Chapter VI: Larrie the Loafer

'She had
A heart--how shall I say? too soon made glad,
Too easily impressed: she liked what e'er
She looked on, and her looks went everywhere.'

Larrie and Dot had come upon the great rock that lies near the beginning of the matrimonial path of all those who marry for love.

Oh the wonderful capacity they had in those days for torturing themselves! Larrie used to brood continually in secret over the change that had come into their lives; his manner grew cold and indifferent and he consumed as much tobacco as a man long years in the bush, and Dot used to shed hot, angry, grieving tears in private and devote herself to the management of the house or the baby in the time that once she had always devoted to her husband.

Once in one of the passionate little outbursts she was subject to, she scoffed at him for his idleness.

'No wonder you are so fault-finding, Larrie,' she said, 'staying at home day after day like an old maid. Other husbands don't tie themselves to their wives' apron-strings as you do.'

It was a little unjust of her, this pettish speech, though she had received provocation.

Larrie had had a bad illness, a kind of brain fever soon after his last law examination, and really had been ordered to take a long holiday.

'You are a man of means,' the doctor had said. 'Travel about, loaf generally for a year or two, do anything you like, but avoid regular brain work.'

As a first step to a thorough holiday he had married Dot, and as his means, divided, would not permit of travel, he settled down with an easy mind to 'loaf.'

He used to ride, and fish, and shoot, walk, read, and work in the garden generally, but there were times when he had fits of superlative laziness and did absolutely nothing but lie in the hammocks and smoke, or wander about after Dot.

At first this state of things had been very delightful and idyllic, but after eighteen months Dot found it very trying, and used to wish sincerely that Larrie went off to business in the morning like other men and stayed away till evening. She felt certain he would appreciate both herself and his home more if he did so, and, seeing he was apparently quite well and strong, there seemed no reason for him not to go.

It was this feeling that had prompted the cutting speech about being tied to her apron, a garment by the way which she never wore on any occasion.

Larrie was bitterly offended.

'You are tired of me, it has come to that already,' he said, and there was such a note of pain in his voice that she had slipped her arm round his neck in her old impetuous way.

'It was horrid of me,' she said, 'of course you have a right to stay at home always if you like. Forgive me, Larrie.'

And he had forgiven her after a time, even kissed her kindly and told her not to mind.

But the very next day he had taken an office in town and sent a man to paint 'Laurence Armitage, Solicitor,' in white letters on the door.

All her entreaties now would not keep him at home a day, he caught the business train at eight o'clock in the morning and the evening one home at five.

He was like everyone else's husband at last, and the garden of Eden had become merely a cottage with a piece of ground attached.

But oh, such long, long days they were to both of them at first.

Larrie, of course, had really nothing to do for weeks and weeks. He used to sit on his uncomfortable cane chair, put his long legs on the window-sill and smoke and think half the day. Or he would pin a 'Back in ten minutes' notice on his door and stroll aimlessly about town or drop into the offices of other men he knew, and envy them their busy air of occupation.

Dot had never thought so many hours went to the day before.

Baby slept a great deal, and just beginning to teethe, was cross and less companionable than usual. The household tasks that she took upon herself now did not last long, and the little mother did so much sewing for everyone in the cottage that there was really nothing left for Dot to do, but put on occasional buttons and tapes. She resolved to let her voice fill up the blank in her life, it was her one great gift, and she determined she would cultivate it assiduously and then--but she had not yet quite decided what difference the 'then' would make.

The Red Road Country had a little plain church at the top of one of its hills, and Dot led the singing as a matter of course.

Sometimes she took long solo parts in the anthems, and then the ugly barn-like place of worship seemed full of glory. Several times people had come all the way from the shore just to hear the clear, sweet, joyous voice of that one little person in the front row. She had been asked more than once to join the choir of different big churches in Sydney, but there was no train service at all on Sunday for the line, and Larrie naturally refused to have an empty house the greater part of the day just because his wife had a voice. Choir practices were on Wednesday afternoons, and Dot attended regularly now; for one thing they helped to pass the time, for another she had a genuine desire to have the singing each Sunday as good as possible, and knew her presence stimulated the other members.

The Red Road Country is growing famous for its healthiness. People with land to sell in the district and the few boarding-house keepers, advertise it as 'The Sanatorium of New South Wales.' Doctors are beginning to send their patients there occasionally, instead of to the Blue Mountains, and the pure, gum-tree filtered air certainly works wonders.

Mr Sullivan Wooster had been sent up for a month. He occupied a high position in the musical world of Sydney. He taught, conducted concerts, gave recitals of his own on organ and piano, and composed pieces that met with high praise in the old world. An attack of pleurisy had prostrated him recently, and he had come up to the Red Road Country for his convalescence, refusing to be sent to a more distant place. A Wednesday afternoon came a week after he had arrived. He was almost dying with the _ennui_ of the place; the abounding gum trees were beginning to prey upon his very soul. He had taken rooms at a cottage where the recommendations had been 'No children, beautiful views, and a piano.'

But the daughter of the house had artistic yearnings that she longed to impart, a passion for waltzes, and a tousled fringe that Wooster was always dreading to find detachments of in his custards. The healthful Eucalypt on hill and dale comprised the view.

Naturally he spent most of his time on the Red Road. When he heard voices in the little church that afternoon, he strolled to the door just for the urgent want of something to do. When he heard Dot's voice, he went in and sat down in the extreme back seat, much to the discomfiture of a nervous member of the choir.

After the practice was over he shook hands with the clergyman's wife who had officiated at the little organ. He knew her very well; she had found these lodgings for him, and had sent him tomatoes on one occasion and some of her own orange wine, marvellously nasty stuff, on another.

