head, made her look even taller than she actually was.

A young girl whom I judged to be about fifteen came out and stood beside her.

“This is Maud,” said Jacco to me. “She’s a wonderful cook. And Rosa … that’s her little girl.”

Gregory said: “Let’s get in. Introductions can be made in the morning. What we want now is food and a bed.”

There was a big room which was a kind of living room and another of the same size which was a kitchen. The rest were bedrooms—five of them, apart from one room which was an office. Several oil lamps were burning in the living room and places were laid at a long wooden table.

There were steaks and hot bread called dampers, with tankards of ale; and Maud and the young girl waited on us.

I was too tired that night to take in my new surroundings. All I wanted was to sleep.

My dreams were jumbled. I was at the Midsummer bonfire and Rolf was there. He stepped out of his robe and he had horns on his head and cloven feet. Then he changed into Gregory and Joe was there saying, “I had to do it, I had to do it.” Then I was alone right out in the scrub and Rolf was coming towards me. Then it was not Rolf but Gregory.

It was a nightmare and I was glad to wake from it.

I was soon asleep again and when I awoke it was to find the sun streaming into my bedroom and what had awakened me was a jeering laugh which was immediately followed by another.

I sat up in bed. Then I remembered. This was the kookaburra, the laughing jackass, of which Gregory had told us. It was the first of many times I was to hear it. But it seemed appropriate that it should awaken me on my first morning here.

The days were full of new experiences. I seemed to learn such a lot in a short time. Jacco was a mine of information. He had the advantage of having been in the outback much longer and he had eagerly absorbed everything with a fervent admiration.

He accompanied us round the property—Gregory was with us of course. We met the men who were working there. The place was apparently so large that it took several days to ride round it so of course we could only see a fraction of it. We were, as they said, “in sheep and cattle” and some of these grazed some miles away. There was one man, a jackeroo, who spent his time riding round the property, just to make sure animals were getting the attention they needed and that fences were kept in good repair.

The men lived in the rather roughly constructed shacks dotted about the place. Some had wives and children, all of whom worked in some capacity on the property. Their attitude amused me. They were in some awe of my father as the owner of the land but at the same time they regarded him with a certain contempt because of his manners and his cultured form of speech. He was an English gentleman—a breed which was not greatly admired in this part of the world. I heard one of them tell Jacco that in time he would grow into a fair dinkum Aussie, which I supposed was just about the highest compliment they could pay an Englishman. It was clear to me that Matthew was utterly despised. He was not practical; he was a dreamer, an idealist—something which there was no call for in this part of the world. As for my mother, Helena and myself, we were women, and by nature of our sex, second-class beings, suitable for one purpose only—to serve their needs in all directions.

I was most interested in Maud who, in spite of the fact that she was a woman, could keep them in order. I think they applied a special judgement to Maud. She cooked in the great kitchen where, regardless of the heat, there always seemed to be a fire going with pots on it, simmering away.

She was the widow of one of the men—a man for whom they had had the greatest respect—who had come out originally to have his own farm, and this he had done; but it had been destroyed by a forest fire and he had been left with nothing, and a wife and small daughter to keep. He had found work at Cadorsons and had proved, as Gregory said, a good right-hand man. Unfortunately he had suffered from a chest complaint which was the reason why he had come to Australia in the first place. But the climate could not save him and he had died. Maud was left with ten-year-old Rosa. That was five years ago. I thought she was a fine woman. She hated the coarseness of the men and often chided them for their habits. She guarded Rosa like a dragon and I soon began to understand why; Rosa was young and pretty and there was a scarcity of women on the property; men regarded Rosa with lustful longing.

Maud had taught Rosa to read fluently and write well. She wanted the best for Rosa.

My mother was very sympathetic and when we were all together she talked about the possibility of sending Rosa to school. My father said we should wait awhile before suggesting anything impulsively. What we needed first of all was a good midwife for Helena. That should be our primary consideration.

“There is another matter,” he said. “I think Greg is after buying the property. He’s the sort of man who wants to be in complete control.”

“He is that already it seems to me,” said my mother.

“He wants to be known as the master. It’s understandable.”

“What do you think? Will you sell?”

“I don’t know. It’s one of the things I want to decide while we are here.”

“Jacco is very interested in it.”

“My dear, Jacco’s future is with Cador. Can you see him staying out here forever? Bringing up our grandchildren in this wilderness?”

“Heaven forbid that he should stay out here,” cried my mother.

“Of course he wouldn’t want that. He’ll be longing to get home after a while. It’s the novelty with him. He’s seen little of the world. I think I shall probably sell to Greg, although I’ve always liked the idea of having a foot in the country. To see how it has come along since I was last here … well, it is just a miracle. I think there’s a future here. People work. They have to. There aren’t the distractions we get at home. Perhaps that is why they have made such rapid progress.”

“We’ve got plenty of time to decide.”

“Yes, Helena’s affair will keep us here for a bit.”

“I’ll ask Maud about a midwife,” said my mother. “I’d like her to be here well before the baby’s due. I wonder if there is a doctor.”

“I shouldn’t think so … not nearer than Sydney.”

“That’s rather alarming.”

“We’ll be prepared by the time the baby is due.”

“It’s something of a responsibility. Poor girl, she seems so listless. What she would have done without Annora, I can’t imagine.”

“I think she’s looking forward to having the baby now,” I said, “and when it comes that will make all the difference.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” agreed my mother.

The days slipped by quickly. I scarcely saw anything of Jacco. He was out all day. Matthew was planning to go on a trip farther north. He had spent his days talking to the men and making notes. Several of them were convict labour and he wanted their stories. I often wondered whether the tales the men told him were true because I had seen them with an amused look on their faces when he made notes in his book. They were the sort who would think it a great joke to, as they would say, “Lead him up the garden path.”

He was a man obsessed with one idea. I imagined he did not concern himself very much with Helena nowadays. At first it had pleased him to have done his knightly deed. Now his thoughts were of a greater achievement.

He talked continually during meals when we were all gathered round the table.

“Imagine living on those ships going out!” he cried, hitting the table with his fist. He could be really vehement on this subject which was strange because on all other matters he was such a mild man. “Murderers, footpads put together with those who had stolen a handkerchief or a loaf of bread. Do you know they were kept below for a week after sailing out … shut down below, of course. They had to remove the hatches from time to time or they would have been suffocated. The women made the most of their sex … selling themselves to the marines for a tot of gin. We’ve got to stop this. I’m going to do it. My book is going to be a revelation.”

I said: “I wonder what happened to Digory and if he survived.”

Then we talked of Digory and the terrible thing that had happened to his grandmother and how he had been left alone.

Matthew listened intently. He said: “I’ll find him. His story would be worth recording—particularly as I know something of his origins.”

“How I should love to know what became of him,” I went on. “I should be relieved if I could hear that he had settled down … perhaps acquired a bit of land.”

“Let’s hope that he came through,” said my father. “He was a boy who wanted to be alone. He did not seem to care much for the companionship of others.”

“It was because of his circumstances,” I said hotly. “Who was there?”

“You and Jacco did a good deal for him.”

“And so did you.”

“I don’t recall that he was particularly grateful.”

“He didn’t know how to show it.”

“He showed it by stealing … unnecessarily. I could have understood it if he had been hungry. I’m afraid what happened to Digory was inevitable.”

“I shall see if I can find him and get his story,” said Matthew.

He was leaving the next morning for Sydney.

“I shall make the Grand Hotel my headquarters while I’m there,” he told us. “So that is where you can find me if I am wanted. From there I hope to be going to various parts of Australia … at least where I am likely to find the information I need.”

“Have you any idea how long you’ll be away?” asked my mother.

“So much depends on my success. When I have collected enough material I shall want to set about the writing.”

“And Helena … her time is not so far off.”

He smiled at me. “I know she will be safe with you.”

Words trembled on my mother’s lips. I knew she wanted to say that at such a time a woman wanted her husband with her. But of course this was no ordinary marriage and I supposed we should all be grateful to Matthew. We must remind ourselves that he was an earnest philanthropist and there was not time in his busy life to be delayed in his work by anyone—even though it be his wife.

The next morning we said goodbye to Matthew. I think Helena was relieved to see him go. It must be trying to be continually reminded that you owed so much to one person. Not that he reminded her; but Helena could not forget.

My father was out a great deal with Gregory and Jacco was invariably with them. They would sometimes leave before we rose in the morning and come back before dark. Often we would sit out of doors in the evenings. The men made fires and cooked in the open air and it was quite pleasant when it was cooler after sundown. The men would sing songs which they had brought from home. “Coming Through the Rye,” “Sally in Our Alley” and “In Good King Charles’s Golden Days.” One of the men had a musical instrument which he called a Didgeridoo. It was a long wooden tube which boomed when blown; another had a banjo. They would grow very merry.

Gregory was always there. I would hear his voice above the rest. He had said that the convivial evenings were part of his duties.

“You’ve got a group of men about working hard all day … they’ve got to have something to look forward to in the evenings. A little get-together with a bit of singing gets us all friendly,” he had explained. “It keeps their minds off the women and there are not enough of them to go round. It’s a consideration.”

Our arrival had added considerably to the female population. I had seen some of the men and girls together and I guessed that they were more than normally friendly. I noticed the way in which the men looked at the women … even us. I felt that there was a certain amount of tension in such a situation.

That Maud felt it I knew, because of her careful watch on her daughter. If any man talked to Rosa her mother’s eyes would be immediately upon them. It must be worrying to have a pretty young daughter in such a community.

Gregory determined to show us the country. We saw a great deal of him for although he had given up the house when we came and had gone to one of the shacks, he dined with us every day.

One day he told us about the boat.

“You see we are not very far from the sea. An hour or so on horseback gets us there. I often take a trip. I like to get some good sea breezes. We are less than two hours from Smoky Cape. You can bathe there if you’ve a fancy to. We must go there one day. I’ve got a little boat house there and my boat, well … she’s a humdinger, I can tell you.”

