The Tracks We Tread/Chapter 12
Chapter XII
“You know where he’s gone,” said Ted Douglas, fiercely. “He comed down here last night, an’ he wi’ every man’s lyin’ mouth agin him. An’ this mornin’ he’s lighted out somewheres. Where is he gone? What did yer do ter him—fur he’d be sure ter come ter you, being a Carth’lic.”
Father Denis reached a fat arm and clapped the door to, swiftly. For without, in the paddock that sloped to the creek, the school children were playing cricket, and sound carried far in the still air.
“I’m thinkin’ we’d du foine wid no ears stretchin’ too close,” he said. “Jimmie Blaine, is ut? Yes, he came tu me. What then?”
“They put the lie on him up at the Iron Hut,” said Ted, speaking with stiff lips. “I know as Jimmie don’t know nothin’ nor ain’t told Murray nothin’. But yer can’t argue wi’ them boys, so I tuk the whole blame an’ had done wi’ it. Most on ’em ain’t spoke wi’ me since. That’s easy righted. But I want ter know does Jimmie think they’ll put it on ter him fur truth? I’d ’a’ knocked their silly heads off of ’em straight-away; but—but he’d sooner take all their lip than my help. He were proper mad wi’ me. An’ now he’s gone, an’ I don’t know where. Is he ’feared. Father Denis? He—he ain’t jus’ got all the pluck a feller needs these days, yer see.”
“You know why he has gone,” said Father Denis, gravely.
“I don’t,” said Ted, bluntly. “Would I be askin’ if I did?”
“Is there wan ov us does not know from what the ould man said that ut is your own blame or his, Ted Douglas? An’ yer own heart tells ye that ut is not tu yersilf.”
Ted’s eyes darkened. Then he straightened, speaking slowly.
“You’re tongueing wi’ the pack, too, are you? All right. It was me as tuk it—never Jimmie. The boys know. I told them. An’ now I tell you.”
Father Denis fumbled with his pipe, laid it down, and spoke huskily.
“Throth! ye nade not thry that fulish game on wid me, bhoy. Ut was wan or the other ov ye, Ted, an’ ut was him. I know ut ahl from his own mouth. He did ut, an’ he wud shift the blame ontu yersilf because ye have shamed him befure his mates, Ted Douglas.”
The strong young face opposite was blank. The big hard hands groped on the table cover. Father Denis glanced toward the shadowed blurr that was the girl on the wall, and his mouth was dumb with pity. For he knew that neither God nor devil calls man to more sacred or sterner trusts than friendship demands. Then Ted’s words came with a rush.
“He never! He never! Oh, Heaven above us, ye’re lyin’! Not Jimmie! Not him!”
“Ut is thruth, bhoy, word and word. He gave ut tu me at the Confessional wi’ the fear ov ould Buggy’s death lyin’ on his sowl tu loose his tongue.”
Ted caught his breath in a half sob, turned suddenly; bending his knee on a chair seat, and bowing his head over his arms on the table. Father Denis coughed, once and twice, and walked over to the window. Through the warm sweet gloaming the sound of laughter and the crack of the bat came sharply. Along the clay bank a merry row of girls clapped the boy who caught the ball and fell on his back with it. Time was when Father Denis had watched Jimmie and Ted Douglas run between the sticks, and had thrown bull’s-eyes as reward.
“If ut had not been Confessional!” he muttered. “Begorra! whoy cud I not take the kickin’ little beast be the scruff ov the neck an’ hand him over tu Murray straight at once?”
The breast of Ted’s coat brushed his shoulder. Ted had come straight from a full day’s draughting on Mains, and the taint and dust of the yards was on him yet. But neither noticed it.
“Do you know where he has gone. Father Denis?”
“Whisht now! Take ut aisy, man.” The light tone did not run true. “There is over-much throuble in the worrld for us tu be tuckin’ up our trousers an’ wadin’ into ahl we see. Jimmie was mate tu ye. Now he will not be mate anny more. Ye must shmoke yer poipe on that, bhoy—an’ ut is not entoirely cowld comfort, ayther!”
“You don’t mean—for Heaven’s sake—he hasn’t———”
“Ye mean did he kill himself because there is blood laid tu his dure?” asked the priest, dryly. “I will answer for ut that he has not! He will be nursin’ his loife if I know anything ov Jimmie Blaine. For he has gone wid no absolution tu the dhirty sowl ov him. I cud not du much, him comin’ tu me in Confession; bhut I did what I cud. Ye will be cleared in a week, Ted, when he is over the say, or I cud not be tellin’ ye this much. An’ he will be havin’ a parcel ov careful years tu chew on his sins, for I did not lift the curse that was throublin’ him. Bhut—I was near afther givin’ him another wan tu set down besoide ut fur company———”
“Yer didn’t! Oh, yer didn’t do that ter Jimmie. You brute! Oh, you brute!”
