Although it was not true.
‘I would come with you,’ the boy began, and hesitated.
Then why would not Harry come? There was no reason, except that it was not intended.
‘I would come if I wanted to,’ he shouted into his friend’s face.
And began to dig his heels into the sides of his horse.
‘But I do not,’ he cried. ‘Get on, then! Arr, get on! Or I will bust your ribs open!’
The two parties now rode in opposite directions. With the exception of Harry Robarts, whose fate was tormenting him, the spirits of all were considerably revived. The blackfellow Jackie, who rode still at the German’s right hand, was grinning as he bounced upon his horse’s shambly skeleton. There was a great deal the young native found incomprehensible but, at least, he was not dead. So the invisible rope that joined the cavalcade was slowly broken, and then, in the immediate landscape, nothing remained of the expedition except a small cairn of stones that marked the grave of Mr Palfreyman.
13
ALTHOUGH the money he had made was enough to have bought him absolution of his origins, Mr Bonner had never thought to aspire to gentle birth. That was a luxury he left to his wife, who did enjoy immensely both the triumphs and the punishments involved. The merchant enjoyed the money, having experienced the condition of errand lad, of blameworthy assistant, and of confidential clerk to several hard men. Ah, he did love the fortune that rendered him safe, so he considered, from attack by life, for, in the course of living, Mr Bonner had forgotten that the shell-less oyster is not more vulnerable than man. Safe in life, safe in death, the merchant liked to feel. In consequence, he had often tried to calculate, for how much, and from whom, salvation might be bought and, to ensure that his last entrance would be made through the right cedar door, had begun in secret to subscribe liberal sums to all denominations, including those of which he approved.
Intellectual, to say nothing of spiritual inquiry, was not, however, a serious occupation for a man. He was content to leave it to the women, or to some slightly comical specialist. If he had experienced yearnings of the spirit, he had come closest, though still not very close, to satisfying them by going out and thinning the buds from his camellia bushes, those fine, shiny, compact, inpenetrable shrubs that he had planted himself, and which had increased with his own magnificence. Although their flowers suffered in the end from perfection, and their reliable evergreen charms became a bore as the season progressed, that was really what he liked: the unchanging answer to his expectations. Take his God, for instance. If his God had not been a bore, Mr Bonner might have suspected Him. Instead, his respect for the Divine Will had approximated very closely to the respect in which he held his own. Associated for many years in what he had supposed an approved commerce, it had begun only now to dawn upon the draper that some cruel surprise was being prepared.
It was his niece, Laura Trevelyan, who had caused Mr Bonner’s world of substance to quake.
‘We hope to persuade Miss Trevelyan to try the sea-water bathing.’
On this occasion he had come round the glass partition, and waited for Palethorpe, his right hand, to close the ledger the latter had been fingering.
‘What is your opinion of sea-water bathing, Palethorpe?’ Mr Bonner asked, which was humble, indeed, for him.
Palethorpe, who had decided early in life that opinions were dangerous, replied rather carefully:
‘It depends, sir, altogether, I should say, upon the constitution of the person concerned.’
‘That could well be,’ agreed his disappointed employer.
‘Without studying the constitution, it would not be possible to express any opinion at all.’
Palethorpe hoped that he was saved.
But Mr Bonner churned the cash in his trouser pocket, his good money, out of which Palethorpe was paid, by all standards liberally. The merchant was generous enough, for he hated dispute and discomfort. Now, as was only natural, he felt himself to be cheated of his rights.
‘But you know my niece!’ he cried, in some impatience.
Delay always turned him red.
‘It is true, sir,’ Palethorpe admitted, ‘the young lady is known to me. By acquaintance, though, not by scientific study.’
No one could take exception to Palethorpe, with the result that he had got so far and no farther. He was above ambition. The colonial air had not destroyed his willingness to serve a master; both he and his discreet wife were of the doormat class, although of that superior quality which some impeccable doormats have. Sometimes the couple would discuss the feet that used them, or would lay evidence before each other, it might be more correct to say, for discussion implies criticism, and the Palethorpes did not criticize.
For instance, Mrs Palethorpe would begin:
‘I do believe the paisley shawl suits me better than I would have thought. Do you not consider, Mr Palethorpe, the shawl suits me, after all?’
‘Yes, yes. Very well. Very well,’ her husband answered steamily.
For, on this, as on almost every occasion, they were sipping tea. They were both near and far. In each other’s company, the Palethorpes always were.
‘The pattern suits me. I can carry it off. Being rather slim. Now stout ladies, I do not intend to criticize, it is not my habit, as you know, but Mrs Bonner cannot resist a large pattern.’
‘Mrs Bonner is of a generous, one might even say an embarrassingly generous nature. It was kindness itself to hand on the shawl.’
‘Oh, I appreciate it, Mr Palethorpe. It was the height of generosity. Mrs Bonner is of that character which is definitely sustained by generous giving. She is for ever pressing presents.’
‘And after so little wear. The paisley shawl is of the July consignment. I can remember well. Some ladies did consider the patterns a little florid for their tastes.’
‘But tastes do differ.’
‘Even perfect tastes. We cannot deny, Edith, that Mrs Bonner is in perfect taste.’
‘Oh, Mr Palethorpe, do not mortify me! If I was to harbour such a thought. Not in perfect taste!’
‘And Miss Belle.’
‘And we must not forget poor Miss Trevelyan.’
‘No.’
‘Although she is an intellectual young lady, and sometimes rather quiet.’
The Palethorpes sipped their tea.
‘The little girl is grown a pretty child. But serious, one would say,’ Mr Palethorpe resumed.
‘Altogether like, pardon me, like Miss Trevelyan. Which is pure coincidence, of course, for the little girl is not hers.’
The Palethorpes did grow steamy over tea in that climate.
Then Mrs Palethorpe asked:
‘How long is it, would you say, since the expedition left?’
‘I did make a note of it, as of all events of importance, but without consulting my journal, I could not speak with certainty.’
‘I would not inconvenience you,’ Mrs Palethorpe said.
She stirred her tea.
‘That Mr Voss, Mr Palethorpe, I have never asked, but did he not impress you as, to say the least, well, I do not wish to be vulgar, but, a funny sort of man?’
‘He is a German.’
Then Mrs Palethorpe asked with inordinate courage:
‘Do you consider this German is acceptable to Mr Bonner?’
Her husband changed position.
‘I do not know,’ he said, ‘and am too discreet to ask.’
Then, when his wife was crushed, he added:
‘But I do know, from long association with my employer, that Mr Bonner will not see what he does not wish to see, and all Sydney waiting for him to remove the blinkers.’
Mr Palethorpe gave a high, thin laugh, which was full of feeling, therefore quite unlike him.