Compared with the dark, spindly foliage of the she-oaks,
the ti-trees' waxy flowers stood out like orange-blossoms against firs.
On damp or marshy ground wattles were aflame: great quivering masses of
softest gold. Wherever these trees stood, the fragrance of their yellow
puff-ball blossoms saturated the air; one knew, before one saw them,
that they were coming, and long after they had been left behind one
carried their honeyed sweetness with one; against them, no other scent
could have made itself felt. And to Mahony these waves of perfume, into
which they were continually running, came, in the course of the hours,
to stand for a symbol of the golden future for which he and Polly were
making; and whenever in after years he met with wattles in full bloom,
he was carried back to the blue spring day of this wedding-journey, and
jogged on once more, in the light cart, with his girl-wife at his side.
It was necessarily a silent drive. More rain had fallen during the
night; even the best bits of the road were worked into deep, glutinous
ruts, and the low-lying parts were under water. Mahony, but a fairish
hand with the reins, was repeatedly obliged to leave the track and take
to the bush, where he steered a way as best he could through trees,
stumps, boulders and crab-holes. Sometimes he rose to his feet to
encourage the horse; or he alighted and pulled it by the bridle; or put
a shoulder to the wheel. But to-day no difficulties had power to daunt
him; and the farther he advanced the lighter-hearted he grew: he went
back to Ballarat feeling, for the first time, that he was actually going
home.
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