Patrick White - The Fringe of Leaves

Captain Lovell continued embellishing the name ‘Chance’ with curlicues. ‘How did he treat you?’

‘With the greatest kindness and consideration.’

‘His reputation is not of the best.’

‘Oh, I know he is a crude man. But I am used to crudeness, Captain Lovell.’

She looked at him to reinforce her assertion, and his blue eyes snapped at her.

‘Haven’t I lived among the blacks? But had I not, to live is to experience crudeness.’

‘From what I have heard of the Roxburgh family, I should have thought, Mrs Roxburgh, that you had led a sheltered life.’

‘The mind is not always sheltered, Captain Lovell, from its own thoughts and imaginings.’

It must have sounded eccentric. She could read distaste in the expression of his mouth; he was only used, no doubt, to sweetness and compliance in a woman.

‘The man Chance,’ he asked, ‘how is it that, after accompanying you on this arduous journey, in what can be termed a gallant rescue, he ran back into the bush on reaching the Oakes’s farm?’

‘He was frightened, of course.’

‘But could he not imagine that his action might weigh in his favour, perhaps even earn him a pardon?’

‘I promised him a pardon.’

The Commandant frowned.

‘But he was still frightened, naturally,’ she said, ‘after all he suffered. The scars are in his back.’

‘Those were from the old days,’ Captain Lovell grumbled.

Then he looked at his witness and asked, ‘You did not by any chance discourage him, did you? I have known men frightened by forceful women.’

‘He is a forceful man. He cannot have been discouraged by any action on my part. I promised him a pardon,’ she insisted.

‘My dear Mrs Roxburgh, the pardon is for His Excellency to grant, upon my own recommendation.’

She had begun twisting her hands. ‘But I promised it, Captain Lovell! I have nothing left in life, not even my wedding-ring, which I preserved till the last day — and lost. Nothing, I tell you! It is for this reason — and surely I deserve some reward for all I have undergone? for this that I insist on a pardon for my rescuer.’

After she had subsided into unhappy silence the Commandant seemed to be listening for reverberations.

‘Perhaps you do not realize, Mrs Roxburgh, that the man was convicted for the brutal murder of his mistress, herself a slut of the lowest order.’

‘Oh, Captain Lovell,’ she cried, ‘most of us are guilty of brutal acts, if not actual murder. Don’t condemn him simply for that. He is also a man who has suffered the brutality of life and been broken by it.’

She could hear, she could feel herself, gasping with the desperation of the farmyard in which she was reared: the calf with the knife at its throat; the hissing goose whose neck she herself had severed; more relevant, and worse, she could see the terror in Jack Chance’s eyes, and the mouth on which her own had failed to impress that loving-kindness which inspires trust.

The Commandant poured his prisoner a generous quantity of brandy. ‘You are carried away by a tender heart,’ he decided with approval, to which was added the slightest dash of irony.

‘Duty’, she protested, ‘will not allow me to keep silent.’

Would his sense of irony persuade him to question her claim? She was almost too shaken by emotion, as well as too fogged by brandy, to care which direction her defence took. The tumbler with only the dregs left was hanging aslant in her hand.

When suddenly she asked, because it had been nagging at her, ‘Who is the other survivor?’

‘A fellow named Pilcher, the second mate, who was in command of the pinnace when it became separated from the long-boat in a storm. Do you remember?’

‘I remember Mr Pilcher the second mate.’

‘But the circumstances in which you last saw him?’

‘Yes, I expect I do. But it was all storms for weeks on end — and dreams — or nightmares. I believe I was delirious for much of the time, from drinking sea-water — and the birth of my little boy. Had not Mr Roxburgh sustained me throughout, I would not be here.’

She had stood the empty tumbler on the desk, and sat twisting the invisible band on her ring-finger.

‘I think’, said the Commandant with cruel persistence, ‘I should bring you together with your fellow survivor. He is a little unhinged, poor wretch. He is working at present as a clerk at the Commissariat, and shows no inclination to proceed south or be forwarded home. Yes, I think you should meet. The exchange of common experiences may exorcize some of the ghosts in your recollections.’ The Commandant was standing above his victim, looking down upon her with what could have been scientific detachment or vindictiveness, though if taken to task, he might have professed solicitude.

‘I am willing to see Mr Pilcher and hear his story.’

The Commandant sprung open his watch, and at the same moment, a gong sounded in the outer regions. ‘Excellent!’ he declared. ‘I hope you are as ready as I for dinner. I am told there is a suckling pig. Or chaudfroid of fowl if you prefer it. And sillabub.’

‘Thank you, I have no appetite. I would rather go to my room.’

‘But will receive Pilcher this evening?’

‘If you and Mr Pilcher wish it.’

Mrs Lovell herself tried to tempt their guest to a very small helping of the chaudfroid, or at least a glass of sillabub, both of which she refused.

Mrs Roxburgh might have dozed had she not been lying so straight and tense in anticipation of the threatened visit. There were intimations of thunder besides, followed by a plashing of rain, a sluicing of leaves in the darkened garden. As aftermath, a scent of citrus and laid dust invaded the room. Even the light seemed to have been washed: it wore a pronounced, lemon gloss; the shadows were a bluer black.

Presently Miss Scrimshaw came to suggest she join them at the tea-table. ‘Your spirits will be lowered,’ she warned, ‘lying here alone in the dark.’

But Mrs Roxburgh declined tea. She casually remarked that she was still ‘half-expecting a visit’.

Miss Scrimshaw’s discretion was severely taxed, but she thought to reply, ‘Perhaps the person did not care to set out through the storm, and now that it is late, has decided to postpone coming. Your friend’s company should be doubly agreeable tomorrow.’

Mrs Roxburgh did not enlighten the spinster on her friend’s sex or the nature of the visit, and Miss Scrimshaw, who flourished on mystery, went away burgeoning.

The day following the visit that failed to materialize, Mrs Roxburgh rose even earlier than on her first morning at Moreton Bay and dressed herself in her black Paramatta, which those who served her had returned brushed and decent to her room. During the night she had conceived the notion of taking a solitary walk to acquaint herself with the neighbourhood before human activities influenced its character. That her own mind might influence what she saw and heard was a possibility she easily dismissed.

All was much as she had experienced already in company with Jack Chance the convict: the dust, the stones, the ruts over and against which she was soon toiling; the native trees scrubbier and more deformed for their contact with intrusive man; stone and brick houses in sturdy imitation of a tradition, together with more slapdash hovels in currency daub-and-wattle. It was the hour before arthritic age and inquisitive innocence begin to stir; the humblest dwelling still buzzed with the respectability conferred by sleep. Catching sight of the stranger, a sow with a string of squealing piglets galloped for safety, and a red, cankered dog snapped at the folds in a trailing skirt.

Upon climbing the hill she reached the inactive wind- or treadmill, round about it a litter of corn-cobs stripped of grain, near by a hand-cart which had lost a wheel. Children might have left off playing here had the scale of things been a lesser one and her knowledge incomplete. She crossed the trampled grass separating her from the stationary mill, to touch nail-heads which feet had polished in the worn boards, and become re-acquainted with some of the stations of purgatory.