Beyond The Blue Mountains

“Tom,” said Marcus, with a swift change of ma

Margery stood up eagerly. She wondered if he knew she had told; she supposed he might guess. There was no hint of reproach though in his eyes. Was he thinking Mistress Carolan was a virago not worth the pursuit? Was he noticing the loveliness born of love, in Esther’s face? A man such as he was would have known many women; there would have been spirited beauties like Carolan before, like as not; but a modest violet, an i

And now this new man … His eyes went round the room. Carolan, Margery, Esther, and Carolan again! No, no! No man could ever want the modest violet when the rich red rose was his for the plucking.

“You’re Marcus’s friend!” She was throwing sweetness all over her anger, dampening it down, though it smouldered through the sweetness.

“He was telling us about you.”

“Well now!” said the man, and he could not take his eyes from her.

She was for all the world like a lady receiving her guests. The man was of lowly stock; he hadn’t the breeding of Marcus. He was quivering with pleasure at the sight of her; he was wondering why her smiles were all for him.

“Margery,” she said, just as though she were the mistress and Margery rather a favoured servant.

“Margery, couldn’t we have a little celebration?”

It was queer how, if you were a servant by nature, and a lady or gentleman by nature, you slipped into your parts naturally enough, thought Margery. She wanted to say: “Here. This is Mr. Masterman’s house, this is. You’re only a servant… a convict at that! Who are you to give yourself airs!” But she didn’t. She was reckless, and she didn’t care if Mr. Masterman himself came in and found them and took her to task. She had to obey. She was sorry for her, anyway; she was sorry for having told her; because they were made for each other, and heaven knew there wasn’t nearly enough loving in the world.

“All right then, but we mustn’t make too much noise.” The way of entry is a leap over the window-sill.” said Carolan, and he leaped in.

“You are very hospitable,” said Marcus, trying to catch her eye.

Carolan laughed, but she did not look at Marcus.

“If those above knew we entertained our friends, there would be some severe reprimands, I feel sure.”

Tom Blake said hesitatingly: “We wouldn’t want to be making trouble for you.”

His voice had the tang of the Thames in it. Margery thought it was like a breath of fresh air from home.

“Trouble!” said Mistress Carolan.

“Who cares?”

That was her mood, reckless, angry and hurt.

Margery went to the cupboard and brought out a bottle of spirits. I never knew anything like this, she thought. Suppose someone was to come in Suppose Mr. Masterman himself… not that he comes to the kitchen … but it might get to his ears. Convict entertaining convict!

They sat round the table. Marcus was talking to Esther, but it was easy to see he was thinking of Carolan. Carolan talked vivaciously to the newcomer; he was dazed. Margery could see he had never known anyone like her before. His experience of women would have been picked up in Thames-side taverns. His admiration was buoying the girl up while she swam away from the misery of loving Marcus. Margery joined in now and then, though she was content to watch them. It was as good as the play to sit here and watch them, and to know that she was the master-hand behind it all; she had jerked these people into action; in a measure she controlled their movements; it was balm to wounded vanity. Watching, laughing secretly, she forgot that James was missing a night now and then, that his love’ making was getting more casual than urgent.

Tom Blake was talking to Carolan in his stilted way; in every tone of his voice, in every glance.he expressed his admiration.He had got the land; he had got a grant from the government. There was more money to be made in this new country than in the old. One day and that day not far distant he might be a rich man. Marcus talked to Esther, their heads close together. He was tired of a criminal’s life; he had seen a chance to escape it, escape it for ever. Could he not expiate his sins of the past by leading an exemplary life? Eventually he would get his ticket of leave; a ticket of leave man was all but free. And if he worked hard, became a respectable, honest citizen … why, what did this country need to exploit its riches as much as respectable, honest citizens? He had practised deceit, God knew, to get to this; but could he not work out his salvation?

Oh, he could! He could! Miss Mealy Mouth clasped her hands, and her eyes adored him. Margery laughed into her glass. She thought she loved him for his strivings towards the right; but she loved him for his merry blue eyes, and the movements of his hands, and the softness of his voice and the things he said, and the way he could caress a woman with a smile or a word. Did she not see that he was playing her off against Carolan, just as Carolan was playing off this other fellow against him? And all the time they wanted one another, were made for one another.

James put his head round the door; he jerked his head towards Carolan.

“She’s wanted upstairs… sharp!” Carolan stood up, a hostess no longer, a servant, a convict servant.

“Goodbye,” she said, all gracious again.

“I shall see you again soon, I hope.”

Tom Blake rose to his feet and took the hand she offered. He looked as if he would have bowed had he not felt that he would appear ridiculous so doing. Marcus looked on superciliously.

“Goodbye,” said Carolan, and her eyes flicked him hastily.

Marcus stood up. He bowed ironically.

“Such a pity you have to go when we were enjoying ourselves so much!”

She moved towards the door, gracious as a queen. A pity she hadn’t a train to sweep instead of that faded old yellow!

When she had gone there seemed no longer any point in continuing the party. The men left. Esther went back to her sink. Margery started to scold her; she felt rather ashamed of herself and had to take it out of someone.

Carolan went slowly upstairs. She felt strung up, full of sadness and cynicism, thinking: First I loved a coward; then I loved a rogue. My own fault for loving the wrong people. Poor Everard, he had had a mission in life; he had had a family; they were too strong for him. And Marcus? Marcus had had bad luck and the cruelty of life was too strong for him, so he became a schemer and a rogue and a philanderer and a prostitute. I loved the wrong people.

She tapped at Mrs. Masterman’s door. There was no answer, so she went in. The room was empty.

A voice called: “In here please!”

It was Mr. Masterman in the toilet-room.

Her colour heightened, a certain fear rising within her, she went through.

He was standing with his back to the door, and he was holding something in his hands. He did not turn. It seemed that he did not want to look at her.

“This coat of mine,” he said.

“I have spilt some wine on it. My wife tells me that you remove stains from her garments most satisfactorily …”

She approached. She took the coat from him.

“I will do my best,” she said, and she could not prevent a cold dignity from creeping into her voice.

Thank you,” he said.

She took the coat, and as she took it she lifted her face and looked at him; he was looking at her. There was a trace of interest in his eyes. She felt the blush deepen in her cheeks. He had noticed her then! Even he! He was interested in her … mildly of course. It was fu