The Other Man

By Mary Gaunt

"The Other Man" by Mary Gaunt. Published by Good Press. Good Press publishes a wide range of titles that encompasses every genre. From well-known classics & literary fiction and non-fiction to forgotten−or yet undiscovered gems−of world literature, we issue the books that need to be read. Each Good Press edition has been meticulously edited and formatted to boost readability for all e-readers and devices. Our goal is to produce eBooks that are user-friendly and accessible to everyone in a high-quality digital format.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Good Press
• Release date: Nov 9, 2021
• ISBN: 4066338083180

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Mary Gaunt

The Other Man

Published by Good Press, 2022

[e-mail]

EAN 4066338083180

Table of Contents

(MRS. H. LINDSAY MILLER) .

CHAPTER I.—A NEW HOME.

CHAPTER II.—THE GRANTS OF KOORINGA.

CHAPTER III.—MRS. GRANT'S PICNIC.

CHAPTER IV.—I SHALL CULTIVATE HIS ACQUAINTANCE.

CHAPTER V.—A CHANCE MEETING.

CHAPTER VI.—YOU OUGHT TO TELL THOSE GIRLS YOU'RE A MARRIED MAN.

CHAPTER VII.—ONE SUNDAY AFTERNOON.

CHAPTER VIII.—A DAY IN BALLARAT.

CHAPTER IX.—MAITLAND TELLS A STORY AND RUTH MAKES A MISTAKE.

CHAPTER X.—DOLLY'S ENGAGEMENT.

CHAPTER XI.—DOLLY'S WEDDING DAY.

CHAPTER XII.—THE TRUTH AT LAST.

CHAPTER XIII.—DREARY DAYS.

CHAPTER XIV.—TWO YEARS AFTER.

CHAPTER XV.—A DISTURBANCE IN THE FAMILY.

CHAPTER XVI.—THE DOCTOR'S WOOING.

CHAPTER XVII.—TELLING DOLLY THE NEWS.

CHAPTER XVIII.—THE FOREST FIRE.

CHAPTER XIX.—A STRUGGLE FOR LIFE.

CHAPTER XX.—SAVED!

CHAPTER XXI.—POOR ALICK FINLAYSON.

CHAPTER XXII.—A MISTAKEN LOVE.

CHAPTER XXIII.—I MUST GO AWAY.

CHAPTER XXIV.—OVERHEARD.

CHAPTER XXV.—TO MELBOURNE.

CHAPTER XXVI.—ALONE.

CHAPTER XXVII.—EVERYTHING COMETH TO HIM WHO WAITS.

THE END

(MRS. H. LINDSAY MILLER).

Table of Contents

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CHAPTER I.—A NEW HOME.

CHAPTER II.—THE GRANTS OF KOORINGA.

CHAPTER III.—MRS. GRANT'S PICNIC.

CHAPTER IV.—I SHALL CULTIVATE HIS ACQUAINTANCE.

CHAPTER V.—A CHANCE MEETING.

CHAPTER VI.—YOU OUGHT TO TELL THOSE GIRLS YOU'RE A MARRIED MAN.

CHAPTER VII.—ONE SUNDAY AFTERNOON.

CHAPTER VIII.—A DAY IN BALLARAT.

CHAPTER IX.—MAITLAND TELLS A STORY AND RUTH MAKES A MISTAKE.

CHAPTER X.—DOLLY'S ENGAGEMENT.

CHAPTER XI.—DOLLY'S WEDDING DAY.

CHAPTER XII.—THE TRUTH AT LAST.

CHAPTER XIII.—DREARY DAYS.

CHAPTER XIV.—TWO YEARS AFTER.

CHAPTER XV.—A DISTURBANCE IN THE FAMILY.

CHAPTER XVI.—THE DOCTOR'S WOOING.

CHAPTER XVII.—TELLING DOLLY THE NEWS.

CHAPTER XVIII.—THE FOREST FIRE.

CHAPTER XIX.—A STRUGGLE FOR LIFE.

CHAPTER XX.—SAVED!

CHAPTER XXI.—POOR ALICK FINLAYSON.

CHAPTER XXII.—A MISTAKEN LOVE.

CHAPTER XXIII.—I MUST GO AWAY.

