Such Is Life by Joseph Furphy (children's books read aloud .TXT) 📕

“you’re making your nose red.” The information acted like a charm; her crying was over, though she still persisted in chewing her grievance.

“I can prove there ain’t one word o’ truth in it,” she continued pertinaciously.

“What’s your idea of proof, Ida?”

“I can prove it on the Bible,” she replied eagerly.

“That settles the matter beyond controversy⁠—considering that you rightly belong to the Middle Ages.”

“Indeed I don’t!” she replied, with a flash of resentment. “I was twenty-seven last birthday; an’ I don’t care who knows it⁠—on the third of July, it was⁠—an’ I wouldn’t care tuppence if her ladyship snoke roun’ tellin’ people I was forty. But to put a slur on me like that! I leave it to your own self, Mr. Collins⁠—was it right?”

“Right?” I repeated wearily. “In heaven’s name, girl, what does it signify to you whether it was right or otherwise? That’s Mrs. Beaudesart’s own business, not yours. Why, if she charged me with stooping to folly, I would merely say, ‘Sorry to undeceive you, ma’am; but I’ve been too much given to letting “I dare not” wait upon “I would,” like the poor bandicoot i’ the adage.’ But I certainly shouldn’t concern myself with a question lying entirely between herself and Saint Peter.”

“Ah! but you’re different,” replied the girl sadly.

“Simply because I’m a philosopher, Ida. I’ve held communion with the Unfathomable, and watched the exfoliation of the Inscrutable; and, you know, these things are altogether beyond the orbit of the girl-mind. Now clear off, like a good fellow, and let me read the papers.”

But I was too far gone to take any interest in either of the loathsome contemporanes; too much afflicted even to drift down to the swimming-hole again, much as I desired to do so. I also longed for the opinion of my mighty pipe on the dirt-question; but that faithful ally was packed among my things, forty feet away, and it might as well have been forty miles. So I just lay on the seat, clean, frail, and inert, as a recumbent statue, moulded in blancmange; whilst the ancient t’other-sider oscillated his frame⁠—saw, and the pious Pawsome lightened his toil with selections from Sankey, and the perspiring Priestley hurried up his bullocks from the ration-paddock, and Sling Muck, the gardener, used his hoe among the callots and cabbagee, with the automatic stroke of a man brought up to one holiday per annum, and no Sunday. Meanwhile, the unreturning sands of Life dribbled through the unheeded isthmus of the present moment; and the fixed cone of the past expanded; and the dimple deepened in the diminished and hurrying future.

Nevertheless, I collected the wreckage of what had been very fair faculties, and attempted to grapple with an idea which Ida’s conversation had suggested. Finding this impossible, I made a mental memo of the inspiration⁠—and by the same token, I neatly utilised it within the next few hours. Your attention will be drawn to the circumstance in due season.

At midday, the bell sounded from the hut. Pawsome and the tribesmen quitted their work, and went to dinner. Priestley had started an hour before, bound for Nalrooka, with the remaining half of his load.

All the Levites, except Moriarty, were out on the run, but Martin, the head boundary rider, had timed himself for lunch. This man’s status was a vexed question. He certainly rated⁠—but did he rate high enough for the barracks? As head boundary man, decidedly not; but as recent proprietor of a small station absorbed by Runnymede, he was not destitute of pretensions. Out in the open air, he was, of course, as good as any Levite, but⁠—Well, though we rather resented his presence in the Inner Court, we yielded him the benefit of the doubt; and he took that benefit, just as if he had been born in the purple, like ourselves.

Martin was an Orangeman of rank. He had attained the Black Degree. It was whispered that he held all the loyal brethren of Riverina under the whip, by reason of his being the only man in the region beyond the Murrumbidgee who could confer the Purple Degree. For, owing to an inherent haziness in the theses and aims of Orangeism, there are Orders in the Society as hard to attain as those German university degrees which no man ever took and had his eyesight perfect afterward; though, to be sure, there is a certain difference in the relative value of the two species of attainment.

Moriarty⁠—whose front name was Felix⁠—was, if anything, a Catholic; and, partly on this account, partly on account of his being a young fellow, and partly on account of Miss King, the governess, Martin set him. Now, there was just one man within a hundred miles who knew less of Irish History than Martin, and that man was Moriarty; consequently, the two jostled each other as they rushed into that branch of learning where scholars fear to tread⁠—each repeatedly appealing to me for confirmation of his outlandish myths and clumsy fabrications. I listlessly confirmed anything and everything. Having lost all mental, as well as physical, energy where King John lost his regalia, namely, in the Wash, the line of least resistance was the line for me.

After a hearty lunch, I made my way back to the seat against the wall, while Moriarty lounged across to the store, and Martin went to speak to the High Priest at the door of the Sanctum Sanctorum. Then Martin mounted his horse, and rode away; and presently the tribesman, Jerry, brought a buggy and pair to the front door. Montgomery and Folkestone⁠—the latter in knickerbockers⁠—took their seats in the buggy, and whirled away down the horse-paddock fence. Then all was still, save for the faint pling-plong of a piano in the Holy of Holies.

Whom have we here? Moriarty to disturb me. Let him come. It is meat and drink to me to see a clown; by my faith, we that have good wits have much to answer for; we shall be flouting; we cannot hold.⁠—

The young Levite,