The Black Opal Katharine Susannah Prichard (best free novels txt) 📖

walking beside him⁠—Sophie herself⁠—although her eyes and her voice were not the eyes and voice of the Sophie he had known. And he had so often dreamed of her walking beside him that the dream seemed almost more real than the thing which had come to pass.

Sophie went with him to the lean-to, where the milk-dishes stood on a bench under the window outside Michael’s hut. She watched Potch while he strained the milk and poured it into big, flat dishes on a bench under the window.

Paul came to the door of their own hut. He called her. Sophie could hear voices exclaiming and talking to Paul and Michael. She supposed that the people her father had said were coming from New Town to see her had arrived. She dreaded going into the room where they all were, although she knew that she must go.

“Are you coming, Potch?” she asked.

His eyes went from her to his hands.

“I’ll get cleaned up a bit first,” he said, “then I’ll come.”

The content in his eyes as they rested on her was transferred to Sophie. It completed what the fragrances, those first minutes in the quiet and twilight had done for her. It gave her a sense of having come to haven after a tempestuous journey on the high seas beyond the reef of the Ridge, and of having cast anchor in the lee of a kindly and sheltering land.

VII

Michael had lit the lamp in Rouminof’s kitchen; innumerable tiny-winged insects, moths, mosquitoes, midges, and golden-winged flying ants hung in a cloud about it. Martha M’Cready, Pony-Fence Inglewood, and George Woods were there talking to Paul and Michael when Sophie went into the kitchen.

“Here she is,” Paul said.

Martha rose from her place on the sofa and trundled cross to her.

“Dearie!” she cried, as George and Pony-Fence called:

“H’llo, Sophie!”

And Sophie said: “Hullo, George! Hullo, Pony-Fence!”

Martha’s embrace cut short what else she may have had to say. Sophie warmed to her as she had when she was a child. Martha had been so plump and soft to rub against, and a sensation of sheer animal comfort and rejoicing ran through Sophie as she felt herself against Martha again. The slight briny smell of her skin was sweet to her with associations of so many old loving and impulsive hugs, so much loving kindness.

“Oh, Mother M’Cready,” she cried, a more joyous note in her voice than Michael had yet heard, “it is nice to see you again!”

“Lord, lovey,” Martha replied, disengaging her arms, “and they’d got me that scared of you⁠—saying what a toff you were. I thought you’d be tellin’ me my place if I tried this sort of thing. But when I saw you a minute ago, I clean forgot all about it. I saw you were just my own little Sophie back again⁠ ⁠… and I couldn’t ’ve helped throwing me arms round you⁠—not for the life of me.”

She was winking and blinking her little blue eyes to keep the tears in them, and Sophie laughed the tears back from her eyes too.

“There she is!” a great, hearty voice exclaimed in the doorway.

And Bully Bryant, carrying the baby, with Ella beside him, came into the room.

“Bully!” Sophie cried, as she went towards them, “And Ella!”

Ella threw out her arms and clung to Sophie.

“She’s been that excited, Sophie,” Bully said, “I couldn’t hardly get her to wait till this evening to come along.”

“Oh, Bully!” Ella protested shyly.

“And the baby?” Sophie cried, taking his son from Bull. “Just fancy you and Ella being married, Bully, and having a baby, and me not knowing a word about it!”

The baby roared lustily, and Bully took him from Sophie as Watty Frost, the Crosses, and Roy O’Mara came through the door.

“Hullo, Watty, Archie, Tom, Roy!” Sophie exclaimed with a little gasp of pleasure and excitement, shaking hands with each one of them as they came to her.

She had not expected people to come to see her like this, and was surprised by the genial warmth and real affection of the greetings they had given her. Everybody was laughing and talking, the little room was full to brimming when Bill Grant appeared in the doorway, and beside him the tall, gaunt figure of the woman Sophie loved more than any other woman on the Ridge⁠—Maggie Grant, looking not a day older, and wearing a blue print dress with a pin-spot washed almost out of it, as she had done as long as Sophie could remember.

Sophie went to the long, straight glance of her eyes as to a call. Maggie kissed her. She did not speak; but her beautiful, deep-set eyes spoke for her. Sophie shook hands with Bill Grant.

“Glad to see you back again, Sophie,” he said simply.

“Thank you, Bill,” she replied.

Then Potch came in; and behind him, slowly, from out of the night, Snowshoes. The Grants had moved from the door to give him passage; but he stood outside a moment, his tall, white figure and old sugar-loaf hat outlined against the blue-dark wall of the night sky, as though he did not know whether he would go into the room or not.

Then he crossed the threshold, took off his hat, and stood in a stiff, gallant attitude until Sophie saw him. He had a fistful of yellow flowers in one hand. Everybody knew Sophie had been fond of punti. But there were only a few bushes scattered about the Ridge, and they had done flowering a month ago, so Snowshoes’ bouquet was something of a triumph. He must have walked miles, to the swamp, perhaps, to find it, those who saw him knew.

“Oh, Mr. Riley!” Sophie cried, as she went to shake hands with him.

“They still call me Snowshoes, Sophie,” the old man said.

The men laughed, and Sophie joined them. She knew, as they all did, that although anyone of them was called by the name the Ridge gave him, no one ever addressed Snowshoes as anything but Mr. Riley.

He held the flowers out to her.

“Punti!” she