Robbery Under Arms, Rolf Boldrewood [pdf e book reader txt] 📗

drop of rain, seemingly, that had made the grass green and everything look grand. What a time had passed over since I thought whether it was spring, or summer, or winter! It didn’t make much odds to me in there, only to drive me wild now and again with thinkin’ of what was goin’ on outside, and how I was caged up and like to be for months and years.

Things began little by little to look the way they used to do long and long ago. Now it was an old overhanging limb that had arched over the road since we were boys; then there was a rock with a big kurrajong tree growing near it. When we came to the turn off where we could see Nulla Mountain everything came back to me. I seemed to have had two lives; the old one⁠—then a time when I was dead, or next door to it⁠—now this new life. I felt as if I was just born.

“We’ll get down here now,” I said, when we came near the dividing fence; “it ain’t far to walk. That’s your road.”

“I’ll run you up to the door,” says he, “it isn’t far; you ain’t used to walking much.”

He let out his horse and we trotted through the paddock up to the old hut.

“The garden don’t look bad,” says he. “Them peaches always used to bear well in the old man’s time, and the apples and quinces too. Someone’s had it took care on and tidied up a bit. There, you’ve got a friend or two left, old man. And I’m one, too,” says he, putting out his hand and giving mine a shake. “There ain’t anyone in these parts as’ll cast it up to you as long as you keep straight. You can look ’em all in the face now, and bygones’ll be bygones.”

Then he touched up his horse and rattled off before I could so much as say “Thank ye.”

I walked through the garden and sat down in the verandah on one of the old benches. There was the old place, mighty little altered considering. The hut had been mended up from time to time⁠—now a slab and then a sheet of bark⁠—else it would have been down long enough ago. The garden had been dug up, and the trees trimmed year by year. A hinge had been put on the old gate, and a couple of slip-rails at the paddock. The potato patch at the bottom of the garden was sown, and there were vegetables coming on in the old beds. Someone had looked after the place; of course, I knew who it was.

It began to get coldish, and I pulled the latch⁠—it was there just the same⁠—and went into the old room. I almost expected to see mother in her chair, and father on the stool near the fireplace, where he used to sit and smoke his pipe. Aileen’s was a little low chair near mother’s. Jim and I used to be mostly in the verandah, unless it was very cold, and then we used to lie down in front of the fire⁠—that is, if dad was away, as he mostly was.

The room felt cold and dark as I looked in. So dreadful lonely, too. I almost wished I was back in the gaol.

When I looked round again I could see things had been left ready for me, so as I wasn’t to find myself bad off the first night. The fire was all made up ready to light, and matches on the table ready. The kettle was filled, and a basket close handy with a leg of mutton, and bread, butter, eggs, and a lot of things⁠—enough to last me a week. The bedroom had been settled up too, and there was a good, comfortable bed ready for any tired man to turn into. Better than all, there was a letter, signed “Your own Gracey,” that made me think I might have some life left worth living yet.

I lit the fire, and after a bit made shift to boil some tea; and after I’d finished what little I could eat I felt better, and sat down before the fire to consider over things. It was late enough⁠—midnight⁠—before I turned in. I couldn’t sleep then; but at last I must have dropped off, because the sun was shining into the room, through the old window with the broken shutter, when I awoke.

At first I didn’t think of getting up. Then I knew, all of a sudden, that I could open the door and go out. I was in the garden in three seconds, listening to the birds and watching the clouds rising over Nulla Mountain.

That morning, after breakfast, I saw two people, a man and a woman, come riding up to the garden gate. I knew who it was as far as I could see ’em⁠—George Storefield and Gracey. He lifted her down, and they walked up through the garden. I went a step or two to meet them. She ran forward and threw herself into my arms. George turned away for a bit. Then I put her by, and told her to sit down on the verandah while I had a talk with George. He shook hands with me, and said he was glad to see me a free man again. “I’ve worked a bit, and got others to work too,” says he; “mostly for her, and partly for your own sake, Dick. I can’t forget old times. Now you’re your own man again, and I won’t insult you by saying I hope you’ll keep so; I know it, as sure as we stand here.”

“Look here, George,” I said, “as there’s a God in heaven, no man shall ever be able to say a word against me again. I think more of what you’ve done for me almost than of poor Gracey’s holding fast. It came natural to her. Once a woman takes to a man, it don’t matter