The Black Opal, Katharine Susannah Prichard [i have read the book a hundred times txt] 📗

Potch was disappointed, and so was Michael, that Sophie would not go to the races, which were held during the year of her return. They went, and Rouminof trotted off by himself, quite early. Sophie did not want to see all the strangers who would be in Fallen Star for race-day, she said⁠—people from the river selections, the stations, and country towns. Late in the afternoon, as she was going to see Ella Bryant, to offer to mind the baby while Ella and Bully went to the ball, she saw Martha was at home, a drift of smoke coming from the chimney of her hut.

Sophie went to the back door of the hut and stood in the doorway.

“Are you there, Martha?” she called.

“That you, Sophie?” Martha queried. “Come in!”

Sophie went into the kitchen. Martha had a big fire, and her room was full of its hot glare. She was ironing at a table against the wall, and freshly laundered, white clothes were hanging to a line stretched from above the window to a nail on the inner wall. She looked up happily as Sophie appeared, sweat streaming from her fat, jolly face.

“I was just thinking of you, dearie,” she exclaimed, putting the iron on an upturned tin, and straightening out the flounces of the dress she was at work on. “Lovely day it’s been for the races, hasn’t it? Sit down. I’ll be done d’reckly, and am going to make a cup of tea before I go over to help Mrs. Newton a bit with dinner. My, she’s got her hands full over there⁠—with all the crowd up!⁠ ⁠… Don’t think I ever did see such a crowd at the races, Sophie.”

Martha’s iron flashed and swung backwards and forth. Sophie watched the brawny forearm which wielded the iron. Hard and as brown as the branch of a tree it was, from above the elbow where her sleeve was rolled back to the wrist; the hand fastened over the iron, red and dappled with great golden-brown freckles; the nails of its short, thick fingers, broken, dirt lying in thick, black wedges beneath them. As her other hand moved over the dress, preparing the way for the iron, Sophie saw its work-worn palm, the lines on it driven deep with scouring, scrubbing, and years of washing clothes, and cleaning other folks’ houses. She thought of the work those hands of Martha’s had done for Fallen Star; how Martha had looked after sick people, brought babies into the world, nursed the mothers, mended, washed, sewed, and darned, giving her help wherever it was needed. Always good-natured, hearty, healthy, and wholesome, what a wonderful woman she was, Mother M’Cready, Sophie exclaimed to herself.

Martha was as excited as any girl on the Ridge, ironing her dress now, and getting ready for the ball. Sophie wondered how old she was. She did not look any older than when she first remembered her; but people said Martha must be sixty if she was a day. And she loved a dance, Sophie knew. She could dance, too, Mother M’Cready. The boys said she could dance like a two-year-old.

“What are you going to wear to the ball, Sophie?” Martha asked. “I suppose you’ve got some real nice dresses you brought from America.”

“I’m not going,” Sophie said,

“Not going?” Martha’s iron came down with a bang, her blue eyes flashed wide with astonishment. “The idea! Not goin’ to the Ridge ball⁠—the first since you came home? I never heard of such a thing.⁠ ⁠… ‘Course you’re going, Sophie!”

Sophie’s glance left Martha’s big, busy figure. It went through the open doorway. The sunshine was garish on the plains, although the afternoon was nearly over.

“Why aren’t you goin’?” Martha pursued. “Why? What’ll your father say? And Michael? And Potch? We’d all been looking forward to seein’ you there like you used to be, Sophie. And⁠ ⁠… here was me doin’ up my dress extra special, thinkin’ Sophie’ll be that grand in the dresses she’s brought from America⁠ ⁠… we’ll all have to smarten a bit to keep up with her.⁠ ⁠…”

Tears swam in Sophie’s eyes at the naive and genial admiration of what Martha had said.

“It’ll spoil the ball if you’re not there,” Martha insisted, her iron flashing vigorously. “It just won’t be⁠—the ball⁠—and everything looking as if it were goin’ to be the biggest ball ever was on the Ridge. Everybody’ll be that disappointed⁠—”

“Do you think they will, Martha?” Sophie queried.

“I don’t think; I know.”

A little smile, sceptical yet wistful, hovered in Sophie’s eyes.

“And it don’t seem fair to Potch neither.”

“Potch?”

“Yes⁠ ⁠… you hidin’ yourself away as if you weren’t happy⁠—and going to marry the best lad in the country.” The iron came down emphatically, Martha working it as vigorously and intently as she was thinking.

“There’s some says Potch isn’t a match for you now, Sophie. Not since you went away and got manners and all.⁠ ⁠… They can’t tell why you’re goin’ to marry Potch. But as I said to Mrs. Watty the other day, I said: ‘Sophie isn’t like that. She isn’t like that at all. It’s the man she goes for, and Potch is good enough for a princess to take up with.’ That’s what I said; and I don’t mind who knows it.⁠ ⁠…”

Sophie had got up and gone to the door while Martha was talking. She was amused at the idea of Mrs. Watty having forgiven her sufficiently to think that Potch was not a good enough match for her.

“Besides⁠ ⁠… I did want you to go, Sophie,” Martha continued. “They’re all coming over from Warria⁠—Mr. and Mrs. Henty and the girls, and Mrs. Arthur. They’ve got a party staying with them, up from Sydney⁠ ⁠… and most of them have put up at Newton’s for the night.⁠ ⁠…”

She glanced at Sophie to see how she was taking this news. But no flicker of concern changed the thoughtful mask of Sophie’s features as she leaned in the doorway looking out to the blue fall of the afternoon sky.

“They’re coming over to see how