The Promised Land. Mudrooroo

shore.’

      Her clear young voice rose into a lament and everyone listened, though not with the same feelings. Mrs Crawley found the sentiments tedious and her husband soon lost interest. Sir George disliked the subject matter and wished that his young wife had chosen a more fitting song. It was only Amelia who seemed to appreciate the ballad and tapped out the time on her wrist. Then, as the song ran its course, she got to her feet and went to stand beside the singer. The girl, still out of sorts, scowled up at her grumpily before shaping her quivering lips into a little sad smile and thumping out the melody. Both sang out the final verses in a charming duo.

      ‘Come all young men and maidens, do bad company forsake,

      If tongue can tell our overthrow it will make your heart to ache;

      Young girls I pray be ruled by me, your wicked ways give o’er,

      For fear like us you spend your days upon this weary shore.’

      ‘A noble sentiment,’ observed Rebecca sardonically. ‘It would have done well for me if I too had heeded such advice; but enough of this levity. I remember a similar simple melody which I sang to my sweet child when last I saw him. How I miss him.’ She wiped away a fanciful tear before adding: ‘It was well received by Lord Steyne. Ah, those joyful, happy days, and so, like the convict lass, I shall sing my mournful lay.’

      She rose from the sofa, arranged the voluminous folds of her skirt, then went to the piano, took Lucy’s place and sang:

      ‘The rose upon the balcony the morning air perfuming

      Was leafless all the wintertime and pining for the spring;

      You ask me why her breath is sweet and why her cheek is blooming.

      It is because the sun is out and the birds begin to sing.’

      Mrs Crawley’s voice, it must be admitted, still retained some sweetness; but since the time she had sung the lyric to the appreciation she had described, it had dropped and the song was pitched too high for her. Still, she sang on to the end and curtsied to the polite applause.

      ‘Such beautiful sentiments,’ declared Sir George. ‘And so well projected that one would think oneself listening to an opera diva.’

      ‘Oh, Sir George,’ simpered Rebecca. ‘It brings a tear to my eye when I think of my once life. Here, there is nothing but harshness, a dreary harshness in which I languish.’

      ‘May you soon return to those pleasure groves in which you roamed,’ Sir George said with some feeling. He turned away as her eye lingered on his, then thinking awhile, he returned to that dark gaze and said: ‘I have been so concerned about those poor creatures that I have quite forgotten my wife. She is too delicate to essay the parched hinterland. I must find a place for her and a companion whilst I am on my journey of mercy.’

      ‘Sir George, I am at your service,’ quickly replied Rebecca. ‘Fear not, your life’s companion shall reside safely here whilst you brave the perils of your expedition. Such a soft dove needs a shelter and she shall have it here with me.’ And putting action to words, she turned and embraced Lucy, who had not been asked for her opinion or assent.

      ‘And so it is decided,’ Sir George said. ‘Lucy, you shall find a home here while I am on my travels. And as I have some excellent wine, we shall raise our glasses to the success of my expedition. Lucy, go and get two bottles of the claret.’

      His wife obeyed and when she was passing through the door, Amelia slipped out behind her. They had gone along the verandah only a few steps when the girl, with a little cry, flung herself into her friend’s arms.

      ‘I don’t want you to go,’ she cried petulantly. ‘I won’t let you go.’

      ‘Hush, child,’ Amelia replied, stroking her cheek. ‘When you are lonely, think of me and I shall be in your dreams.’

      ‘But I don’t want to be with that horrid old woman either. She smells of mothballs and dust. I want your smell. It’s ... it’s ...’ and not finishing her sentence she tugged her friend’s head down and tried to push her lips against her neck.

      ‘No, child, no,’ Amelia whispered, gently detaching herself from the embrace. ‘Now get the wine and when you return make excuses for me, say that I am indisposed or at prayer, or some such thing.’ And she slipped away, leaving Lucy alone except for a soft wet nose that slipped into her hand.

      ‘And I expect that you are going too,’ she exclaimed in mock anger at the dog. ‘Well, poof, who cares! I shall be as Clotho, the youngest Fate, and embroider a tapestry with scenes that show your mistress returning to me. I have that piece of canvas and now I shall begin on it when she leaves and continue on until she returns. O let there not be that other Fate, the third, Atropos, who cuts the thread that ends a life. Enough, I mix up the stories. The canvas is there and I will but place thereon the scenes in bright thread. Sweet Mela, I will get her to sketch in the scene for me.’

      CHAPTER TWO

      Once, the governor and his lady wife had added the bon to the ton; but that was years ago in the metropolis. In his scarlet jacket and plumed hat, Colonel Crawley, Governor of Westland, still looked resplendent, at least from. a distance. When one came closer, the shabbiness of his furnishments became apparent, though one had to admit that he looked a fine figure, as did his wife. Rebecca was costumed in a fine day dress and a bonnet with a profusion of flowers; but her apparel, even to a casual glance, had seen better days, as had the wearer of them. The bon had long deserted the ton.

      Still, they stood upright and seemingly self-possessed as the detachment of native police in their kepis, dark coats with silver buttons and shining boots trotted behind Sir George’s bughi, which (newer and better equipped than the governor himself, not to mention his carriage) approached them. Sir George, clad in a dark frock coat and with his head bare, though beside him rested a wide-brimmed planter’s straw hat, held the reins loosely and kept his eyes fixed ahead. Beside him was the heavily draped figure of Mrs Fraser. As her face was completely veiled, it was impossible to see the direction of her gaze; but a slim spectator, clad in the whitest of flimsy white, had no doubt that Amelia’s eyes were on her. Lucy fluttered a hand in loss, and drooped like a daisy under a warm breeze as the vehicle passed. Now she let her glance linger on the native police troop, headed by a solitary white man whose stout figure bounced in a somewhat ungainly fashion on his mount, though the fierce florid face with its sweeping salt-and-pepper moustache was enough to quell any criticism. He was an old soldier from the ranks who had fought at Waterloo in the infantry, and had come to his position only after a lifetime of active service.

      Sergeant Barron was as proud of his native recruits as he had been of his regiment. As he came abreast of the governor he shouted out: ‘Eyes right!’ The black policemen obeyed the command in perfect unison. The governor grunted in appreciation and then waited for the eight heavily laden drays to roll past. Each was driven by a police trooper who had tethered his horse behind. The line was long, but eventually it cleared the town and headed for a gap in the escarpment which led up to the flat inland plateau.

      The expedition was to have had an early start, but punctuality was not part of colonial life. In fact, once, some time ago, the clocks had all run down and they had been without time until the next ship arrived. Time was flexible and, what with one thing or another, it was noon by the time the expedition had assembled. Then there was a wait for the governor to arrive, and after that they had passed in review and trundled from the town along a rough rutted track which was considered a high road. This meandered through the coastal plain and then up a rise leading to the pass onto the flat inland plateau. At the head of the pass, Sir George stood up in the bughi and held up his hand to halt the line of vehicles behind him. He cast his eyes about, examining the country and finding not much to observe. The land was flat and featureless, the melancholy rutted track disappearing into the eastern horizon.

      He motioned the column forward then sat with a thump and shook the reins. They proceeded along the track and continued on until, as the sun was sinking, he decided it was the appropriate time to camp. He summoned the commander