I went with my father, Gregory and Jacco. Helena was unable to ride and my mother stayed behind with her. We had a picnic and then Gregory took us sailing. He managed the boat with skill and it was a wonderful feeling to be sailing along on the open sea.

We kept close to the coast.

“Storms can blow up pretty fast,” Gregory told us, “and we’ve got precious cargo aboard.” This with a wink at me.

He still disturbed me. I would find his eyes watching me, calculating almost.

I thought of what he had said about the men and women and I felt he was summing me up, waiting. That made me very uneasy and when I was in my room alone at night I was thankful that my father and brother were close by.

That was a very enjoyable day in spite of the few uncomfortable moments Gregory gave me. I thought that perhaps I was imagining something which was not there. Sometimes I would think of myself alone in the house with him and that filled me with something like terror … a certain sort of horror, like that which I had felt as a child when I had conjured up images of giants and hobgoblins and trembled at the thought of them … and in a way longed to see them in reality.

“We must use the boat more often, Greg,” said my father.

“It is at your disposal, Sir Jake. Please use it when you feel the desire to do so.”

After that my father often went out in the boat, sometimes with Gregory, sometimes without him. My mother and I sometimes accompanied him. Jacco, of course, was very keen on sailing. Helena did not go at all. Her time was getting very near.

Maud told us that she herself had helped to deliver babies on the property. “They arrive now and then as you’d expect and sometimes the midwife doesn’t get here in time, so I’ve had to learn something about it.”

“My mother says that we must have the midwife in residence several weeks before the baby is due.”

She agreed with this and it was arranged that one of the men should go over to a township some fifty miles away and bring back Polly Winters with him.

This was done. She was small and plump with merry dark eyes, high-pitched laughter and a continual flow of chatter. She was in her mid-thirties, a widow. Men died often in this country.

“Don’t be put off by her frivolous manner,” said Maud. “She is a good midwife. She likes what she calls a good time but when she is doing her job she really is very good indeed.”

Polly Winters examined Helena and declared herself satisfied: then she set about entertaining us with tales about the many children she had brought into the world.

She slept in the empty room which was conveniently next to Helena’s; she went through the layette and said what else was needed. When she talked of the coming baby she was intensely serious; and then as soon as she stopped she would be giggling and one would have thought she was incapable of her delicate task.

I saw her often from my window. She was always talking to one of the men; and the nature of her conversation was obvious. She would roll her eyes and assume an archness which seemed very girlish and did not fit one of her age; she would almost caress them as she talked; and they responded readily.

My mother said she did wonder whether we had chosen wisely.

I reminded her that there was no choice. Polly Winters was the only midwife around and she had had to be fetched from fifty miles away.

But we could not help liking Polly. She was so good-natured, ready to help in anything that came along, full of laughter and seeming to find life very enjoyable. It was only when a man appeared that she became giggly and rather stupid.

We did not expect the birth for another three weeks but as my mother said—and Maud agreed with her—in view of the fact that Helena seemed a little delicate and it was so difficult to get help quickly, it was right to keep Polly with us.

I did enjoy riding and often went out with my father or my brother. We never strayed far from the house. My father was always careful to make sure of the landmarks. He said Gregory was right to warn us for it was the easiest thing in the world to get lost in such country.

There came a day when my father and Jacco had gone off to examine some aspect of the property with one of the men; Helena was resting. Polly liked her to and, as she said, put her own feet up in the afternoon. Whether she rested or not I could not be sure, but on one occasion I heard whispering coming from behind her door and now and then a suppressed giggle. I guessed that Polly was giving expression to her appreciation of one of the men about the property. It was not what one would have expected of a midwife with this very important task looming close; but I had to remember that this was not home. Life was different here. No one could reproach Polly for her conduct; her services were too important to us. If Polly entertained men in her bedroom when she was “putting her feet up,” it was not for us to complain.

The house was quiet. I felt restless. I had a longing then for home … not for London where so many dramatic and unpleasant incidents had recently taken place, but for Cador.

I pictured myself riding out of the stables and meeting Rolf. I had to remind myself that things were not always as they seemed and that people hid their true natures behind a veneer of good manners. Here at least people were more frank. Polly and her men … Maud and her desire for her daughter’s welfare … even Gregory. At least he did not pretend to be a courteous knight.

I felt the need for fresh air. I would go for a ride. Not far, of course. It would be the first time I had gone out alone. But I had a desire to go by myself.

There was a faint breeze which was pleasant. I broke into a gallop and was soon in the heart of shrub land.

There was something grand about the landscape. Gregory had talked a great deal about it. He had told us about the natives—“abos” he called them. He had several of them working on the land. “Good workers when they work,” he said. “But you don’t know what to expect. They suddenly take it into their heads to get up and go … ‘go walk-about,’ they call it. Sometimes they come back, but like as not you’ll never see them again.”

I thought about them. Bewildered perhaps, trying to change their lives to fit in with these people who had come and taken possession of their land.

He had told us about the animals; the kangaroos with their young in their pouches. We had seen several; and the little ones they called wallabies.

There was so much to see that was new to us. We used to sit and talk over meals when my mother liked to keep everyone at the table for as long as possible.

Gregory always talked glowingly. It became more and more clear that he loved the land and had made it his own. Through him we heard of the plagues of locusts which destroyed the crops, the raging forest fires which could encircle a hamlet and destroy it and even threaten the towns, of the most frequent threat of all to the farms: the dreaded drought.

He talked of koalas and wombats and the beautifully plumaged birds seen in some parts. We did not see many of these at Sealands Creek, but occasionally he would point out a flying mouse or a lyre bird.

I enjoyed hearing Gregory talk about the country.

I rode on thinking of him. The property extended for miles and I felt that while I was on my father’s land I was safe.

All the same there had been many warnings and I had to be careful.

I looked back. Far in the distance I could see the house. I dismounted, tied my horse to a dwarf shrub and sat down.

I thought about the strangeness of everything since I had come to London and once again I found myself going over it all.

Soon, I thought, we shall go home, and things will be normal again. And Helena … where would she go? Would she live with Matthew … help him with his book perhaps? She had shown no interest in it. But she would have the baby. I had a feeling that when that child came all her attention would be for it.

The heat was intense. I had been rather silly to come out at this time of day. I closed my eyes and dozed.

I awoke with a start and for the moment wondered where I was. Remembering, I rose to my feet. There was a mist in the air. I could not see the house now. I was not disturbed. I knew the direction. I would ride back at once.

Then I saw that my horse was not where I had left it and I began to feel afraid. I had not tethered him securely enough and he must have wandered off. The mist had obscured the sun and it was not so hot now. That was a blessing. But I wished I could see the house.

I started to walk. Soon the house must be in sight.

I went on. Time passed. The mist had not thickened but I could still not see the house. A group of eucalyptus loomed up beside me. Had I noticed them before? I was not sure. There was such a similarity about the landscape wherever one was.

A terrible fear came to me then that I might be lost. I remembered Gregory’s warning. People walked for miles and then found they had been going round in circles.

I sank down beside a clump of shrubs.

Was I walking round in circles? Was I walking farther away from the house? I had no way of knowing.

The best thing was to wait until the mist cleared. That might be hours. Oh, how foolish I had been. I should have started back as soon as the mist began to rise; I should never have sat down and dozed. I should have taken the warnings more seriously. I should never have gone out alone.

Must I stay all night here? What of the dingoes? I should imagine they would be rather unfriendly. There were native cats … wild, I expected.

I was now very frightened. There is nothing worse than being undecided in such a situation. If only I knew what to do … to go on walking or to stay where I was.

And while I was trying to make up my mind I heard a sound which seemed to come from a long way off. It was the call I had heard one man give to another when they wanted their whereabouts known. “Cooee.”

With all my strength I called back: “Cooee.”

I waited tensely; and then the call came again. I answered it. It was coming nearer. I went on calling and the answer came back.

Then Gregory came riding through the mist.

He leaped from his horse and with his hands on his hips stood regarding me sardonically.

Then he said: “You little idiot. How many times have I told you …?”

“I know. I know. But who would have thought it would suddenly be misty like this?”

“Anyone with any sense,” he retorted.

He took me by the shoulders and shook me.

“You ought to be spanked,” he said. He laughed familiarly. “And I’d like to be the one to do it.”

I tried to wriggle free but he would not let me go. Then he bent his head and kissed me firmly on the lips.

I was furiously angry. I had been very frightened, almost on the verge of despair, and my relief had been intense when he had ridden out of the mist, and now here I was out here … in this mysterious land, and he had dared to do what I knew he had been threatening to ever since we met.

I freed myself and stood a few paces back from him.

“I’m glad you came, but …” I began.

“Well that’s a nice start,” he replied, mocking me I knew.

“How did you know I was lost?”

“The horse came back. He had more sense than some.”

“He … came back?”

“Thank your stars he did. Otherwise you’d have been in for an uncomfortable time, young Annie.”

“I have told you I don’t answer to that name which is not mine.”

“You’re in no position to give orders now are you, Annie? You’ve got to knuckle under now and do what dear kind Greg tells you.”

“Take me back to the house.”

“Say please, Greg.”

“Please.”

“All right. That’ll do. Come here.”

“Please do not attempt to do that again.”

“What if you were to ask me to?”

“That I can assure you will never happen.”

“Don’t be too sure of that.”

“Do my parents know I’m lost?”

“No. No one knows. They would have been out of their minds to think their little daughter was lost in the outback. You’re a precious little chick, you know.”

“Perhaps you should remember that.”

“Oh, I do. I do. Otherwise I wouldn’t be handling you with the kid gloves. I’d be giving you something to remember me by.”

“What would that be?”

“Would you like me to show you?”

“I really don’t know what you are talking about.”

“You will, Annie. One day you will.”

“Are we going back?”

He nodded.

“You’ll have to ride with me. I don’t know if that will offend your ladyship’s finer feelings … but there is only one horse.”

“I realize that.”

“Come on then.” He leaped onto the horse, then leaned over to lift me up beside him. He kept his hands on me longer than necessary. “You’ll have to hold me round the waist,” he said. “Hang on … tightly.”

“I know.”

“All right. Let’s go.”