“Tut-t-t! I wud not be takin’ that from ye another toime, Ted Douglas! He is not wuth the mindin’, bhoy. He is a clattherin’ koradi shtick what will break over the fust knee that strains tu ut. He had not the pluck tu damn ye as he meant to du in the hate ov him. He was ’feared ov the bhoys—and good sinse tu him, tu! So he just run away out ov ut, leavin’ ye tu bear ut till he is safe. Ye’re on bail, Ted? Yes; of course. An’ Jimmie would have been that same if Murray had been an hour earlier. By the Howly Powers! nivir did I want tu break the Confessional harrder than I did whin he came tu me. Ut is broken tu you, Ted. Bhut even he trusted ye, the mane little snoipe!” Then the big hand came on Ted’s shoulder. “Ye must face it, bhoy. Ut is not the present disgrace ye’re moindin’. Bhut there were men before this day poured ahl the luve ov their hearrts intu dhirty little cans that wud howld bhut the half. Bedad! ut’s the dhirty little can an’ ahl that Jimmie is, Ted, bhoy.”
“Wait a bit,” said Ted. He was breathing heavily, and through the twilight Father Denis could but guess at the force controlling voice and body. “Jimmie’s my mate. If he telled you he done—all this, then he done it. He wouldn’t stick to it before the boys.”
Father Denis remembered the pitiless questioning which had drawn the bald truth from Jimmie.
“Ted, bhoy, he hates ye. Wud he have come down tu the township bhut tu forswear himsilf aginst ye? He meant that; bhut he had not the pluck tu du ut. Aye; let him go, an’ be done wi’ it, Ted. Ut is the shtick that the worrld will be breakin’ acrost his back is the wan thing will du Jimmie good this side the Punishment Day. Wud I have sint him unshriven if I did not know ut? Bhoy, bhoy; ye’re dear tu me, wan an’ ahl. Bhut softness is not mercy tu a sowl ivery toime, Ted Douglas.”
“I must go and find him,” said Ted Douglas, staring straight before him.
“Ye will not be that ov a fule!”
“I must find him. He’s that nervous, an’ alone, an’ weak. I’m strong.”
“What wud Mains do widout ye?”
This knife went home as Father Denis meant it to do. For Mains was as dear to Ted Douglas as himself. But Jimmie was dearer.
“I can’t help it. I wouldn’t leave Mains fur nothin’ else, an’—if the boys go makin’ mistakes, an’ me not there——— But I can’t help it. Jimmie has got ter come first. Father Denis, if ever you loved anybody, you’d know!”
The ring of his voice through the dark room left silence. Father Denis’ heart was bared to the girl on the wall. For, of a surety, she understood now, as she had not understood in life.
“I du know. I had tu cut it out ov me, bhoy. Bhut I hov no right tu counsel ye that same. Ye will go if ye will, Ted Douglas. An’ if ye bring him back I’ll give him that trouncin’ me fingers was achin’ tu give tu him lasht week. Good-night, thin. Ye’ll see me agin befure ye go?”
“I can’t leave Mains till shearin’s done,” said Ted, heavily. “There ain’t nobody kin take my place through shearin’. That’ll be a month if the weather holds up, an’ God only knows where he’ll be gone to. But I ain’t got the right to leave Mains in the shearin’.”
He went out without more words, and took the beaten track home through the warm dewy evening. At close of the fourth mile, with the smoke of the whares rising soft grey from the rise beyond, he met with Maiden, and halted for the gay meeting all the township took from her.
“Did you see Crellin’s cart across the Flat, Ted? No? Then I’ll have my wits to cool a half-hour at the river. Ted, I been helpin’ Miss Effie pack. She’s goin’ down to town to-morrow, you know, an’ I been takin’ her up some sewin’. I’ll come round and lend Buck a hand next time you’re goin’ campin’. Shall I?”
“You’ll be welcome,” said Ted, absently, and tramped on.
Maiden’s laugh lilted after him.
“You’ll be sorry you promised me that, Ted Douglas,” she called.
The burring of stones under quicker, heavier feet broke up the silence that hung with the long twilight of the south over rounded hills and gold-washed high road. Steve’s voice came in her ear, diffidently:
“Cud—cud I be walkin’ beside yer, Maiden?”
Maiden’s eyes dropped swiftly. There was coquetry in them too subtle for Steve to see.
“The road’s more’n a chain wide, isn’t it? I think as there might be room for two beside me, Steve.”
“That depends on how close yer let me come, Maiden.”
Maiden laughed. For a masterful note was in the words suddenly.
Then she gave him permission to walk in the wheel-rut which his own drays had scored five inches deep; and she took the crown of the road, stepping daintily, with the quick step that Steve rejoiced to watch.
“I’m glad ter see as yer ain’t got on that Army rig ter-night,” he ventured presently, with his eyes approving the slim length of the print-frocked figure.
“There’s some folks as is glad to see me in any dress,” remarked Maiden.
