The Getting of Wisdom. Henry Handel Richardson

ride had comforted Pin a little; but when they had passed the chief stores and the flour-mill, and were come to a part of the road where the houses were fewer, her tears broke out afresh. The very last house was left behind, the high machinery of the claims came into view, the watery flats where Chinamen were for ever rocking washdirt in cradles; and O'Donnell dismounted and opened the door. He lifted the three out one by one, shaking his head in humorous dismay at Pin, and as little Frank showed sighs of beginning, too, by puckering up his face and [P.22] doubling up his body, the kindly man tried to make them laugh by asking if he had the stomach-ache. Laura had one more glimpse of the children standing hand in hand—even in her trouble Pin did not forget her charges—then a sharp bend in the road hid them from her sight.

      She was alone in the capacious body of the coach, alone, and the proud excitement of parting was over. The staunchly repressed tears welled up with a gush, and flinging herself down across the seat she cried bitterly. It was not a childishly irresponsible grief like Pin's: it was more passionate, and went deeper; and her overloaded feelings were soon relieved. But as she was not used to crying, she missed the moment at which she might have checked herself, and went on shedding tears after they had become a luxury.

      "Why, goodness gracious, what's this?" cried a loud, cheerful and astonished voice, and a fat, rosy face beamed in on Laura. "Why, here's a little girl in here, cryin' fit to break 'er heart. Come, come, my dear, what's the matter? Don't cry like that, now don't."

      The coach had stopped, the door opened and a stout woman climbed in, bearing a big basket, and followed by a young man with straw-coloured whiskers. Laura sat up like a dart and pulled her hat straight, crimson with mortification at being discovered in such a plight. She had instantly curbed her tears, but she could not disguise the fact that she had red eyes and a swollen nose—that she was in short what Sarah called "all bunged up". She made no reply to the newcomer's exclamations, but sat clutching her handkerchief and staring out of the window. The woman's good-natured curiosity, however, was not to be done.

      "You poor little thing, you!" she persisted. "Wherever are you goin', my dear, so alone?"

      "I'm going to boarding-school," said Laura, and shot a glance at the couple opposite.

      "To boardin'-school? Peter! D'you hear?—Why, whatever's your ma thinkin' of to send such a little chick as you to boardin'-school? … and so alone, too."

      Laura's face took on a curious air of dignity.

      "I'm not so very little," she answered; and went on to explain, in phrases which she had heard so often that she knew them by heart: "Only small for my age. I was twelve in spring. And I have to go to school, because I've learnt all I can at home."

      This failed to impress the woman.

      "Snakes alive!—that's young enough in all conscience. And such a delicate little creature, too. Just like that one o' Sam MacFarlane's that popped off last Christmas—isn't she, Peter?"

      Peter, who avoided looking at Laura, sheepishly mumbled something about like enough she was.

      "And who IS your ma, my dear? What's your name?" continued her interrogator.

      Laura replied politely; but there was a reserve in her manner which, together with the name she gave, told enough: the widow, Laura's mother, had the reputation of being very "stuck-up", and of bringing up her children in the same way.

      The woman did not press Laura further; she whispered something behind her hand to Peter, then searching in her basket found a large, red apple, which she held out with an encouraging nod and smile.

      "Here, my dear. Here's something for you. Don't cry any more, don't now. It'll be all right."

      Laura, who was well aware that she had not shed a tear since the couple entered the coach, coloured deeply, and made a movement, half shy, half unwilling, to put her hands behind her.

      "Oh no, thank you," she said in extreme embarrassment, not wishing to hurt the giver's feelings. "Mother doesn't care for us to take things from strangers."

      "Bless her soul!" cried the stout woman in amaze. "It's only an apple! Now, my dear, just you take it, and make your mind easy. Your ma wouldn't have nothin' against it to-day, I'm sure o' that—goin' away so far and all so alone like this.—It's sweet and juicy."

      "It's Melb'm you'll be boun' for I dessay?" said the yellow-haired Peter so suddenly that Laura started.

      She confirmed this, and let her solemn eyes rest on him wondering why he was so red and fidgety and uncomfortable. The woman said: "Tch, tch, tch!" at the length of the journey Laura was undertaking, and Peter, growing still redder, volunteered another remark.

      "I was nigh to bein' in Melb'm once meself," he said.

      "Aye, and he can't never forget it, the silly loon," threw in the woman, but so good-naturedly that it was impossible, Laura felt, for Peter to take offence.

      She gazed at the pair, speculating upon the relation they stood in to each other. She had obediently put out her hand for the apple, and now sat holding it, without attempting to eat it. It had not been Mother's precepts alone that had weighed with her in declining it; she was mortified at the idea of being bribed, as it were, to be good, just as though she were Pin or one of the little boys. It was a punishment on her for having been so babyish as to cry; had she not been caught in the act, the woman would never have ventured to be so familiar.—The very largeness and rosiness of the fruit made it hateful to her, and she turned over in her mind how she could get rid of it.

      As the coach bumped along, her fellow-passengers sat back and shut their eyes. The road was shadeless; beneath the horses' feet a thick red dust rose like smoke. The grass by the wayside, under the scattered gum trees or round the big black boulders that dotted the hillocks, was burnt to straw. In time, Laura also grew drowsy, and she was just falling into a doze when, with a jerk, the coach pulled up at the "Halfway House." Here her companions alighted, and there were more nods and smiles from the woman.

      "You eat it, my dear. I'm sure your ma won't say nothin'," was her last remark as she pushed the swing-door and vanished into the house, followed by Peter.

      Then the driver's pleasant face appeared at the window of the coach. In one hand he held a glass, in the other a bottle of lemonade.

      "Here, little woman, have a drink. It's warm work ridin'."

      Now this was quite different from the matter of the apple. Laura's throat was parched with dust and tears. She accepted the offer gratefully, thinking as she drank how envious Pin would be, could she see her drinking bottle-lemonade.

      Then the jolting and rumbling began anew. No one else got in, and when they had passed the only two landmarks she knew—the leprous Chinaman's hut and the market garden of Ah Chow, who twice a week jaunted at a half-trot to the township with his hanging baskets, to supply people with vegetables—when they had passed these, Laura fell asleep. She wakened with a start to find that the coach had halted to apply the brakes, at the top of the precipitous hill that led down to the railway township. In a two-wheeled buggy this was an exciting descent; but the coach jammed on both its brakes, moved like a snail, and seemed hardly able to crawl.

      At the foot of the hill the little town lay sluggish in the sun. Although it was close on midday, but few people were astir in the streets; for the place had long since ceased to be an important mining centre: the chief claims were worked out; and the coming of the railway had been powerless to give it the impetus to a new life. It was always like this in these streets of low, verandahed, red-brick houses, always dull and sleepy, and such animation as there was, was invariably to be found before the doors of the many public-houses.

      At one of these the coach stopped and unloaded its goods, for an interminable time. People came and looked in at the window at Laura, and she was beginning to feel alarmed lest O'Donnell, who had gone inside, had forgotten all about her having to catch the train, when out he came, wiping his lips.

      "Now for the livin' luggage!" he said with a wink, and Laura drew back in confusion from the laughter of a group of larrikins round the door.

      It