My relief was intense. Soon I would be home. The mist would not deter him.

He walked the horse through the scrub.

“You must have felt very pleased to see me,” he said. “You were getting scared, weren’t you? And you were right, too. It’s no picnic spending a night in the outback, I can assure you, unless you are in the right company. That was a pleasant night we spent on the way out. Do you remember how I guarded you? Well, you wouldn’t have had me there if I hadn’t come out to look after you, would you?”

I was silent.

“Hold tighter,” he said. “Don’t want to fall off, do you? Do you know, I am really rather enjoying this. Riding to the homestead with my Annie’s arms around me.”

I took them away.

“Hey! Be careful,” he said. “A sudden jolt and you’d be off.”

I put my arms back. He patted one of my hands. “Do you know, Annie,” he said. “I’m very fond of you.”

I said: “How far are we from the house?”

“Far enough to give us time for a little chat.”

“There is nothing to be said which cannot be said in the house. Let’s go faster.”

“Trust me to know how we go,” he retorted. “I could see you becoming a fair dinkum Aussie … in time. This place will grow on you like it has on me. You’re free out here. You’ve done with most of the rules and regulations … you go your own way … you’re a real person.”

“I feel I am a real person at home,” I said.

“Oh, so polite … saying the right thing or what’s expected of you. How do you know what people are really feeling?”

“Sometimes it’s better not to know.”

“That’s something I don’t agree with. Annie, let’s get to know each other. You’re so standoffish. Sometimes I think you don’t like me very much. But that’s not true, is it? That’s just your English hypocrisy.”

“In the language of the fair dinkums, it’s true,” I said.

He laughed.

“You and I would get along fine, Annie.”

“Let us at this moment concentrate on getting back to the house.”

“Tell me, do you have a lover in England?”

“You are being impertinent.”

“I just wanted to know. It’s important to me.”

“As far as I’m concerned this conversation is over.”

“As far as I’m concerned it’s still on. I give the orders at the moment, Annie. Where would you be now without me?”

“I daresay I could find my way back.”

“Shall I put you down so that you can do so?”

“Don’t be absurd. Just go on … quickly.”

“I must say you are the most ungracious maiden in distress I ever rescued.”

“I suppose the others were eager to repay you for your services?”

“That’s just about the case, Annie. Let’s be serious. I like you. I like you very much.”

I was silent. How much farther had we to go? I wondered. I was a little afraid of him and the alarming thought came to me that I was at his mercy.

“Just suppose that you and I got together …”

“Got together? What do you mean?”

“Suppose we married.”

“Married! Are you sure you are feeling quite well?”

“Never better. It’s been a dream of mine ever since I saw you to have your arms round me like this.”

“Of necessity.”

“Oh I’ll settle for that … for the time being. It would be just right. You’re the sort. Plenty of spirit. That’s what I like. I reckon you and I were made for one another.”

“And I reckon you have a touch of the sun. They say it brings on hallucinations.”

“I’m just looking truth straight in the face. I want you, Annie. I think of you all the time. Now I’ve seen you, there’s no one else who’ll do for me. Think what we could make of this place. We’d expand. We’d have a house in Sydney. We’d have people … entertain … just so that you wouldn’t miss the Old Country. You could play the gracious lady. It would be pretty good, I promise you. You don’t say anything …”

“I’m just stunned,” I said.

“You’d only have to tell me what you want and it would be yours.”

“Very well. I want to go back to the house.”

“You’re a hard woman, Annie,” he said, sighing deeply with mock resignation; and just at that moment the house loomed up out of the mist.

I was greatly relieved.

He leaped down and turned to lift me. He looked up into my face and we were very close to each other for a second or so. Clearly I saw his thick dark hair curling about his temples and the mockery in his eyes; and twinges of alarm came to me in spite of the comfort of seeing the house so close by and knowing my family was there.

He kept his hand on my shoulders and I said quickly: “Thank you for bringing me home.”

“There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you,” he said. “Remember that.”

I turned and ran into the house.

My mother came into my room followed by my father. Gregory had come into the house and told them how he had rescued me.

They were very disturbed.

“I cannot understand you, Annora,” said my mother. “The times you’ve been told about going out alone!”

“I didn’t go far. I should have been all right if it hadn’t been for the mist.”

“That’s one of the hazards,” said my father impatiently. “You should be ashamed of yourself.”

“I am,” I said. “Do stop scolding. I promise I won’t do it again. I want to go home … soon.”

“Well thank Heaven for Greg,” said my mother. “And thank goodness your horse came back. It was wonderful of Greg to go and look for you.”

“It was miraculous … the way he came across you,” added my father.

“Well, he gave the bush call and I answered.”

“There’s not much he doesn’t know about this country,” said my father admiringly. “But we’ll go home as soon as we can. I begin to feel a bit homesick, too. Don’t you, Jessica?”

My mother admitted that she did.

“As soon as this business of Helena’s is settled we’ll go. And I think I shall sell to Greg. He’s made a jolly good thing of this place and I fancy he’d do even better if it were his own.”

“Promise me,” said my mother to me, “that you will never do anything so silly again.”

I promised.

She hugged me for a moment and I felt so glad to be back with them; but I heartily wished Gregory had not been my rescuer.

I found sleep difficult that night. I kept going over what he had said. There was such purpose in his eyes and I think it was that which frightened me.

Maud had said once on some very trivial matter: “Oh, Greg wants it and Greg always gets what he wants.”

Ominous words. But I was my own mistress. No one was going to force me to do what I did not want to.

Sleep would not come.

It was midnight when I heard a movement near my window. There was someone out there … close to the door.

I stood at the window and looked down. It was Gregory. My heart was beating wildly. How dared he! Was he coming in? What did it mean? But the door was locked. It was always locked at night. He himself had said that we must lock up carefully because of prowlers who might be looking for something they could pick up. Bushrangers were hardly a danger. They would not attack a household where there were so many men about.

Did he think he was coming to me? For what purpose? The answer was obvious. Did he think he could overpower me with his magnetic charm—or whatever he thought it was? Did he think he was irresistible to me? To come to the house was a very bold thing to do. I only had to scream and I would wake my parents along the corridor. If my father caught him he would be dismissed. He would never have a chance of owning the place.

A movement along the corridor. Someone was there. I opened my door and peeped out. I saw Polly Winters in a low-cut nightdress exposing her considerable bosom as she went silently to the door.

I shut my door and listened. The front door was opened … just a whisper … almost imperceptible. They would both have had long practice of this sort of clandestine nocturnal event.

When I opened my door again, they had gone … into Polly’s room.

I thought: This is intolerable. And under my father’s roof when only today he had asked me to marry him.

The man is a monster, I told myself.

I went back to bed, but not to sleep. I lay there thinking about riding on the horse with him. I was more angry with him than I had believed I could ever be with anyone.

I had thought it would be a good idea to be ready for him when he left the house in the morning, to confront him and let him know I understood where he had spent the night.

I wanted to tell him how I despised him, and that I would let my parents know the sort of man he was. I would let him see that he was not the mighty conqueror he imagined himself to be.

I must have dozed for it was fairly late when I arose. I heard Maud in the kitchen. She always let herself in very early and two of the women came to help her get the breakfast.

So I was too late to catch him.

I did not tell my parents. I did not see how they could send him away. He was so necessary to the property. Why should I bother about his relationships with women? It was not as though Polly had not welcomed him. She must have arranged to let him in.

Helena was getting very near to her confinement. She was surprisingly calm. She said to me one day: “I feel so much better since Polly’s been here. She’s so comforting. She’s always telling me about ‘her little babies.’ She does love them so much.”

People had so many sides to their natures.

I tried Maud.

I said to her: “Don’t you think Polly is too fond of the men?”

“Well, she’s certainly fond of them,” said Maud.

“And they of her, I imagine.”

“Men are always fond of women who are fond of them. It flatters them and there’s nothing they like better than a bit of flattery.”

“Don’t you think some of them like women who don’t like them at all?”

“Oh, that’s in a different way. That’s the challenge. They like that, too.”

“It seems to me they like all sorts.”

“That’s probably right.”

“I er … believe Polly invites men to her room at night.”

“That wouldn’t surprise me.”

“And you … think we should accept that?”

“There’s not another midwife round here and once the baby starts to come she’ll forget about the men. She’s one of the best at her job. You have to put up with people’s ways if they’re good at what they’ve come to do.”

“I see,” I said. “That applies to the men here too.”

She looked quickly at me. “That’s always a problem. There aren’t enough women in the country. They need them, you know. We have to shut our eyes to a lot of things out here which wouldn’t be acceptable at home.”

“I understand that.”

“It makes morals not quite the same.”

“Can’t they marry?”

“Most of them do.”

“You’d think Gregory …”

She smiled. “Oh he’ll marry when the time is ripe. He’s waiting.”

“Waiting for what?”

“For the right moment.”

“And in the meantime?”

“Well, he’s a man like the rest of them … more so, perhaps.” I had an idea that she might know that Polly’s nocturnal visitor was Gregory Donnelly.

She could shrug it aside. I could not. To me it seemed the height of depravity when, that very day, he had asked me to marry him.

All thought of the matter was driven from my mind because the next day Helena’s pains started. It was amazing how Polly threw off her frivolity and put on the mantle of the midwife. The white coat she had brought with her was the outward symbol of her professionalism and that was certainly in no doubt when she took charge.

She gave her orders in a sharp crisp voice and we were all eager to accept her authority.

It was as though she had changed her personality entirely.

We had all been very anxious about Helena; her listlessness had disturbed us. Maud thought it was due to the fact that she had an indifferent husband. Both Maud and Polly had a poor opinion of Matthew; but there was, naturally, so much that they did not know.

Her labour went on for two days while the house was plunged into a state of fearful expectancy. Even Jacco was affected and talked in whispers.

We were all seated in the living room waiting. Polly had summoned Maud to help her, for Maud over the years had gathered certain experience and had on one occasion delivered a child when help was long in coming.

Our relief was intense when we heard the cry of a child.

Maud came down to tell us.

“It’s a boy,” she said.

