Joe Wilson and His Mates [101]
him, and at last he watched his chance and winked at her sharp.
Then she gave a little gasp and shut up like a steel trap.
The sick child in the bedroom coughed and cried again. Mrs Baker went to it.
We three sat like a deaf-and-dumb institution, Andy and I staring
all over the place: presently Miss Standish excused herself,
and went out of the room after her sister. She looked hard at Andy
as she left the room, but he kept his eyes away.
`Brace up now, Jack,' whispered Andy to me, `the worst is coming.'
When they came in again Mrs Baker made Andy go on with his story.
`He -- he died very quietly,' said Andy, hitching round, and resting
his elbows on his knees, and looking into the fireplace so as to have his face
away from the light. Miss Standish put her arm round her sister.
`He died very easy,' said Andy. `He was a bit off his head at times,
but that was while the fever was on him. He didn't suffer much
towards the end -- I don't think he suffered at all. . . . He talked a lot
about you and the children.' (Andy was speaking very softly now.) `He said
that you were not to fret, but to cheer up for the children's sake. . . .
It was the biggest funeral ever seen round there.'
Mrs Baker was crying softly. Andy got the packet half out of his pocket,
but shoved it back again.
`The only thing that hurts me now,' says Mrs Baker presently,
`is to think of my poor husband buried out there in the lonely Bush,
so far from home. It's -- cruel!' and she was sobbing again.
`Oh, that's all right, Mrs Baker,' said Andy, losing his head a little.
`Ned will see to that. Ned is going to arrange to have him
brought down and buried in Sydney.' Which was about the first thing
Andy had told her that evening that wasn't a lie. Ned had said he would do it
as soon as he sold his wool.
`It's very kind indeed of Ned,' sobbed Mrs Baker. `I'd never have dreamed
he was so kind-hearted and thoughtful. I misjudged him all along.
And that is all you have to tell me about poor Robert?'
`Yes,' said Andy -- then one of his `happy thoughts' struck him.
`Except that he hoped you'd shift to Sydney, Mrs Baker,
where you've got friends and relations. He thought it would be better
for you and the children. He told me to tell you that.'
`He was thoughtful up to the end,' said Mrs Baker. `It was just like
poor Robert -- always thinking of me and the children. We are going to Sydney
next week.'
Andy looked relieved. We talked a little more, and Miss Standish
wanted to make coffee for us, but we had to go and see to our horses.
We got up and bumped against each other, and got each other's hats,
and promised Mrs Baker we'd come again.
`Thank you very much for coming,' she said, shaking hands with us.
`I feel much better now. You don't know how much you have relieved me.
Now, mind, you have promised to come and see me again for the last time.'
Andy caught her sister's eye and jerked his head towards the door
to let her know he wanted to speak to her outside.
`Good-bye, Mrs Baker,' he said, holding on to her hand. `And don't you fret.
You've -- you've got the children yet. It's -- it's all for the best;
and, besides, the Boss said you wasn't to fret.' And he blundered out
after me and Miss Standish.
She came out to the gate with us, and Andy gave her the packet.
`I want you to give that to her,' he said; `it's his letters and papers.
I hadn't the heart to give it to her, somehow.'
`Tell me, Mr M`Culloch,' she said. `You've kept something back --
you haven't told her the truth. It would be better and safer for me to know.
Was it an accident -- or the drink?'
`It was the drink,' said Andy. `I was going to tell you --
I thought it would be best to tell you. I had made up my mind to do it,
but, somehow, I couldn't have done it if you hadn't asked me.'
`Tell me all,' she said. `It would be better for me to know.'
`Come a little farther away from the house,' said Andy.
She came along the fence a piece with us, and Andy told her
as much of the
Then she gave a little gasp and shut up like a steel trap.
The sick child in the bedroom coughed and cried again. Mrs Baker went to it.
We three sat like a deaf-and-dumb institution, Andy and I staring
all over the place: presently Miss Standish excused herself,
and went out of the room after her sister. She looked hard at Andy
as she left the room, but he kept his eyes away.
`Brace up now, Jack,' whispered Andy to me, `the worst is coming.'
When they came in again Mrs Baker made Andy go on with his story.
`He -- he died very quietly,' said Andy, hitching round, and resting
his elbows on his knees, and looking into the fireplace so as to have his face
away from the light. Miss Standish put her arm round her sister.
`He died very easy,' said Andy. `He was a bit off his head at times,
but that was while the fever was on him. He didn't suffer much
towards the end -- I don't think he suffered at all. . . . He talked a lot
about you and the children.' (Andy was speaking very softly now.) `He said
that you were not to fret, but to cheer up for the children's sake. . . .
It was the biggest funeral ever seen round there.'
Mrs Baker was crying softly. Andy got the packet half out of his pocket,
but shoved it back again.
`The only thing that hurts me now,' says Mrs Baker presently,
`is to think of my poor husband buried out there in the lonely Bush,
so far from home. It's -- cruel!' and she was sobbing again.
`Oh, that's all right, Mrs Baker,' said Andy, losing his head a little.
`Ned will see to that. Ned is going to arrange to have him
brought down and buried in Sydney.' Which was about the first thing
Andy had told her that evening that wasn't a lie. Ned had said he would do it
as soon as he sold his wool.
`It's very kind indeed of Ned,' sobbed Mrs Baker. `I'd never have dreamed
he was so kind-hearted and thoughtful. I misjudged him all along.
And that is all you have to tell me about poor Robert?'
`Yes,' said Andy -- then one of his `happy thoughts' struck him.
`Except that he hoped you'd shift to Sydney, Mrs Baker,
where you've got friends and relations. He thought it would be better
for you and the children. He told me to tell you that.'
`He was thoughtful up to the end,' said Mrs Baker. `It was just like
poor Robert -- always thinking of me and the children. We are going to Sydney
next week.'
Andy looked relieved. We talked a little more, and Miss Standish
wanted to make coffee for us, but we had to go and see to our horses.
We got up and bumped against each other, and got each other's hats,
and promised Mrs Baker we'd come again.
`Thank you very much for coming,' she said, shaking hands with us.
`I feel much better now. You don't know how much you have relieved me.
Now, mind, you have promised to come and see me again for the last time.'
Andy caught her sister's eye and jerked his head towards the door
to let her know he wanted to speak to her outside.
`Good-bye, Mrs Baker,' he said, holding on to her hand. `And don't you fret.
You've -- you've got the children yet. It's -- it's all for the best;
and, besides, the Boss said you wasn't to fret.' And he blundered out
after me and Miss Standish.
She came out to the gate with us, and Andy gave her the packet.
`I want you to give that to her,' he said; `it's his letters and papers.
I hadn't the heart to give it to her, somehow.'
`Tell me, Mr M`Culloch,' she said. `You've kept something back --
you haven't told her the truth. It would be better and safer for me to know.
Was it an accident -- or the drink?'
`It was the drink,' said Andy. `I was going to tell you --
I thought it would be best to tell you. I had made up my mind to do it,
but, somehow, I couldn't have done it if you hadn't asked me.'
`Tell me all,' she said. `It would be better for me to know.'
`Come a little farther away from the house,' said Andy.
She came along the fence a piece with us, and Andy told her
as much of the