CHAPTER XXIV.—OVERHEARD.

CHAPTER XXV.—TO MELBOURNE.

CHAPTER XXVI.—ALONE.

CHAPTER XXVII.—EVERYTHING COMETH TO HIM WHO WAITS.

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CHAPTER I.—A NEW HOME.

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It had been raining all the morning—dull, dreary, cold, penetrating rain, as it does rain in the west of Victoria in the winter time, and though it had ceased towards the afternoon the heavy clouds still hung low and threatening. Now, about 5 o'clock, just as the sun was setting he had made a final struggle, and pierced the cloud bank in the west in long level lines, showing the blue sky beyond edged with clouds golden and rosy red. It was watery sunshine, though, that gleamed hopelessly in the shallow pools on the roadway, without much promise of warmth in it, and the road was only a stock route, bounded on either hand by ugly wire fences, which stretched away in parallel lines across the stony plain far as the eye could see. A lonely, dreary prospect—the stony plain and the ugly fences; there were hardly any trees, only a clump here and there which had been planted for shelter for the stock; and the grass was short, brown, and dingy, for it was the middle of June, the depth of winter, and in the south-west of Victoria the new grass does not begin to spring till August.

Away in the distance the dim hills bounded the horizon; here an isolated bald hill rising abruptly from the plain, indeed part and parcel of the plain itself forced upwards by some primeval upheaval, and there a rugged forest-clad range, its rough outlines softened by distance and the damp, foggy atmosphere. Not a bird or beast was visible, sheep there must have been, of course, but these were all huddled together for warmth wherever a scanty shelter might be found from the bitter cold wind. The only sign of life on all the dreary landscape was a two seated buggy slowly drawn along a somewhat zig-zag course, to avoid the irregularities of the road, by a pair of rough, grey, grass-fed ponies. It was a somewhat dilapidated turnout. The harness was brown and cracked with age, the ponies were unkempt and ungroomed; and the buggy, underneath the coating of mud, to which it was momentarily adding, showed yet other layers, which spoke only too plainly of economy in the matter of cleansing. It was a light, low buggy, without a hood, certainly not built to carry luggage; yet at the present moment it contained, greatly to the inconvenience of its occupants, a portmanteau and two or three bags, which required all their attention to keep from jolting out. They were four in number—three women and a lad about seventeen. Two of the women seemed somewhat out of place, wrapped up as they were in sealskins and furs, with heavy veils drawn over their faces to keep off the cutting wind; but the driver, who handled the ribbons as if she knew what she was about, as indeed she did, went in for no such feminine additions. Her figure was square and thick-set, and her face, hard and weather beaten, might have belonged to any woman between the ages of 20 and 40; and though most people might have been inclined to lean rather towards the latter, Ann Grant was in reality but little over five-and-twenty. As she herself would have said, she had no time to give to vanities, and so made her plain hard face plainer and harder by crowning it with a knitted black cap, while she kept out the cold by enveloping herself in a black and purple woollen shawl, which was crossed in front and tied behind in a firm knot, which as yet it had defied the efforts of the wind to undo. The daintily clad girl beside her thought the whole costume unbecoming, not to say hideous, and had been mentally wondering ever since they had met at the railway station at Gaffer's Flat whether she was not making some mistake—this surely could not be her cousin, the daughter of the rich squatter who was lord over a hundred square miles of pasture land, and worth they said at least £7,000 a year.

Ann Grant made some efforts to entertain her and play the hostess, and pointed out the hills in the distance with the end of her broken whip.

There's old Saddleback—dear old Saddleback, she said in hard aggressive tones—tones meant to be friendly but which only succeeded in being affected, not to say patronising. I always know when I see the hollow of his saddle that we're near home.

Oh, sighed the other girl wearily, are we near home?

Yes, only two more miles. Gaffer's Flat's twenty miles from Kooringa—just a pleasant drive I call it.

Do you? Well, yes, I daresay it is in the summer, said her cousin politely—every bone in her body was aching; but—but—the weather is rather cold and wet for driving just at present, don't you think so? And she shivered, and drew her cloak more closely round her.

Cold, Ruth! said Miss Grant, severely, when you've been with us a little you'll soon learn not to pay attention to the weather. Heat or cold, I let nothing interfere with my duty.