I had not seen Helena so happy since the days of her engagement to John Milward. She sat up in bed holding the baby while we all stood round declaring our admiration for the infant.

Polly was beaming with satisfaction as though the baby was entirely her creation. All of us were deeply moved. As for myself I could not take my eyes from the baby. It seemed extraordinary that one could marvel at ten tiny fingers, ten toes and a blob of a nose but I did—and so did my mother and Helena. The men were a little aloof though there was certainly general relief that Helena’s baby had come safely into the world and that she, though exhausted now, survived her ordeal.

The days went quickly by; I was with Helena most of the time. I was allowed to hold the baby. Polly reigned supreme. She had promised to stay for two weeks after the birth for, she admitted now, she had been a little worried about Helena.

Polly bustled and twinkled and laughed; every time I saw her I thought of her lying with Gregory in her bed, making love. It was a repulsive thought—and yet there was Polly, so happy, so pleased with life, talking about little babies. “I reckon,” she said, “they’re the nicest things God ever thought of. Mind you,” she added, “there’s other nice things, too. But when I’ve just brought a little one into the world, I don’t think there’s anything as lovely as a little baby.”

How strange people were! Polly, the baby lover and the wanton companion of men like Gregory Donnelly. If there had been love I could have understood it, but this was plain lust.

Rosa came in and held the baby. She was such a pretty girl and different from the young girls I had seen about the property. In a way she seemed younger. I expected this was because her mother sheltered her from the crudeness around her. Not an easy task, I imagined.

I thought again: I want to go home. And now that the baby is born we can start making our plans.

There was the baby’s name to consider. Helena wanted to call him after John.

“After all,” she said, “he is John’s.”

“Why not vary it a little? Jonathan is a name used in our family.”

“Jon,” she said. “John without the H. That will make his name a little different from his father’s.”

So the baby became Jon and we were soon calling him Jonnie.

Our time was taken up with the baby. I was learning a great deal from Polly; how to hold him; how he should be bathed; how to dress him; how to rock him.

“You’d be a good little mother,” Polly told me. “Better see about getting one of your own.”

She nudged me and went off into one of her fits of laughter. I flushed painfully thinking again of her and Gregory Donnelly together.

She was shedding her midwife’s skin just like a snake does and becoming the flighty woman with promiscuous habits. There was nothing else snakelike about Polly Winters.

Soon she would be gone to some other homestead looking for a little baby to bring into the world and new men to comfort her at nights. And we should be gone, too. I had seen signs of restlessness in my mother.

I desperately wanted to go. I wanted to get away from Gregory Donnelly. He disturbed me. He aroused images in my mind which I wanted to banish. I supposed that was what people would call life. I wanted to remain apart from it for as long as I could.

There was one thing I would greatly regret on leaving Australia and that was that we had been unable to find Digory. I often talked about him to my father.

“I know how much you wanted to find him,” he said. “You wanted to make sure that he was all right … making a life for himself. He seemed to me a survivor. But I agree with you that it would be good to know. Don’t give up hope. We might find him even yet. Everywhere I go I make enquiries, but it is rather like looking for the needle in the haystack. But you never know what’s going to turn up.”

Rosa was often in the room we called the nursery. She adored the child. She confided in me that when she grew up and married she intended to have ten children.

“Do you want to be married?” I asked.

“Oh yes. But I’ve got to wait until I’m a little older.”

“Have you decided on the bridegroom?”

“Oh yes,” she said. “I’ve always known.”

“Oh? Who is it?”

She opened her pretty blue eyes very wide as though astonished by my ignorance. “Mr. Donnelly, of course.”

“Oh … Mr. Donnelly! Do you … like him?”

She nodded. “He’s the finest man around here. My mother says he’s the only one for me.”

I was silent. I could understand Maud’s reasoning. Rosa was not for one of the men from the shacks, not for one of the hired hands; she was for the master of them all; and that was Greg Donnelly. That he was a philanderer did not seem to affect Maud. Perhaps she believed that when he was married he would settle down.

She probably thought he would own the property one day. That was his ambition of course, and hadn’t she said he was the sort of man who would get what he wanted?

Poor Rosa. I was beginning to understand a great deal. It was not that he wanted me. He wanted the property; and I was the key to the property. It belonged to my father and it was very possible that if Gregory Donnelly married his daughter, the property would be a wedding present.

It was all hideously clear.

I hated the man more than ever.

We were at dinner. In the room which had become the nursery now that Polly Winters had gone, the baby was sleeping. Gregory was dining with us as usual and I had become more aware of him. Every time I looked up his eyes would be on me and he would give me that meaningful smile which embarrassed and infuriated me. He was like a man who was biding his time. I began to dread these meals because of his presence.

My father was saying did we realize that we were already into May?

“It’s eight months since we left home,” he said.

“And time we were thinking of getting back,” added my mother.

“It’s been a great time here,” said Jacco with a hint of regret.

“A wonderful experience,” my father agreed. “But I often ask myself what has been happening at home during our absence.”

“I suppose you have a good man there,” said Gregory.

“Excellent. We couldn’t have left otherwise. He’s been in complete charge many times … but never quite so long.”

“It will be summer there now,” said my mother nostalgically.

My father smiled at her. “Oh, I know you can’t wait to get back.”

“What about you, Helena?” asked my mother.

“I … I don’t know. I shall have to make plans.”

“You won’t want to wait here for Matthew. You’d better come back to Cador with us.”

“Yes … I’d like that.”

“Annora doesn’t want to part with Jonnie, you know,” said my mother smiling at me.

“I admit it,” I said.

Helena smiled but I could see she was uneasy at the prospect of having to face life in England. Here she had been lulled into a certain peace. She had her baby and she was with us.

My father said: “I think we might make arrangements to leave at the end of June. That will give us time to see a little more. Greg, where is Stillman’s Creek?”

“Stillman’s Creek? Oh, that would be up north. Halfway to Brisbane, I think.”

“Have you ever been there?”

“No. But I’ve heard of it. A fellow called Stillman came out here and got hold of the land for next to nothing. I don’t know what happened to him. Droughts are a bigger problem up there than even down here. Are you interested in the place?”

“I just heard it mentioned and wondered if you knew it. I’d like to do a little more sailing before we go.”

“Do it soon. We get some fierce winds next month.”

“That would be fine,” said Jacco.

“Could be too much of a good thing,” Gregory commented.

The conversation turned to what was happening in the property and when we left the table Gregory followed my father to the stables. I saw that they were talking earnestly.

I guessed that our giving a definite time for our departure had made Gregory more determined to thrash out the matter of buying the property.

When they came back to the house I went to my parents’ bedroom. It was the only place where we could talk in privacy; and both Jacco and I often went there to do this.

Jacco was already there and I expect he had the same idea as I had.

“Did you really mean we were going in June?” asked Jacco.

“Yes,” replied my father. “Most definitely. We shouldn’t have stayed so long but for Helena and her baby.”

“What’s going to happen to her when we get back?” asked my mother.

“We did say she could come with us,” I reminded them.

“It’ll work out,” said Jacco.

“Yes,” I agreed. “She’ll come home with us and then we’ll decide.”

“Well, let’s make the most of the time left to us,” said my father.

“What about sailing tomorrow?” suggested Jacco.

“All right. Just the family, eh? Would you like that, Annora?”

“Just the family. Yes. Helena won’t want to come.”

“The four of us then,” said my mother.

“Have you decided to sell the property to Gregory?” I asked my father.

“Yes, I think I have. It seems the reasonable thing to do. He’s made an excellent job of it. All I had to begin with was a very small patch. His father was a great help to me. I was doing quite well before I left because I had some experience of the country during my servitude. I certainly chose the right man in his father; and his son is such another.”

“He’s a very masterful man,” added my mother. “Just the sort who will get on and make something of his life.”

“I’ll have to put it into motion right away,” said my father. “These things take a little time.”

“Can he afford to buy?” asked Jacco.

“My dear chap, I shan’t be hard on him.”

“So you would sever all ties with Australia?” I asked.

“Well, my dear child, what do we want with it? Cador takes all my time. And it is going to take all Jacco’s. We don’t want property on the other side of the world. I don’t know why I hung on to it for so long. This visit has been of the utmost interest, but would any one of us want to come again? Think of all the discomfort of the voyage… and we do miss certain amenities, don’t we?”

“That is an indisputable fact,” said my mother. “I think it is an excellent idea to hand it over to Gregory who is really superb in his way, and in his right element.”

“He’s a pioneer by nature. He’ll get a good bargain and he deserves it. I told him I’d give him my decision within a few days. I think he knows what the answer will be. And then … it’s home for us.”

“And tomorrow we go sailing,” I said.

“There are a few places I want to see,” said my father. “But I can do that while we clinch the deal.”

I went to bed that night with a feeling of relief. This strange experience was almost over. Soon we should be leaving the property to Gregory Donnelly—and that was what he wanted; we should be returning home to England which in spite of weak noblemen, aspiring politicians with grudges and prosperous brothel-keepers, was at least home!

I had no idea when I awoke that morning that this was to be one of the strangest and most tragic days of my life.

I was awakened by Helena who stood by my bed.

She said: “Jonnie is coughing and he’s rather hot.”

Immediately I got out of bed. I went to the nursery. I picked up Jonnie. He was a little feverish but he gave me that lop-sided toothless look which we interpreted as a smile.

I said: “I don’t think there is much wrong with him, but I’ll get Maud. She’s had experience and will know.”

I dressed and went to find her. She came at once.

“It’s a slight chill,” she said. “Nothing much, I’m sure. We’ll just keep him warm and he’ll be right as rain tomorrow.”

Helena was a little panicky.

“Are you going to be out all day?” she asked.

I said that I was.

“I wish you weren’t going,” she said in a worried voice.

I hesitated. “All right … I’ll stay. The others can go without me.”

My mother was disappointed. “Really, Helena does make demands on you,” she said.

“I don’t mind. I can sail another day. I would be worried all the time about the baby if I came.”

My mother kissed me and said, “Well, we’re all very sorry you won’t be with us, but I understand. You stay and look after Helena and the baby.”

