The Black Opal - Katharine Susannah Prichard (open ebook .TXT) 📗

“They say you’re going away with your father⁠ ⁠… and you’re going to be a great singer, Sophie,” Mirry said.

“Yes,” Sophie murmured tranquilly, “I am.”

A bevy of black and brown birds flashed past them, flew in a wide half-circle across the paddock, and alighted on a dead tree beyond the fence.

“Look, look!” Mirry started to her feet. “A happy family! I wonder, are the whole twelve there?”

She counted the birds, which were calling to each other with little shrill cries.

“They’re all there!” she announced. “Twelve of them. Mother says in some parts they call them the twelve apostles. Sing again, Sophie,” she begged.

Ella smiled at Sophie. Her lips parted as though she would like to have said that, too; but only her eyes entreated, and she went on putting her flowers together.

As she sang, Sophie watched a pair of butterflies, white with black lines and splashes of yellow and scarlet on their wings, hovering over the flowered field of the paddock. She was so lost in her singing and watching the butterflies, and the children were so intent listening to her, that they did not hear a horseman coming slowly towards them along the track. As he came up to them, Sophie’s rippling notes broke and fell to earth. Ella saw him first, and was on her feet in an instant. Mirry and she, their wild instinct asserting itself, darted away and took cover behind the trunks of the nearest trees.

Sophie looked after them, wondering whether she would follow them as she used to; but she felt older and more staid now than she had a year ago. She stood her ground, as the man, who was leading his horse, came to a standstill before her.

She knew him well enough, Arthur Henty, the only son of old Henty of Warria Station. She had seen him riding behind cattle or sheep on the roads across the plains for years. Sometimes when Potch and she had met him riding across the Ridge, or at the swamp, he had stopped to talk to them. He had been at her mother’s funeral, too; but as he stood before her this afternoon, Sophie seemed to be seeing him for the first time.

A tall, slightly-built young man, in riding breeches and leggings, a worn coat, and as weathered a felt hat as any man on the Ridge wore, his clothes the colour of dust on the roads, he stood before her, smiling slightly. His face was dark in the shadow of his hat, but the whole of him, cut against the sunshine, had gilded outlines. And he seemed to be seeing Sophie for the first time, too. She had jumped up and drawn back from the track when the Flails ran away. He could not believe that this tall girl in the black dress was the queer, elfish-like girl he had seen running about the Ridge, barelegged, with feet in goatskin sandals, and in the cemetery on the Warria road, not much more than a year ago. Her elfish gaiety had deserted her. It was the black dress gave her face the warm pallor of ivory, he thought, made her look staider, and as if the sadness of all it symbolised had not left her. But her eyes, strange, beautiful eyes, the green and blue of opal, with black rings on the irises and great black pupils, had still the clear, unconscious gaze of youth; her lips the sweet, sucking curves of a child’s.

They stood so, smiling and staring at each other, a spell of silence on each.

Sophie had dropped half her flowers as she sprang up at the sound of someone approaching. She had clutched a few in one hand; the rest lay on the grass about her, her hat beside them. Henty’s eyes went to the trees round which Mirry and Ella were peeping.

“They’re wild birds, aren’t they?” he said.

Sophie smiled. She liked the way his eyes narrowed to slits of sunshine as he smiled.

“Are you going to sing, again?” he asked hesitatingly.

Sophie shook her head.

“My mother’s awfully fond of that stuff,” Henty said, looking at the Darling pea Sophie had in her hand. “We haven’t got any near the homestead. I came into the paddock to get some for her.”

Sophie held out her bunch.

“Not all of it,” he said.

“I can get more,” she said.

He took the flowers, and his vague smile changed to one of shy and subtle understanding. Ella and Mirry found courage to join Sophie.

“Where’s Potch?” Henty asked.

“He’s working with Michael,” Sophie said.

“Oh!” he exclaimed, and stood before her awkwardly, not knowing what to talk about.

He was still thinking how different she was to the little girl he had seen chasing goats on the Ridge no time before, and wondering what had changed her so quickly, when Sophie stooped to pick up her hat. Then he saw her short, dark hair twisted up into a knot at the back of her head. Feeling intuitively that he was looking at the knot she was so proud of, Sophie put on her hat quickly. A delicate colour moved on her neck and cheeks. Arthur Henty found himself looking into her suffused eyes and smiling at her smile of confusion.

“Well, we must be going now,” Sophie said, a little breathlessly.

Henty said that he was going into the New Town and would walk along part of the way with her. He tucked the flowers Sophie had given him into his saddlebag, and she and the children turned down the track. Ella, having found her tongue, chattered eagerly. Arthur Henty strolled beside them, smoking, his reins over his arm. Mirry wanted to ride his horse.

“Nobody rides this horse but me,” Henty said. “She’d throw you into the middle of next week.”

“I can ride,” Mirry said; “ride like a flea, the boys say.”

She was used to straddling any pony or horse her brothers had in the yard, and they had a name as the best horse-breakers in the district.

Henty laughed. “But