He asked after her husband, praised the views, thought the weather would change, said nothing bitter about the landlady's daughter, and offered to preside at the organ the next Sunday. Then he asked to be introduced to the girl with the beautiful voice.

A quarter of an hour later he was walking home with Dot.

Her books--she had three of them--were his excuse, and the fact that he had been walking that way before he turned in at the church. All the way they talked music.

Dot's eyes were bright, her speech eager. What a pleasant, unlooked for change this was for her!

She knew him well by repute, as indeed did everyone in Sydney--she had been to his concerts, she played his compositions,--some of her friends had been his pupils,--he seemed more like an old than a new friend by the time they reached the top of the second hill. Half way down they noticed the gathering clouds; by the time they reached the gate it had begun to rain heavily.

Dot did not hesitate a moment. He had been ill she knew: a wetting might prove serious.

'You must come in,' she said, pushing open her little gate, 'come and wait till it clears.' She preceded him up the path and sprang up the verandah steps into shelter, shaking the raindrops off her little short curls and laughing breathlessly after the few minutes' hurry.

'What a _dear_ little girl!' he said to himself, following with the utmost gladness.

He had never spent in all his life a pleasanter hour than the next one.

His artistic eye was charmed with the arrangements of the simple drawing-room, it was a real pleasure to run his fingers upon a good piano once more--here was all the music that made the earth a happy abiding place, and above all there was the presence of the sweet little girl with short soft curls, wide, eager eyes, and a voice truly wonderful. Oh the beautiful hour it was!

They had both gone straight to the piano as naturally as ducks go to water; they tried whole pages of different operas together, and went twice through some of the songs, just for the sheer pleasure of singing.

Then he played some Beethoven she had never found beautiful before, and after that she played at his request piece after piece, and he was surprised at her culture.

He almost feared once or twice that the whole occurrence was an enchanted dream which would fade presently.

On his knees at the Canterbury drawer he found the score of _Faust_ bent open at the 'Jewel Song.' He held it up eagerly.

'Let me hear you in this,' he said. 'You sing it?'

Dot nodded joyously and opened it on the music holder as he took his seat.

She gave a little cough to clear her throat. He stood up, real concern on his face, and closed the book instantly.

'There is _nothing_ so culpable as over-tiring the voice; it was criminal of me to let you sing so much,' he said.

There was a warm flush on her cheeks and her eyes were brilliant.

'Let us have some tea then,' she said, with an excited little laugh.

She crossed the room and rang the bell at the fireplace. Quite a professional look was on his face.

'I do trust you take proper care of your voice, Miss Armitage,' was his really anxious remark.

Dot's eyes flew open, then she laughed aloud just as Peggie appeared in the doorway.

'Tea, please, Peggie, and baby--baby first,' was her order.

Peggie departed, surprised displeasure on her face: she wondered who was the strange gentleman her mistress was on such good terms with, and she thought it most inconsiderate that she should want afternoon tea when there was so much ironing on hand. But she slipped a fresh muslin pinafore on the baby and put on his best little red shoes, before she carried him in to them all warm and flushed with his afternoon sleep.

'I believe you thought I was only a girl, Mr Wooster,' Dot said with a merry laugh as she stood up with her beautiful darling in her arms for inspection.

Mr Sullivan Wooster was certainly looking as thunderstruck as if the pretty bundle of muslin, and lace and sweetness she held had been a phoenix instead of the dearest little baby in the world.

'I never dreamt,' he began. 'I quite thought--I certainly imagined Mrs Ingram said _Miss_ Armitage; as well--,' his eyes sought her little bare left hand.

Dot laughed that happy little laugh of hers again. She went over to the Canterbury and emptied a small Dresden cup upon her palm.

'I always take my rings off before I play,' she said, 'it's a pernicious habit, I know; my husband is always trying to break me of it, but I really do it unconsciously. I never can play properly with them on.'

After that, of course, he paid dutiful, expected court to the baby, and made the correct remarks about its eyes and long eyelashes and the quantity of its hair. But he no longer thought the occurrence an enchanted dream that might fade any minute. The baby gnawing thoughtfully at its dear little shoe as it sat on the hearthrug, while Dot poured out tea, gave a surprising air of reality to everything.

The rain had not ceased for a moment, so there was good enough excuse for Mr Wooster's prolonged stay, but Dot was greatly astonished to see Larrie come up the path presently, and know it was half-past five. She excused herself and slipped out to meet him. He came in cold, wet, and cross. It struck him how bright Dot's face was and how exceedingly beautiful she was looking as she opened the door for him.

'I have a visitor here, Larrie,' she said in a whisper, 'be quick and get your mackintosh off. It is Mr Sullivan Wooster and he is so nice; don't stay to change your coat.'

But 'Confound him!' said Larrie.

He wanted Dot and Dot only just now. All the day he had had an unutterable longing to take her in his arms and beg her to let them start afresh, and make life a beautiful thing again. And now there was a visitor here.

'You must ask him to stay for dinner, of course,' Dot said. 'He's had pleurisy and can't go home in the rain. It's lucky there's roast fowl to-day, and I'll open a bottle of those apricots.'

Larrie was sulkily taking off his mackintosh as she talked.

'What the deuce brought him here?' he said. Dot said 'H'sh,' and gave him a little poke to remind him of the proximity of the drawing-room.

'I'll tell you after,' she said. 'I must go back now, I've left him alone with baby, and perhaps he's not educated up to them.'

He went kitchenward to ask for dry boots, and Peggie was dishing up. The appetising smell reminded him he was too hungry to tell her to keep things in the oven on the chance of the visitor going. And as he went back again up the hall he saw the weather was too abominable to turn a dog out. But he said 'Confound it' under his breath outside the door, as necessary preparation to pressing Mr Sullivan Wooster to stay to dinner.