They went off early. During the morning the baby seemed normal.

“I told you so,” said Maud.

“I get so frightened,” Helena explained.

“I know. They call it first-baby nerves. You’ll be better when you’ve had a few more.”

Helena looked startled at the prospect and I thought: That will never be. Hers is the most extraordinary marriage. At first we had thought it was such a convenient way out. At least it had given Helena married status which was so necessary as she was to have a child; but I doubted whether much good would come out of it.

Matthew had not returned. We had heard from him and Helena had written to the hotel in Sydney where letters might eventually reach him. There was a small township near us where letters could be delivered and posted. One of the men went in three times a week to take and collect mail. In a letter Matthew had said that his research had taken him to Van Diemen’s Land and he would send an address from there.

Helena had written telling him that the child was born but had had no reply to that so perhaps he had not received that letter. My parents had said that when we left we should have to let him know that we were leaving and that Helena was coming with us. But perhaps by then we should have had an address from Van Diemen’s Land.

I had heard the term “husband in name only.” Matthew was certainly that.

A wind sprang up during the morning. I heard Gregory Donnelly shouting to some of the men.

Maud was cooking in the kitchen and I went to her. “Is anything wrong?” I asked.

“Wrong?” she said.

“I thought I heard Greg shouting orders and there seemed to be a certain tension.”

“It’s the weather again. It’s always something. They don’t like this wind.”

“It’s unusual,” I said.

“It comes now and then. They have to make preparations. It can do a lot of damage. I daresay Greg is making sure they take precautions.”

I went to the baby. He appeared to be sleeping peacefully.

During the afternoon the wind grew fierce. I looked out of the window. The few trees were swaying; they looked as though they might be torn up. The wind battered them savagely; and I thought of my parents and Jacco.

They had been delighted at the prospect of wind—but not of this strength.

Gregory came into the house. I heard Maud talking to him.

“They wouldn’t have taken the boat out in this weather,” he said.

I ran out to him and he saw the anxiety in my face.

“What if they have taken the boat?” I asked.

“They wouldn’t,” he replied with conviction. “Nobody would on a day like this.”

“But they left early. They might have been out at sea before it became so bad.”

He looked away from me.

“I reckon they changed their minds,” he murmured. “Your father was saying he wanted to do a bit more exploring.”

I went back to Helena. She was still sitting with the baby who seemed to have recovered completely.

I wished that I had gone with them. Not knowing where they were was worrying.

In the evening the wind abated. But at sundown they had not come home.

I sat up all night waiting for them. Helena sat with me. We spoke little. We were afraid to put our thoughts into words. We just sat there, ears strained for the slightest sound of their return.

And so we waited.

But they never came back.

How I lived through those days which followed I do not know. I was completely numb. I could not believe that this terrible tragedy had overtaken me.

My father. My mother. My brother. The people I loved best in the world … all taken from me.

I could only console myself that I was dreaming. This could not have happened to such vital people. They had all been brimming over with life. I could not imagine a world without them. Always they had been there—the most important part of my life.

Helena tried to comfort me. She surprised me. She came right out of her lethargy to share my grief. Maud, Rosa, all of them—and particularly Gregory Donnelly—seemed to have undergone a change. He was quiet, gentle, and above all strong. But I wanted none of them. There was only one thing in the world I wanted and that was the return of my loved ones.

They had found the remains of the boat. It was washed up on the shore and Jacco’s body with it. My father and mother they did not find.

I lived on in that strange half world from which I could not rouse myself; nor did I want to for to do so would have brought me face to face with the enormity of what had happened to me.

There was one terrible day when a man came to see me. He insisted on talking to me. He wanted to know about my father mainly. At first I talked and then suddenly I was so overcome that I begged him to go away.

He talked at length to Maud and Gregory and most of the people on the property. I learned afterwards that he was from the Sydney Gazette.

The story was headline news. My father with his wife and son were drowned. He had come out as a convict to serve a seven-year term at the end of which he had acquired land; then he went home to claim estates and title in the Old Country. However, Australia and his past had lured him back … to his death.

It was a story, of course, which appealed to the readers. It went on prominently in the papers for several days.

These papers were kept from me for a while, but in time I discovered them and I read them through my tears.

I was too numb to care what happened, what they said. I could make no plans. I just wanted to stay in my room and try not to think.

Sleep was my only relief and they made sure that I had it. They gave me something … and I was grateful for that.

And then I was ill.

That was perhaps a blessed relief. It was some sort of fever. They cropped my hair and for a long time I did not know what was happening to me, nor where I was.

Nothing could have been better for me really. What I craved was forgetfulness. I wanted to go into a long sleep and never come out of it.

It was August before I began to get well. The tragedy was a little farther away but I knew it would be with me all my life. I was like a different person with my short hair which was beginning to grow in a short bob which just covered my ears.

My only real interest was the baby. He was now nearly four months old, a beautiful child, a little like Helena. She used to come in in the mornings and put him into my bed. He would pull at my short hair and try to catch my nose in his chubby fingers. He helped to soothe me and to a certain extent he did charm away some of my sadness.

“He knows you,” Helena told me.

How kind everyone was to me! Rosa used to come and sit with me and talk to me; she showed me her embroidery which her mother was teaching her. She was learning how to keep house. “I shall have to when I get married,” she said. She was clearly looking forward to the day when she would be. She looked upon Gregory Donnelly as a god almost. I supposed that was how her mother had brought her up to regard him. That was wise, no doubt, for if the day ever came when she married him, he would be sure of her uncritical devotion.

I had hardly been aware of him during the weeks of my misery. I had indeed been aware of no one except the baby and Helena who had been with me most of the time and had taken on a new stature in caring for me, so that she no longer seemed the helpless creature she had been.

Maud made special dishes for me.

“Come on,” she would say. “Just try a little to please me … to please us all.”

I would eat just for that reason. I drifted along not caring about anything, trying not to remember. I wanted to forget everything of the past for there had been very little of my past in which they did not figure. They had always been there … my beloved ones … they had cared for me, guided me, watched over me, given me their very special love.

I used to make up fantasies. They had been picked up at sea; a ship had taken them somewhere far away. One day they would walk in. But Jacco was dead. They had found his body. But my father and my mother … where were they? I knew in my heart that I should never see them again.

I cursed the boat. I cursed the wind … everything which had taken them from me.

Then the letter came.

It was from the lawyers who had taken over from Rolf’s father when he had died and Rolf had decided he did not wish to go into law.

They had heard the grievous news and they reminded me that on the death of my parents and my only brother, I had become the owner of the Cador estate. I was in possession of considerable property and wealth; and consequently there were many questions to be discussed. They thought it would be advisable for me to return to England at my very earliest convenience. I would have to decide what was to be done about the Australian property. My father had written to them of his wish to sell and they understood there was a prospective buyer.

They were my obedient servants, Yorke, Tamblin and Company.

I let the letter fall from my hands.

With it came certain reality. I had to come out of my fantasy world where I could delude myself into thinking this was a nightmare from which I should wake when my parents came into my room.

I had been ill; I had been in a fever; I had had hallucinations. No longer could I tell myself that.

I had to face the truth. They were gone forever. I was left desolate, alone, but a woman with responsibilities.

When Helena came in, I said to her: “We shall go home.”

She nodded. “When you are stronger. You have been very ill. Just yet the journey would be too much for you.”

“I’ve had a letter from the lawyers. I shall have to go back to Cador.”

“When you go, I shall come with you. We shan’t be parted, ever.”

“No. We have suffered … both of us. But we have to go on. So you’ll come to Cador with me?”

“I shall go where you go.”

“I don’t think I can face it yet, Helena. There are more memories there than here. It will seem that at home they are everywhere …”

“Perhaps you would rather not go to Cador?”

“Where else? London?”

She shivered.

“It would have to be Cador,” I went on. “You see, Helena, Cador is now mine. I am sure they never thought of this. My father …” My voice broke and I forced myself to go on. “He was not old … and there was Jacco and there should have been Jacco’s children … and to think of him … oh, Helena, I can’t go on.”

“Then let’s stay awhile. You can stay here as long as you like. This is your place, isn’t it, for all that it seems to belong to Greg Donnelly.”

“I just want to drift. I can’t go home yet. I’ll have to write to these lawyers. I’ll tell them I’ll come when I’m ready.”

She nodded. Then she said: “It suits us here … both of us … shut away from things that remind us and hurt us.”

“Strange,” I said, “I was so looking forward to going home.”

I felt the tears falling down my cheeks. I realized with amazement that it was the first time I had wept since it happened.

The weather was less hot now. This was winter. It seemed rather like our spring. I hardly noticed the change. I did not notice anything. It was sunrise and then it was sundown … and I went on living in limbo. I did not want to emerge. I was afraid to, for then I had to face my loss.

“Time heals,” Maud had said. I supposed the time-honoured cliché was true. It wouldn’t have lasted so long if it hadn’t been. Time did heal. It must. Did I feel any less bereaved, any less desolate than I had on the day they had brought me the news that that broken boat had been washed ashore?

I just wanted time to pass … to put as long as I could between myself and that tragedy. I only wished I could believe that in time it would be easier.

I was in my room a great deal. I had no desire to go out. I did not want to talk to anyone but Helena. I did not want to see anyone but her and the baby.

I would lie on my bed during the long afternoons, waiting for sundown and the night which followed, when I might sleep and escape into dreams where my parents would be with me. But then would come the awakening, that deadly realization that what I had thought I was experiencing was only a dream—and I was alone again.

That afternoon there was a knock on my door.

“Come in,” I said thinking it was Helena.

But it was Gregory Donnelly.

I did not feel the apprehension or annoyance which I should have before. I was just indifferent.

“I have come to talk to you,” he said. “May I come in?”

To ask permission was so different from the manner he had previously employed. But then everything had changed—even he.

I nodded wearily. He brought up a chair and sat down.

“You look better,” he said.

I did not answer.

“We’ll soon get you well. Maud says she thinks you’re picking up.”

Still I said nothing.

“I want you to know I’m going to look after you.”