I'm sure it's very good of you, murmured Ruth, trying to settle the portmanteau, which a heavy jolt had flung against her knees. I'm afraid I shouldn't see many duties that called me out on a day like this.

The Lord sends the duties, said Ann, smugly. It's our blessed privilege to perform His will.

I'd call it anything but a blessed privilege to drive forty miles on a day like this. I've been thinking all along, Ann, how very kind it was of you to come for us yourself, and not to send a man.

There are no idle men at Kooringa, said Ann; each has his appointed work. And for the moment Ruth subsided, feeling horribly snubbed, and more sure than ever that between her and her cousin there was and never could be anything in common.

They drove on in silence; the sun sank beneath the horizon, the golden glory died out of the skies, a heavy mist crept up, driven by the chill north wind, and Ruth drew her cloak more closely round her in the darkness and sighed audibly—a sigh which her sister behind her echoed wearily.

The road was getting worse; the horses splashed through shallow pools of water invisible in the darkness, and the wheels sank deeper and deeper in the mire. Willie was ordered by his sister to get down and open another gate, and then she turned to her guests and remarked curtly—

Were on Kooringa now—dear Kooringa.

Dear Kooringa Ruth thought must be principally remarkable for stones to judge by the way in which the unfortunate occupants of the buggy were being jolted about.

A few moments later the horses drew up of their own accord opposite a long, low building surrounded by a wide verandah. There were lights in two of the windows, but most of the house was wrapped in darkness.

This is the house, said Ann; jump out. And she proceeded to give vent to a series of wild war-whoops, at first producing no effect whatever, but which at last resulted in the door being flung open by a swarm of tumultuous children, who seemed to Ruth in the darkness to be all about the same age and size. They made straight for the buggy, out of which she and her sister with the assistance of Willie were engaged in taking out their various wraps and parcels, and, regardless of their pinafores, began climbing up over the muddy wheels.

Ah, children, said Ann Grant, you're glad to see sister back, aren't you? Come Ethel, come Rosy. Where's my little brother Teddy; and Vera—where's Vera darling?

None of them paid the least attention to her blandishments, nor did they take any notion of the newcomers. The hall was but dimly lighted by a flat candlestick, in which a tallow candle was guttering in the wind, and the two girls stepped inside to shelter a little from the chilly night air.

Dolly, dear, whispered the elder, taking off her veil and giving her sister's hand a reassuring little squeeze. They were so cold, so miserable, so tired, that the younger girl was on the verge of tears. Outside Ann's voice could still be heard playing the kindly elder sister.

How many of you are coming down to the stable with me? All? Take care, then, Teddy; Rosy must not tumble out; Vera must sit on sister's knee; Willie hold——

The little display of domestic affection was suddenly cut short by the appearance of a tall, thin, angular woman in a huge kitchen apron wielding a long gravy-spoon. Ruth thought at first she was the cook, but a second glance showed her it was Mrs. Grant, her cousin's wife and the mother of Ann and, she supposed, of these children.

Oh, my dears, she said, advancing and kissing them kindly, you've arrived, have you? I'm glad to see you, very glad. You'd like to go to your room now, wouldn't you? Now, what are those children doing out there? Ann, Ann, she called at the top of her voice. I won't have those children out in the cold. Rosy's got chilblains, and you know I was up all last night with Vera with the croup. Come in, you children, this minute.

It isn't cold, mother, said Ann aggressively. I told them to come.

And I tell them to come in, said Mrs. Grant. It's raining, and I won't have them down in that muddy yard.

It's not raining, shouted her daughter out of the darkness. Come, children.

Children, persisted Mrs. Grant in the same tone, come in this minute.

And Mrs. Grant dashed out into the darkness, and presently returned driving before her with the aid of the gravy-spoon the little flock. Once having seen them safe inside she banged the door and ordered them back into the school-room.

