Winds of Evil. Arthur W. UpfieldЧитать онлайн книгу.
The baker, the storekeeper, the policeman and half a dozen women, who had seemingly evolved from space, rushed to the house side of the mail-car; while, once more on her feet, glasses glued to her eyes, Mrs. Nelson danced like a willy wagtail. The passengers she saw emerge from the car, and the little crowd appeared to be strangely stilled. Then the robust figure of Dr. Mulray appeared, when there was suddenly much loud talking. The wind permitted Mrs. Nelson to hear not a word.
One of the passengers then pressed to the side of the car and there slid into his arms a crumpled figure in a blue dress. He was a big man, and he carried with ease the limp body into the doctor’s house, immediately followed by Dr. Mulray himself.
Mrs. Nelson lowered the glasses. She was repeating over and over: “Oh, dear! Oh, dear! Oh, dear!”
She saw Fred Storrie come racing to the hotel corner in answer to James’s shout. He ran on to the doctor’s house, and the male portion of the crowd stared after him when he rushed inside.
And then the first of a long succession of sand waves rolled over the township, blotting out Nogga Creek and the Common, smearing into semi-obscurity the bakery on the far side of the street. Mrs. Nelson almost collapsed into her chair. She went on repeating softly as though stunned:
“Oh, dear! Oh, dear! Oh, dear!”
Chapter Three
The Wind
“Martin, aren’t you well this morning?”
The strong but well-modulated voice penetrated the consciousness of the young man lying on the bed. About him, washing against him, and against the bed, were the strange and yet familiar vibrations set up by the gale of wind sweeping over and about the stout Wirragatta homestead.
Martin Borradale stirred, opened his grey eyes, moved wide his arms. The light from the tall closed french windows was of tinted yellow. It cast the girl’s face in shadow, which was yet no shadow, and it laid a shade of drabness over the interior of the room which normally was very pleasant. Round of head, her dressing-gown-encased body long and beautifully curved and set firmly on small feet, Stella Borradale regarded her brother from the foot of the bed.
“Hullo, old thing! Phew! I feel deadly,” replied Martin. “I’ve got a headache and lots of other aches as well. I might have been playing football half the night instead of dancing.”
Stella’s next question was without trace of irritation. “How much did you drink in Carie?”
The young man winced.
“Not much, old girl,” he confessed. “Four cocktails all told. They bucked me up, anyway. I was not feeling up to scratch all yesterday. I hate these dust-storms. Is it bad again today?”
“It’s vile. It is going to be worse than yesterday, I think. I’ve brought the morning-tea.”
“What’s the time?”
“A few minutes after ten. There’s nothing to get up for if you’re not fit.”
“Then I’ll snooze off again after I’ve drunk the tea. By the look of it and the sound of it no one of us will be able to work. Has there been a telephone message, or a telegram from Carie?”
“No. You’ve often asked that question lately. Are you expecting a wire?”
Borradale hesitated for a fraction of a second before saying: “Well yes, perhaps. I’ve been hoping to receive a visit from a man from Brisbane. Personal matter, you know. I have been expecting him for a month. Oh, well, he’ll turn up some day.”
“Indeed!”
Stella waited for enlightenment, but did not press for it. When she turned to the windows from which she had a few minutes before drawn aside the curtains, the sinister day-light revealed clear, hazel eyes well spaced in a vital face. Her brother watched her as she crossed to the door, and it did not occur to him that she might be piqued by reason of his secrecy regarding the expected visit. Her dressing-gown was of white and gold, and her light-brown hair hung in two plaits down her back. He did realize how amazingly-feminine she was, and how wisely obstinate in her refusal to have her hair cut.
During her absence from the room he wearily sipped his tea, and when she returned carrying a small bottle he inquired what it contained.
“Aspirin, dear. Two tablets will put you right.”
“Hum! Thanks. How did you sleep?”
“I slept all right while I was at it, but I feel I have slept only for five minutes. Coming along for breakfast later?”
“Er—no. I am going to snooze till lunch and try not to dream about this beastly dust-storm.”
“Till lunch, then?”
“Until lunch.” Martin essayed a laugh. “Sounds like a toast, doesn’t it? Confound Mulray! I hate spirits, but he would have me slip across to the hotel with him. He’s the kind of man who won’t be denied, and one can’t drink beer at a dance.”
His sister drew the curtains before the windows after standing for a moment to observe the swirling veil of dust without. Softly she left the room and passed to her own room where her maid waited with her morning-tea.
Between these Borradales there existed a real and even affection. They had never been heard in the recrimination not unusual in this relationship. Martin was well set up, slimly athletic, twenty-seven; his sister was remarkably attractive, but yet not beautiful. She was several years her brother’s junior. Both were keen on horses and tennis. Both preferred to drive a fast trotting-horse to a car. Both were cultured, having attended Adelaide’s best schools, but a university had been denied Martin because of their father’s untimely death when the young man was barely twenty. It had necessitated his instant return to Wirragatta.
Having graduated, Stella gladly joined her brother to work in harness with him. Their mother having predeceased their father, the estate had been willed equally to them, but there had never been any suggestion that it should be realized and portioned.
So Martin had settled down to master the details of what is an exceedingly intricate business, and, like his father, he was succeeding remarkably well. He was fortunate in that for the first five years he had had an able mentor in his father’s overseer. Only after that canny Scot had died did the young man realize what he owed him and feel the weight of responsibility of which his shoulders, till then, had been relieved.
Stella came home, and quite naturally managed the staff of domestics and efficiently ran the homestead. The world beyond far-away Broken Hill continued on its exciting social and political orbit, but at Wirragatta, as at Carie, it rolled placidly onward from year to year and left no regrets.
Neither of them vegetated, notwithstanding. Wirragatta was not a farm but a principality; the men were not yokels but clever sheepmen and fine horsemen. Many of them were well-read and well-informed. The neighbouring squatters were not country men but people modern in ideas, in dress, in manners. The internal combustion engine had wiped Cobb and Co.’s horse-drawn coaches off the tracks, and now was beginning to span and respan the skies. The great depression was passing and hope burned in the hearts of men.
As these Borradales had agreed, human activities outside the house were stopped by this second day of wind and blinding sand. The stockmen in their huts were unable even to read. The cooks swore and gave up their efforts to protect food. Even within the well-built homestead, even within Stella’s bedroom, where she sat reading a novel, the air was tinged with red dust. It was necessary, in order to read, to have the standard oil-lamp burning, there being no electric light at Wirragatta.
The wind boomed and whined about the house, and the colour of the oblong presented by the windows deepened to a sinister dark red as the day aged. Stella’s chair vibrated like a harp-string. The lamp smoked if the wick was turned to its normal height. Already her eyelids and the corners of her mouth were sticky with dust. And so, first reading and then dozing, Stella got through the morning.
At noon the maid appeared to ascertain