I said quietly: “Thanks, but I can look after myself.”

“No,” he said softly. “You need someone. I’ll tell you what you need. You need a new life. You want to start afresh.”

“Yes,” I said. “I need a new life.”

“I can give it to you. We’ll do anything you want. We’ll go away for a while.”

“I shall go home,” I said.

“Later … yes. I’ll come with you. You’ll need someone to help you.”

“To help me?”

“A big burden has been thrust on you. You’ll need someone beside you … someone who cares for you. You need a husband. Don’t delay any longer, Annora.”

For the first time since the tragedy I smiled. He was trying to please me. He even called me by my rightful name. He was not going to run the risk of irritating me with his Annie.

I thought, He is asking me to marry him. Why? He wants the property. But I have so much now. Perhaps his ambitions have grown.

Yes, I felt a little better. I allowed my dislike of him, my distrust of him full rein. It took my thoughts from my grief to a certain extent. I let him go on.

“You’re young. You need someone … a man … to look after you. You need me.”

I said then, taunting him a little: “I don’t think you realize the extent of my responsibilities. I have estates in Cornwall …”

I saw the look in his face. He knew. Had he seen the lawyer’s letter? Or had he guessed? He knew that my father owned large properties in Cornwall and it was obvious that Jacco would be the heir. But they were gone, both of them … and I, the helpless daughter, was left.

I felt helplessness slipping away from me. I even experienced something I had never thought to feel again, pleasure in leading him on—this ambitious man who was destined for Rosa. But he would be ready to waive that proposition I was sure, this man who had proposed to me one day and that night had been most willingly entertained in the midwife’s bedroom! He was bemused by his ambitious dreams and they were robbing him of his natural shrewdness.

He went on eagerly: “We’ll go to England. We’ll live there. I can put a man in here … just as your father did. I’ll find the right person. We’ll go and live in England and you can leave all the difficult business to me. It’ll be what you want. It’s lucky that I am here.”

“There was no luck at all about our coming here,” I reminded him. “It was the most terribly unfortunate thing we ever did. If we hadn’t come they would be here today.”

“My poor little girl, I understand your grief. You have gone through so much. I know how it was with your parents and your brother. You were all so fond of each other. That was always clear and I understand. I want to make it easy for you. I’ve thought it all out. I’ve thought of nothing else since it happened. What can I do that is best for you … that’s what I’ve been trying to figure out. I would have spoken before but I felt you wanted to be on your own … to grieve. But you can’t go on grieving forever. You’ve got to begin to live again. Leave everything to me. I’ll have it arranged. Just a quiet little ceremony. Everyone will understand … a girl on her own, miles from her home …”

I sat up suddenly. I felt my nerves tingling. I was alive again. My anger had done that for me.

I said: “I am sure you have made some excellent plans.”

“You can trust me.”

“Trust you, yes … to make plans. But in no other way would I trust you. You must understand that I am not so foolish as you appear to think. I know exactly how your mind works. You see me as the heiress. Land. That is your true love, I believe, that and nothing else. Through me you see the way to your darling. You’ve heard a great deal about Cador while we’ve been here. It makes this property very small, very insignificant, yet you’ve had your sights on this one for a long time. The greater glory now lies before you. All you have to do is to marry the helpless girl. You didn’t think there would be any difficulty about that. All that charm … so you think … all that blatant masculinity … so irresistible to the poor stupid females. Please understand. Mr. Donnelly, I have no intention of marrying you. I know you asked me once before. I hoped I made myself clear then. I know that very same night you were creeping into the house to share the midwife’s bed.”

He looked at me in astonishment and then he smiled.

“You’ve no cause to be jealous,” he said. “It was nothing. She was just there … a woman for the night. It makes no difference to us.”

“You are right. It makes no difference because I am indifferent to what you do. If I had considered your proposal for a moment, let me tell you it would have made a great deal of difference. Please get this clear. I have never had any intention of marrying you, nor shall I ever have. Now will you please leave this room.”

He stood up, smiling at me. Then he laughed.

“You’ve come alive,” he said.

“Get out,” I told him.

He bowed and went to the door.

There he stood looking at me.

“You have to admit that I have done something for you. I’ve put new life into you … even if you do hate me. Never mind. Hate turns to love … at least that sort of hate.”

Then he was gone. I was trembling. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. My cheeks had lost their pallor. My eyes were blazing.

He was right. I had at last come alive.

In a small house little escapes the attention of the observant and where Gregory Donnelly was concerned Maud was certainly that. She must have seen him come out of my room and a little later she herself came to see me.

She was faintly embarrassed and I could see she was wondering how to say what she wanted to.

She began by asking how I was feeling and I said that I seemed a little better. She was wondering about my plans.

“You wouldn’t want to stay here, I know,” she said. “You wouldn’t want to make a home here.”

“No, indeed not.”

“I was, er … wondering about you … and Greg.”

I felt again those waves of indignation which drew me out of my lethargy.

“What could you be wondering about Mr. Donnelly and myself?” I asked.

“Well, it was just that he gave me the impression that something was fixed up between you.” She looked round the room rather furtively as though expecting eavesdroppers. “If you don’t mind my saying so, I don’t think it would work out very satisfactorily.”

I was on the point of saying that she should have no qualms about that for I had no intention of marrying Gregory Donnelly; but I was interested in her plans for Rosa and I thought she might be more communicative if she thought I was considering him as my husband. I wanted to hear about him; it was so long since I had been interested in anything at all—so I remained silent.

“It isn’t the life for a lady who has been brought up as you have. Of course, he has a way with him.”

Has he? I thought. He has a way of antagonizing me.

“He’s a man who would always dominate a woman and I don’t think you are the sort to stand for that.”

“Yes,” I said, “you wanted him for Rosa.”

She flushed. “Who told you that?”

“Rosa. She seemed to think it was more or less settled.”

She was clearly embarrassed.

I said: “Don’t worry. It came out quite naturally. She seems to think he is wonderful. I am sure he would like that.”

“He is very fond of Rosa,” she said almost defiantly.

“I am sure he is. She is a charming girl.”

“It was a sort of understood thing …”

“You mean an arranged betrothal?”

“We hadn’t said much about it. It was understood. Rosa is a cut above the rest of the women here. You’ve seen her; you’ve seen them. I’ve given her a bit of education and she is very pretty. He wants a wife who’s not just anybody …”

“Well,” I said, “if Rosa admires him and he likes to bask in her admiration, I think it would work out very well.”

“So did I … but now …”

“You mean when I came along?”

She was silent.

“I had more to offer, of course. I was my father’s daughter …” My voice broke a little, but I went on: “I now own property in England. You see I am a very good catch for an ambitious man.” She cast down her eyes and I went on: “Don’t worry. He’s Rosa’s if she wants him. I have no intention of marrying him.”

She looked up swiftly.

“He’s determined,” she said. “He’s a man who gets his way.”

“I daresay he has succeeded very well in that. But when he meets someone who is equally determined to have her own way there is nothing he can do.”

She shook her head disbelievingly.

“It is so, Maud,” I said. “What I don’t understand is why you should want him for Rosa. She is a gentle, innocent girl. Could you let her go to a man like that?”

“He’d be good to her … if she were a good wife to him. And she would be. I’d see to that.”

“You should know this man to whom you propose to marry your daughter. He has asked me to marry him. This was some time ago before …” I paused and could not go on for a few moments. Then: “He asked me and I refused. That night he spent with the midwife.”

“He is a man,” she said.

“You have a very poor opinion of his sex.”

“If he had a wife he would be different.”

“I doubt it. He is promiscuous naturally. That sort doesn’t change.”

“My Rosa is a lovely girl. I want the best for her. I don’t want her to have just one of the cowboys, the sheep-shearers, the hired hands. Greg is a big man out here. In a few years he’ll be right at the top. That’s what I want for Rosa.”

“You are being very frank with me, Maud,” I said. “I will be with you. Soon I shall be going home. I doubt I shall ever come here again. I have no intention of marrying Gregory Donnelly. In fact the idea is quite repulsive to me. Please set your mind at rest. If you are prepared to take such a man as your son-in-law, you are welcome as far as I am concerned. I understand that life might be hard for Rosa and that you want to make it as comfortable for her as you can, but I cannot imagine a woman having a comfortable life with that man.”

“I know men,” she said. “And I know Greg. He’s ambitious. Perhaps that’s first with him—but it is what I want. I want Rosa to have her own home and a carriage to ride in. I want her to be the lady of the property. I’ve suffered hardship with her father and I don’t want any of that for Rosa.”

“I understand, Maud. So put your mind at rest. Soon I shall be gone. Don’t have any fear that I might spoil Rosa’s chances.”

“You are so vehement about him.”

“I feel vehement. I don’t happen to admire men who are so besotted by property that they would do anything to get it. I don’t accept this promiscuity as you do.”

“You haven’t lived in a place like this where women are scarce. Men are men all the world over …”

“I shall keep to my view. I am going to start making plans now.”

“He won’t accept it.”

“It is not for him to accept. It is my affair.”

“He always gets his way.”

“This is one instance when he won’t.”

“He’ll find a way.”

I shook my head.

“He was ready to wait for Rosa … until you came.”

“He can go on waiting for Rosa. When did you propose the marriage should take place?”

“She is only fifteen. I have been thinking of when she is sixteen but that is a little young. Rosa is young for her age. I had been thinking of her seventeenth birthday but when you came I thought it was a long time to wait. Anything can happen in a few weeks.”

“Don’t worry, Maud. Oh dear, this has been a frank conversation.”

“I didn’t mean it to be. I just wanted to know …”

“Whether I was going to accept him. Have no fear. I assure you again and again the answer is most definitely No.”

“But he won’t take No for an answer. He never has done. He won’t let anything stand in the way of what he wants.”

“You’ll see,” I said.

She stood up. “Thank you for letting me talk to you and thank you for being so understanding.”

“I’m glad I know exactly how you feel. Don’t worry any more. In a short time I shall be gone.”

“He’ll never let you go.”

“That, Maud, is a matter for me to decide.”