They filed off, shy little bush children, their fingers and the corners of their dirty pinafores in their mouths, looking shyly and furtively out of the corners of their eyes at the strangers. The smallest went last, a fair-haired, waxen-complexioned little girl, with glorious deep grey eyes and long dark lashes, a marked contrast to the rest of the children, who, ruddy and rosy as they looked, were perhaps somewhat too rudely healthy for beauty. This small girl's coarse holland pinafore was deeply marked where she had leaned against the muddy spokes of the wheel, and her heavy leather boots looked as if she had sounded unknown depths of liquid mud. Mrs. Grant caught sight of her as she passed close under the candle, and laying violent hands on her she drew her back by her short skirts.

Vera, you naughty child, wherever have you been?

In the mud, said the little maiden, raising one extremely muddy boot with the toe of the other and contemplating it calmly.

In the mud, indeed? Yes, and whatever will become of you if you go on like this? And Mrs. Grant emphasised her remarks with a little shake.

Vera transferred her attention from her muddy boots to her mother's face with the same air of calmly contemplating someone else's misdoings.

'Spects God won't love me and I'll go to hell, she remarked, twisting her skirts out of the detaining hand and walking off with childish dignity in the wake of the others.

Was there ever such a child! said Mrs. Grant perplexedly. Now, my dears, she added, turning to the two tired girls, you'd like to go to your room, wouldn't you? Do you think you and I can carry your portmanteau between us, eh, Ruth? Ah, that's right. Dorothy, you carry the basket, and we can come back for the hat-box. Now, this way.

She led them down narrow passages, unlighted save for the guttering tallow candle she had brought from the front hall, up half a dozen steps, down four more, through a room where were two unmade beds, until finally she dropped her end of the portmanteau and, flinging open a door, said—

Here we are, girls. I put you both together in the spare room. I thought you'd be happier. The boys sleep in this room, but they're not often in it, and if they are you've only got to knock and they'll let you through.

She put the candle down on the chest of drawers and dragged in the trunk which Ruth had wearily let drop.

Now, girls, tea'll be ready in half an hour, but you'll hear the bell. You've got everything, I think. Well, my scones 'll burn if I stop any longer, and she bustled out and banged the door behind her.

Ruth began slowly to take off her wraps. She was a tall slender girl, whose Jewish name would more fitly have become her dark-haired, dark-complexioned younger sister, for though she had dark eyes and eyelashes she had the fairest of complexions and golden hair. Dorothy, on the other hand, much as she resembled her sister, was a decided brunette. They were pretty girls both of them, but which bore off the palm it was difficult to say. Ruth's beauty was certainly of a rarer, more refined type than her sister's, and yet many people were to be found who thought she was not to be compared to Dorothy.

At the present moment that young lady was slowly unwinding her veil, and when that was accomplished began with stiff, cold fingers to unbutton her sealskin, apparently lost in such deep thought that she paid no attention to surrounding objects.

Oh, Dolly, dear, said Ruth, kneeling down and beginning to unstrap their trunk, how do you think we'll like it?

For all answer Dorothy flung herself down on the bed and buried her face in the pillows.

Oh, Ruth, Ruth, she cried, if we've got to live here for the rest of our lives I'd just as soon be dead.

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CHAPTER II.—THE GRANTS OF KOORINGA.

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All their lives Ruth and Dorothy Grant had been accustomed to comfort, not to say luxury, for their father had been in the Government service, had received a good income, and had spent it lavishly, and the girls had wanted for nothing. Unfortunately, Thomas Grant had made very little provision for his daughters' future, and when he died, a month before my story opens, the two girls found that all they had in the world only amounted to £60 a year. Sixty pounds a year is hardly enough for two young ladies accustomed to every luxury to live upon, and the two Miss Grants began to look about them, and to wonder if they could not possibly turn their expensive education to good account. Then came Mr. Grant, of Kooringa's offer, a kindly offer, couched in the kindliest terms. Blood was thicker than water, he wrote; his cousin Tom had been his nearest of kin, and he would be only too delighted to give his children a home. His household was a large one. They would find brothers and sisters in his children, a mother and father, he hoped, in his wife and himself. Two lonely girls could not live in Melbourne by themselves; would they come?

And Ruth had accepted gratefully. She had never seen this cousin, did not know any of the Kooringa Grants, but she accepted his offer gratefully, and this bitter dreary day in June saw them arrive at their new home.