“Oh! so’m I, o’ course———”
“Then you’re glad to see me in the Army dress?”
“I’ll be blowed if I are!”
“You said you were, just now.”
“I didn’t mean———”
“What you said? Oh, thank you. I don’t much care for talkin’ with men as keeps all their truth for other men, Steve Derral.”
“Yer don’t know a man what does that.”
Maiden was visibly disappointed.
“I thought you’d have said as Lou does,” she said carelessly.
“He’s pretty sparin’ with it all round.”
“Oh! there you are! You can never leave Lou alone! You daren’t say that in front of him!”
Steve’s great muscles tightened unbidden. He had been in the draughting yards since daybreak; but there was no weariness in him.
“’Twouldn’t be the fust time, anyhow,” he said composedly. “D’yer want me ter tell him agin. Maiden?”
Maiden glanced across at the wheel-rut. Steve was outside size, and a layman would have called him clumsily built. But they that saw him stripped for fight on North-of-Sunday testified to the brawn and muscle that no tallow had overlaid.
“Steve!” it was almost a whisper. “I wonder if you’d do somethin’ I asked you to?”
“Near anythin’ on God’s earth, my girlie.”
“Well—keep in the rut for a start, please—I don’t want you to fight wi’ Lou no more, Steve.”
Steve rubbed his nose. There was a lump on the side of it yet.
“’Cos it spiles his beauty or mine?” he demanded tartly.
“Because—because it’s immoral.”
Steve bellowed a great laugh from his chest.
“Ye learned that from the Lassies, didn’t yer? Well, my girlie, I kin tell yer as there’s lots o’ words a sight more moral when they’re said on yer fist than on the p’int o’ yer tongue. An’ the or’nary man’d feel pretty sick if yer wouldn’t let him use neither, sometimes.”
“It—it must be wrong to fight, and—not to love everybody,” said Maiden, fumbling round the lesson that the Lassies had taught her.
“I’m content wi’ lovin’ one, anyways,” said Steve, tramping on unabashed. “Hev yer asked Lou ter turn Sunday-school, too?”
“Ye—yes.”
“Good fur you! What did he say?”
Maiden’s forehead burnt. All women and many men knew that a promise must be bought from Lou.
Steve grunted, and his great fist shut in his pocket.
“Jes’ come here a minute. Maiden, will yer?” he said, and took three steps to the side of the permanent way.
Maiden looked down the steep trend of bracken and flax to the tussock of the gully where Lou was cutting out a beast with Moody and Beckett to swing the mob. The lights were soft and shining in violet and amber and pale gold, and all the delicate sensuous scents of flowering cabbage tree and crushed raupo by the hoof-tramped creek rose up to them.
“Lou’s the cleverest chap I knows, in his own place,” said Steve. “His own place. An’ that’s atop o’ a horse. Maiden. When he gets ter interferin’ wi’ another chap he’s got ter learn sense. See?”
Maiden rested her elbow on a kowhai stump, tilting her chin with a delicate forefinger.
“No,” she said deliberately. “I don’t see.”
“I thought yer wouldn’t. That’s why I got ter larn him instead.”
Maiden flashed upright, white with fury.
“How dare you, Steve! how dare you! I don’t know what you mean———”
“Then I don’t see no call to git waxy ’bout it, is there?”
Maiden halted; kicked at a bunch of nodding evening primroses; then laughed.
“If you’re comin’ to the Oddfellows’ dance nex’ Friday I got the first dance goin’ begging, Steve,” she said.
“Thought as yer b’longed ter the Army now.”
“I—I haven’t joined yet. I’m not sure—but I’d like to do folks good some way, Steve.”
“My girlie, yer kin do it a better way than by larnin’ the evil fust yerself. It’s a almighty fine work them Lassies do. Maiden, but it ain’t fur the likes o’ you. Can’t yer be content wi’ doin’ one man good?”
Maiden glanced down the gully where Lou swung back in the saddle with the snake of the lash hissing round his head.
“He do need it,” she murmured.
Steve straightened, biting back a word on his lips.
“Maiden, yer a little caution,” he said. “There ain’t nuthin’ a fellow knows ’bout yer but as yer ain’t never twice alike. Well yer knowed as I wasn’t meanin’ Lou. But if so be as you does, Maiden———”
“There’s Crellin’s cart,” said Maiden. “I’m goin’ to run. An’ you needn’t chase me down to the bridge, ’cause it’d look undignified.”
Steve said more than one thing under his breath as Crellin’s strong hand helped her up. Then she turned on the high seat, and through the dusk her little handkerchief flapped out at him. He swung off his cap.
“Bless her!” he said. “She ain’t meanin’ all her nonsense, my girlie.”
As the cart rattled down the track by the gully. Maiden’s handkerchief blew out again. And this time it was Lou who made answer, sending a long sweet whistle through the gloom.
Steve saw from the top. But he did not say anything of moment.