She left me, still worrying, I was sure, unable to accept that this god-like creature could ever be thwarted.

Once again I had forgotten my grief for a brief spell. I was certainly stimulated by this battle with Gregory Donnelly; and I wondered how a loving mother could actually wish her daughter married to a man whom she knew as well as I did.

I received a letter from a lawyer in Sydney in which he informed me that my father had been considering selling the Australian property to the manager, Mr. Gregory Donnelly, and he thought I might think it a good idea to put the sale into negotiation. He had written to my father’s solicitors in England who were in agreement with him, and in view of the tragedy, the sale seemed desirable. It was unwise to have property so far from home, the place had been excellently managed over the years and it seemed only right to sell it to the man who had done so much to make it prosperous.

I read the letter through several times. It was what Gregory wanted. Only he would prefer to marry me and not have to buy it. It seemed to me that I could make my feelings clear by agreeing to the sale and accepting the offer he had made.

That day, for the first time after my illness, I went out riding. I felt very feeble and could not stay long in the saddle. I thought of the long journey back to Sydney and then there would be the exhausting business of getting on the ship which would take me home. It seemed that they were right when they said I must get stronger. I had suffered from a virulent fever and goodness knows what else. Being in a debilitated state during those weeks I had been conscious of a death wish and had cursed the fates which had prevented my joining my parents and brother in their watery grave.

I wanted to go on mourning but I had to accept the fact that I had grown a little apart from the tragedy. I began to think with a faint pleasure of seeing Cador again. I knew memories would be very nearly unbearable, but I wanted to go home.

In a week or so I should feel less tired and then I would set about making arrangements to leave. I supposed we should need Gregory’s help in getting to Sydney. I remembered that night when I had lain in my sleeping bag and had awakened to find him standing beside me. He had said something about defending me from prowling dingoes. I imagined myself on such a journey with him … with Helena and the baby. Jonnie was not really old enough for such travel.

There were so many problems to be considered.

I had not ridden far. I was too tired; moreover I had had my lesson about going too far from the house. When I came back to the stables Gregory was there.

He smiled at the sight of me and hastened to me.

“Ah, riding. That’s a good sign … provided you keep close to the house. First time, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Bit tiring, eh?” He attempted to lift me out of the saddle.

“Thank you. I can manage.”

“You look like a medieval page with your hair like that. It’s unusual. I like it.”

I stood beside him. I said: “By the way. I have written to the solicitors in Sydney. I’ve told them to go ahead with the sale.”

He raised his eyebrows but otherwise betrayed nothing.

“So,” he said slowly, “the property is to be mine.”

“When the sale is completed … yes.”

“That’s very gratifying.”

“I’m glad you think so.”

I turned away but he caught my arm. “Have you been thinking …”

“My mind is not usually a blank, so I suppose I have.”

“I mean about us.”

“Us?”

“Yes … you and me … us!”

“The sale of the property, you mean. Obviously …”

“No. My proposal.”

“There was nothing to think about. I answered that on the spot. It doesn’t require any meditation whatsoever.”

“You are a stubborn woman.”

“No. It is all very simple. I don’t have to think about it. The answer from the first has been definitely No.”

“Don’t be too sure.”

“I am absolutely sure.”

“You’ll change your mind.”

“Good afternoon,” I said. I knew that he was watching me as I went into the house.

He made me feel very uneasy. Perhaps it was due to Maud’s assurances that he was certain to get his own way. He always had, she implied; and he always would.

That evening I was very tired. My illness had left me weaker than I had realized.

I said I would rest and not join them for the evening meal.

I had a good deal to think about. The sale of the property must not go through until I had left. I should hate to think that I was under his roof. I supposed that it could be arranged fairly quickly; but by agreeing that the sale should go ahead, I had made it necessary for us to make our plans about leaving.

Maud came in with a tray.

I said I was not hungry.

“I’ve brought you a little soup. It’ll do you good. Try it. It just slips down. And there’s some hot damper to go with it.”

She sat beside the bed and I took the tray.

“It’s made from the remains of the lamb … full of goodness. I always like to get the last bit of nourishment out of everything.”

She watched me while I spooned the soup into my mouth.

She said: “I hope you don’t think the worse of me after our little talk.”

“No, Maud, I understand perfectly. I know how you must feel having a daughter like Rosa and wanting the best for her. It’s natural.”

“Well, there are few chances out here. I sometimes wonder if I ought to try to get back home. But what could we do there? I’d have to work and so would she. It wouldn’t be much better than here.”

“No. It seems that Gregory Donnelly is the big catch, especially when he owns this place.”

“Is that going through then?”

“I think it very likely.”

“You’re wise. You wouldn’t want to come out here again.”

“There are too many bitter memories … but there will be at home, too. They are everywhere. There is no escaping them.”

I had finished the soup. She took the tray and said: “Thank you for being so understanding.”

That night I was very ill.

I knew it was the soup.

Oh, Maud, I thought, how little I knew you! Do you want to be rid of me so much?

I felt so ill at moments that I thought I was going to die.

It was about four in the morning before the griping pains and the sickness stopped and I began to feel a little better.

I sank back into my bed with relief. I was still alive.

Yet it had not been long ago when I was thinking longingly of death. I had wanted to be with them. I had felt it was unfair that they should go and I be left behind; but now I felt this overwhelming sense of relief. I was alive and I wanted to live.

Oddly enough it was anger which had begun to lift me out of my abject melancholy and now I had to be nearly poisoned to realize how much I wanted to live.

I lay there thinking of Maud, for it was Maud who had made the soup and brought it to me, who had been so eager for me to take it, and who had sat there watching me put every spoonful into my mouth.

She wanted me out of the way. She did not believe that I would not marry Gregory Donnelly; she could not conceive of any woman’s not wanting him. And how desperately she wanted the right marriage for her daughter.

Who would have believed that she would go to such lengths?

I was in danger. I must get out of this place. Passions ran high in places like this. Life was not sacred here; there were too many hazards which made it cheap. People were fighting for their existences and if anyone stood in the way of what was the utmost importance to them they eliminated them.

But Maud! Calm and dignified Maud! Was it possible? Desperately she wanted that marriage for her daughter. She had betrayed herself to me when she talked of it. She wanted to see Rosa secure and in spite of all my protestations she did not believe I was not affected by his charms.

My body was limp and exhausted but my mind was active.

I went over that conversation we had had, trying to remember every word. I thought of her sitting by my bed, urging me to eat. Maud had done it. I would not have believed it possible but once again I was faced with the fact that one could never be sure what people would do in what to them was an emergency.

I felt too weak to get up the next morning. Nobody came, which was extraordinary. At length I got out of bed and went to Helena’s room.

She was lying on her bed looking ill.

“Oh, Annora,” she said. “I’ve had such a night. I have been so terribly ill. I am sure it was the soup.”

“You, too. I thought it was just myself.”

I went to the kitchen. No one was there. Were they all suffering from the poisonous soup?

A little later one of the women came over to the house.

She said: “Maud sent me. Everyone who took that soup last night is ill. I’m glad I didn’t have any of it.”

I felt a great sense of relief.

I was glad that I could go on thinking of Maud as I always had.

It took several days for everyone to recover.

Maud said: “It was all my fault. I thought the meat might be a bit off. But it didn’t seem much. I might have poisoned the lot of us. I had two helpings. Serves me right. I wanted to finish it up. I hope you are feeling all right, Miss Cadorson?”

I said I was much better. Fortunately I had not taken a great deal.

There was no doubt that the soup had not been deliberately poisoned but the incident did have an effect on me; and the fact that I had felt so strongly that there might be a plan to get rid of me stayed with me.

I would look out of my window at the vast stretch of land and remember the day when I had been lost in the mist. I would awake in the night and listen for sounds. I kept thinking of the way in which Gregory had crept into the house to be with the midwife. There was a growing tension within me.

I was aware that Gregory watched me with a certain speculation.

I knew that Maud was watchful of us both.

There seemed to be a warning in the air. Get away. Get away while there is time.

We must get to Sydney. We must get a passage for England. There were a number of ships which sailed regularly.

Gregory was the one who could arrange it and yet I hesitated to speak to him. Somewhere at the back of my mind was the fear that if he knew I was really making plans to leave he might take some drastic action. I don’t know whether it was due to the weakness of my condition or whether there was some uncanny force warning me; but I felt this strongly. I began to feel trapped. It was foolish. I only had to speak to Gregory, to tell him I had made up my mind to leave on such a date and that I wished him to make arrangements for our journey to Sydney. Once there I could book our passages myself.

Yet I did nothing.

Helena, too, was overcome by a kind of lethargy. She was uncertain what she felt about going home. There would be so many explanations. True, she was married, but her baby’s age would indicate that he had been well on the way before the ceremony had taken place. And what a strange marriage. Where was her husband? Travelling round Australia looking for material, letting his wife and child go home without him.

I would have to discuss the matter with Gregory and I knew that when I did he would find some means of thwarting me.

It was a strange eerie feeling.

I had a restless night. I was beset by wild dreams; and I knew I had to act quickly.

I felt limp when I arose in the morning. I would speak to Helena and tell her we must make an effort without delay. This very day we must discuss it with Gregory. I would bring it up at dinner that night.

It was midafternoon when I heard the sound of horses’ hoofs outside the house. A man had dismounted and was looking about him. I could scarcely believe my eyes. It was a dream. It must be. The fever had come back bringing strange images … some horrifying, some like this one … bringing a sudden incredible comfort, like the materialization of some longed-for dream.

“Rolf!” I cried.

I half-expected his image to dissolve before my eyes, but it did not. He came towards me, his arms outstretched.

I ran to him and flung myself at him.

“Rolf!” I cried. “Rolf, is it really you?”

He nodded, smiling. “Oh, Annora, dearest Annora … I have come to take you home.”

It was truly Rolf. He was as calm and practical as ever. He told me that he had made preparations to leave as soon as he had heard the news because he knew how devastated I would be. I should need someone. I should need him.

All I could say was: “Oh, Rolf, Rolf, you really are here. Let me hold your hand. I’m afraid I’m dreaming. It’s been like a nightmare … and I feel I’m still in it.”

