Beside that open grave, as Mother Nature, strewing
with flowers the last resting place of one of her children, scattered
gently falling scarlet blossoms into it and about it. Here and there a
dog lay, stretched out in the shade, sniffing in idle curiosity at the
blossoms as they fell, well satisfied with what life had to give just
then; while at their master's feet lay the traveller who was to leave
such haunting memories behind him: William Neaves, born at Woolongong,
with somewhere there a mother going quietly about her work, wondering
vaguely perhaps where her laddie was that day.
Poor mother! Yet, when even that knowledge came to her, it comforted her
in her sorrow to know that a woman had stood beside that grave mourning
for her boy in her name.
Quietly the Maluka read on to the end; and then in the hush that followed
the mate stooped, and, with deep lines hardening rigidly, picked up a
spade. There was no mistaking his purpose; but as he straightened
himself the Dandy's hand was on the spade and the Maluka was speaking.
"Perhaps you'll be good enough to drive the missus back to the house
right away," he was saying, "I think she has had almost more than she can
stand."
The man looked hesitatingly at him. "If you'll be good enough," the
Maluka added, "I should not leave here myself till all is completed."
Unerringly the Maluka had read his man: no hint of his strength failing,
but a favour asked, and with it a service for a woman.
The stern set lines about the man's mouth quivered for a moment, then set
again as he sacrificed his wishes to a woman's need, and relinquishing
the spade, turned away; and as we drove down to the house in the chief's
buggy - the buggy that a few minutes before had borne our sick traveller
along that last stage of his earthly journey - he said gently, almost
apologetically: "I should have reckoned on this knocking you out a bit,
missus." Always others, never self, with the bush-folk.
Then, this service rendered for the man who had done what he could for
his comrade, his strong, unflinching heart turned back to its labour of
love, and, all else being done, found relief for itself in softening and
smoothing the rough outline of the newly piled mound, and as the man
toiled, Mother Nature went on with her work, silently and sweetly healing
the scar on her bosom, hiding her pain from the world, as she shrouded in
starry crimson the burial place of her brave, enduring son - a service to
be renewed from day to day until the mosses and grasses grew again.
But there were still other services for the mate to render and as the
bush-folk stood aside, none daring to trespass here, a rough wooden
railing rose about the grave.