It was depressing, certainly. Put as brave a face upon it as she would she could not but sympathise with her sister's tears. If this evening was to be taken as a sample of their future life she wondered how indeed they were to manage to exist. She looked round the room, dimly illumined by the one candle. It was not badly furnished, and yet over the whole there was a comfortlessness that was painfully evident. To begin with, the floor was covered with Indian matting, which, though it is perhaps better than the bare boards, is certainly cold and cheerless in the depth of winter; the bed was hung with most funereal curtains; the looking glass, perched high on a chest of drawers—for there was no dressing-table—had lost one of its supports, and was propped up on that side by a pile of tracts and a hair-brush that had seen better days; a hard sofa stood in the window, and in the opposite corner was a broken-down child's cot, which had apparently seen good service and was now passing a serene old age as a receptacle for the superfluous family bedding. The fireplace was filled with faded bracken which crumbled at a touch, and the walls were adorned in lieu of pictures with familiar and well-worn texts, picked out in all the colours of the rainbow.

Ruth poured some water into the basin. It was icy-cold, and she rubbed her hands hard with the stiff coarse towel to try and restore animation to her frozen fingers, but she only hurt them, and there was a lump in her throat as she stood gazing out of the curtainless window into the dreary night. Away in the distance faintly gleamed a light—the light from the men's hut—and then it vanished. Was it the rain outside that shut it out, or the tears that filled her own eyes? She put up her hand and brushed away those tears determinedly and defiantly. She was no mere girl, she told herself, to break down and weakly cry just because she was cold and uncomfortable. Dolly might do it, but then Dolly was only a girl still, though she was but a year younger than the elder sister, who had cared for and loved and shielded her all through their motherless lives. She crossed over to the bed and put her hand on her sister's shoulder.

Dolly, Dolly, dear, don't cry so.

Dolly lifted up her tear-stained face.

Well, Ruth, isn't it wretched?

Yes, dear, but don't cry—please don't cry, or you'll make me cry, too.

Can we live here? her sister asked, sitting up on the bed and putting the question with desperate earnestness.

Dear, we'll have to. What else can we do? What in the wide world is there for two girls like us to do?

Other girls earn their own livings, and and—we have £60 a year between us.

Ruth knelt down by her sister's side, and put her arm round her waist.

And we have spent more than that on our clothes alone—much more. Just look at these furs. Besides, how do girls earn their living? Governessing, I suppose, is about the only thing we could do. And what sort of governesses should we make? I couldn't teach—I couldn't—I'm sure I couldn't. I wonder am I worth £20 a year to anybody. Oh, and Dolly, you don't want to part from me, do you?

Dolly put a caressing hand on her sister's shoulder, and lifted up her face to be kissed.

No, dearie, no, we couldn't part, could we? We've always been such mates. Better dependence—humiliating dependence—and the Grants than to be parted altogether, and she emphasised her decision with another kiss.

Yes, dear, yes.

You know, she went on, cheering up, as Dolly always did after she'd had a good cry and thoroughly ventilated her grievance, after all, we always made our own happiness. The house was comfortable, and we had plenty of good things to eat and plenty of clothes, but there was Dad—and, well Dad wasn't a model father.

Hush, Dolly.

I won't hush. You always hush me when I talk about it, but was he a model father, now?

Plenty of clothes, plenty of good things to eat, and a comfortable home, repeated Ruth; well, really, Dolly——

I didn't say a comfortable home. I said house—most emphatically house—house—house. Home is quite another thing. I don't think we had a comfortable home. Seriously now, Ruth, do you miss father?

Ruth hung her head.

Well—perhaps—not as——

There, I knew it, said Dolly, getting quite cheerful and triumphant. How could you possibly. Did he ever in his life speak a solitary word to us if he could help himself? Did he love us, do you think?

I suppose so.

He had a funny sort of way of showing it. Do other fathers shut their daughters up, I wonder, and not let them have a single friend—man, woman, or child. Do other fathers never address a word to their daughters unless it is to growl at something that has gone wrong that is as much their fault as the man in the moon's?

Oh, Dolly, don't talk like that.

Well, but it's true. And it is cruel, whatever you may say, to bring us up in luxury all our lives and then turn us adrift with barely enough to keep body and soul together.

He was our father.

"So he was; so I won't say anything more