“You’ve come out of it now. We are going home just as soon as you are ready. I thought you would want to. It’s best to get right away. I’ve found a man who can take us. He knows the country. He’s got some conveyance he calls a buggy. There will be some baggage. Otherwise we could have gone on horseback. There are two inns we could stay at, and that’s what we’ll do. I’ve planned to leave here the day after tomorrow. He’ll be with us then, buggy and all. We’ll get to Sydney and I have tentative bookings if we can make it in time.”

“You’ve arranged all that. Oh, Rolf, you’re wonderful!”

He smiled. “Don’t forget I was brought up to be a lawyer.”

“And turned landowner instead. Oh, Rolf, it’s so good you are here.”

“Will you be ready?”

“Yes, yes. Oh … but there is Helena.”

He looked puzzled.

“Helena and the baby. They’ll have to come with us. You know my cousin Helena Lansdon … well, she’s Helena Hume now. She’s got a baby, the dearest little baby. They’ll have to come, too.”

“Oh,” he said. “We’ll have to do something about her passage.”

“I couldn’t go without her, Rolf.”

Helena had come out carrying the baby.

“Helena,” I cried, “this is Rolf Hanson. You remember him. You met him at Cador.”

“Yes, of course I remember.”

“He’s come to take us home.”

Rolf went to her and shook her hands. He looked at the baby.

“He’s Jonnie,” I said.

Rolf looked bewildered. I wondered if that was how people would look when they confronted Helena and her baby. One would see their minds calculating. How could she have a baby so soon?

“Helena’s husband is away. He’s collecting material for a book on convicts and transportation.”

“Then he will not be coming home now?”

“No,” said Helena. “He will be staying awhile. But I and Jonnie will go with Annora.”

“Could you be ready to leave the day after tomorrow?”

“Yes, yes, I could,” she answered.

Jonnie was holding out his hands to me. I took him from his mother and rocked him in my arms. He laughed and pulled at my short hair. I was aware of Rolf, gazing at us intently.

Maud came out to see what was happening.

“Oh, Maud,” I cried, “this is a friend of mine who has come to take us back to England.”

She came forward smiling, holding out her hand. I introduced them.

Rolf said: “I wasn’t sure whether to write, but letters take so long. I thought the best thing was to come out as soon as possible. It takes a long time to come from the other side of the world. But at last I got here.”

“You’re very welcome,” said Maud.

“Mr. Hanson will be here for two nights,” I said.

I was thinking that there were two rooms which had been left just as they were—my parents’ and Jacco’s. I had asked that this should be so. I did not want anyone to touch any of their things and I did not feel capable of doing it myself just yet.

Maud seemed to follow my thoughts. She said: “The baby could go in with his mother and that would leave the nursery free.”

“Yes, Maud. Thanks.”

“I daresay you could do with something to drink,” said Maud practically, “and to eat too, no doubt.”

He agreed. “It’s thirsty riding.”

“Come along in, Rolf,” I said. “How did you find your way?”

“I knew the address because my father had done considerable business with this place. I was given careful instructions in Sydney. I found the inns where I stayed the nights. Everyone was very helpful.”

We went into the living room. “So this is where you have been staying.” He turned to me with concern. “You’ve been ill, Annora.”

“Yes, very ill. I had some sort of fever. That’s why they cut my hair.”

“It’s becoming. It makes you look unusual.”

“You’ll get used to it. Oh, Rolf, I’m so glad you came. I’m longing to get home.”

“I was afraid that I was going to miss you. I thought you might have started off already.”

“No, because I was ill for so long. It has left me limp and easily tired. They didn’t think I was fit to make the journey.”

“It’s hard travelling. You’re thinner.”

“Considerably.”

“You’ll be better when you get home.”

“Nothing is going to be the same again.”

“No. It’s a fresh start though, Annora.”

Maud was already setting out food. I sat with him while he ate. Maud came in and out with the food. She seemed as though she could not do enough to please him. I knew she was delighted with him because he had come to take me away. Moreover I think she was deciding he was the one for me.

I really felt I loved him then. He was like a saviour. He was different in every way from Gregory Donnelly; yet not less a man.

I said: “They are putting you in the nursery.”

“I suppose there is not much room here.”

“There are two rooms which I haven’t let them touch yet. Their things are there—my parents’ and Jacco’s.”

“I understand,” he said. “They’ll have to be cleared out before we go. Perhaps I can do it.”

“No, I will. It is just that I couldn’t bring myself to before.”

“It’s understandable. My poor, dearest Annora. How you must have suffered.”

When he had eaten I took him to the room which would be his for the two nights he would be here. Maud had already taken out Jonnie’s cot and put up the bed.

“It’s only for two nights,” I said.

“It will be absolute comfort after those inns.”

“Rolf, it was so good of you to come.”

“I had to, Annora. I thought of you all alone … without them. I’m so glad I found you. I pictured myself arriving to find you gone.”

“I expect I should have gone but for my illness.”

Maud came in with hot water for him to wash. He had brought a small bag with him and I left him to change.

It was later when he met Gregory Donnelly.

They stood face to face and I was aware of a certain bristling resentment in Gregory and a curiosity in Rolf.

Rolf carried off the situation with a good grace.

“Rolf Hanson has come to escort us home,” I explained.

“You’ve come a long way,” commented Gregory.

“I regret I did not get here earlier. One just can’t step on to a ship without formalities. Arrangements have to be made. My great fear was that I should arrive to find Miss Cadorson had left.”

“How did you get out to the property?”

“On horseback. I had instructions and stayed at the two inns on the way—the only two, I fancy.”

“Oh, the accommodation houses. I know them well. You didn’t lose your way?”

“I came near to it once or twice, but I had very good instructions and was given a rough map which was of inestimable worth.”

Gregory was a little taken aback. Rolf had an easy manner. The difference in them, I decided, was that Gregory felt he had to be constantly reminding people of his superiority; Rolf didn’t have to; it was obvious.

“When do you propose to go back?” asked Gregory.

“The day after tomorrow. I’ve arranged for a man to bring a buggy. We shall travel in that.”

“The best way really. Mind you it takes longer. Who’s your man?”

“A fellow called Jack Tomlin.”

“Know him well. He’s one of the best. He’ll take care of everything.”

“I can see I made a good choice.”

I wondered what Gregory was feeling. He knew that I was definitely going now and that his grandiose schemes for marrying the little woman and acquiring her fortune were foundering.

“There will be a good deal to do,” I said to Helena.

She agreed.

The evening passed. We sat for a long time over the table, talking. Rolf and Gregory had one passion in common: land. Gregory was greatly interested to hear that Rolf owned a large estate in Cornwall. They talked at great length about the differences in the land here and in England. I could see they were both very curious about each other—possibly regarding their relationships with me—but they talked amicably until it grew dark and Maud brought in the oil lamps.

When I retired I felt a lightness of spirit. I felt better than I had since the tragedy.

The tension had lifted, the eerie feeling had disappeared; I was being gently lifted out of a situation which had begun to alarm me. There was nothing to be afraid of now.

But that night I dreamed of Midsummer’s Eve. Then we were back in Australia and Rolf had just arrived. He was wearing a grey robe. They were cooking out of doors as they sometimes did and he leaped high over the fire and disappeared.

A strange dream. During the last weeks I had forgotten all about that Midsummer’s Eve.

I was up early in the morning. Before me lay the task of going through their clothes … something I had shunned until now. But it had to be done. I had to sort out the little jewellery my mother had brought with her and her clothes. I would give the latter away. Many of the people on the property might be glad of them. And the same went for my father’s and Jacco’s.

I knew it was going to be harrowing and the sooner I did it the better.

Maud offered to help me. So did Helena; but I declined their assistance and set about the task on my own.

It was even worse than I imagined. I did Jacco’s first. I tried not to let my emotions get the better of me, but each garment seemed to have some special significance. At one moment I just sat on the floor and gave way to my weeping.

It was no use. It had to be done. The clothes at least would give pleasure to some of the young men on the property. Or would they? Some of them might well despise the elegant cut and the good material. But what did that matter? They were only clothes.

I went to my parents’ room and worked steadily.

In the pocket of one of my father’s coats I found a little notebook. I remembered that I had given it to him. I sat down on the bed and looked at it. It was in red leather with his initials on it in gilt lettering. I thought about the Christmas Day two years ago. My gift to him …

I opened it. He had used it for addresses. There were several in London … often people I knew. And recently he had written in some in Australia. They were not in alphabetical order. In fact there was no index in the book; it was just a plain notebook with a little gold pencil fixed at the side.

I turned it over idly and came to the last address he had written.

“Stillman’s Creek on the borders of Queensland and New South Wales? Some eighty miles from Brisbane.”

That had been written in rather hastily and my mind went back to a scrap of conversation I had heard between my father and Gregory when my father had asked in what direction Stillman’s Creek lay.

I wondered why he had been interested in that place.

I shut the book and put it into that pile which contained my mother’s jewelry and those things I wanted to keep.

With an intense relief, I shut the door of that room and went out.

The heartrending task had been completed.

The buggy was at the door. The baggage had been put into it. It only remained for us to say goodbye and we would be off.

They had assembled to see us go. Most of the people who worked on the property had come out. Standing a little apart from them was Gregory. Maud and Rosa were beside him.

I put my arms round Maud and kissed her.

I sensed her mingling emotions; sadness at parting and relief that I was going. She had believed until the last that Gregory would find some way of forcing me to marry him. Now the field was free for Rosa. I conveyed to her somehow that I understood.

“Good luck, Maud,” I whispered. “I hope all goes well for you and Rosa.”

Gregory was holding my hands and looking into my eyes with that familiar quizzical look. It was over. I had escaped him. He knew this and he accepted it as he accepted life generally, nonchalantly. He had what he had been waiting for so long … the property. He had lost the greater prize but he would take the cash in hand and waive the rest. That was his nature.

I could not help admiring him.

We set off. I gave one look back. Gregory was smiling that smile I knew so well; and Maud was standing there, her hand on Rosa’s shoulder.