The Moving Finger | Page 4

you won't harm me."
"No, by ---- I won't." And for the moment perhaps he meant to keep his oath, for he half rose, as if there and then he would have left her. Perhaps it was too much to expect--all his companions feared him, the outside world hunted him, only this woman believed in him and loved him; and if it is a great thing to be loved, it is a still greater thing to be believed in and trusted. And so when she put her arms around him and drew him back he yielded.
"It is your own fault, Nell, your own fault--don't blame me."
"No," she said, satisfied because he had stayed. "I won't--never." Then she ran her fingers through his hair again.
"I saw a gray hair in the sunshine," she said.
"A gray hair--a dozen--a hundred. My life is calculated to raise a few gray hairs."
"But why--?"
"Why? Why--once on the downward path you can't stop, my dear. However the path has led me to your arms, so common politeness should make me commend the road by which I came."
"You are always good."
"Good! great Heavens! No--only a silly girl would think that. Was I ever good? I'm sure I don't know. If I was a woman soon knocked it out of me."
"A woman! Did you love her?"
"Love her--of course I loved her."
"More 'n you do me?"
"More than I do you!--You're only a little girl--and she--she was a woman of thirty, and she just wound me round her fingers,--her!"
The tears gathered in the girl's eyes--only one thing her simple soul hungered after--she wanted this man's love--she wanted to be allowed to love him in return.
"She didn't love you like me," she said.
"She didn't love me at all, it was I loved her, the young fool. That's the way of the world. Come, Nell, don't cry--that s the bitterness of it. Where's the good of crying? Where's the good of loving me? I wasted all the love I had to give on a woman, who made a plaything of me--oh, about the time you were born I suppose. That's the way of the world, my dear; oh, you 'll learn as you grow older."
"Ben Fisher," said Nellie slowly--"Ben Fisher, Gran says, loves me, an' 'ud marry me. An' he's Macartney's boss man."
The man sprang to his feet and caught her roughly in his arms. He hurt her, but she did not mind; such fierce wooing was better than the indifference which had seemed to mark his manner before. His hot breath was on her face, and in his eyes was an angry gleam, but she read love there too, and was content.
"You, Nellie--you--do you want Ben Fisher? If you go to him--if you have any truck with him--I 'll kill you, Nell."
She closed her eyes and drooped her head on to his shoulder.
"Jes' so," she said, "you can."
"Nell, Nell," called her grandmother's voice from above. "Nell, you come up this minute. Drat the girl, where's she got to? You come along, miss, and help to get supper. There's the bread to set, for Macartney's mob 'll be here early to-morrow."
James Newton held the girl for a moment with a merciless hand.
"Nell, I 'll kill you."
She smiled at him through her tears, then stooped and kissed the hand that held her, and as he loosened his grasp, flew up the embankment and joined her grandmother.
Next day the Durham lads and Gentleman Jim had disappeared. It seemed a wonder in that flat open plain where they could disappear to, but the creek had many windings, and its bed was so wide and so far beneath the surface of the plain, there was ample room for men and horses to hide there.
About three in the afternoon, a lowing of cattle and cracking of stockwhips announced the arrival of Macartney's mob, and the beasts, wild with thirst, for the way had been long and hot, and the waters were dried up for miles back, rushed tumultously down into the waterhole, trampling one another in their eagerness to get to the water. The men could no nothing but look on helplessly, and finally Fisher, a tall young fellow with that sad look on his bearded face, which sometimes comes of much living alone, left the mob to his men, and flinging his reins on his horse's neck went towards the hut.
Nellie stood in the doorway, but when she saw who it was, mindful of her lover's fierce warning of the night before, she drew back into the hut, and the sadness on the man's face deepened, for Nellie Durham, the cattle-duffer's granddaughter, was the desire of his heart, and the light of his eyes, and Murwidgee Waterhole, when he had charge of the cattle, was on the main road to everywhere.
He dismounted and entered, and Mrs. Durham bustled