It was some months after the time of this conversation when a man, unlike
the usual aspect of man in Carlingford, appeared at the inn with a
carpet-bag, and asked his way to St Roque's Cottage. Beards were not
common in those days: nobody grew one in Carlingford except Mr Lake,
who, in his joint capacity of portrait-painter and drawing-master,
represented the erratic and lawless followers of Art to the imagination
of the respectable town. But the stranger who made his sudden appearance
at the Blue Boar wore such a forest of hair on the lower part of his
burly countenance as obliterated all ordinary landmarks in that region,
and by comparison made Mr Lake's dainty little mustache and _etceteras_
sink into utter propriety and respectableness. The rest of the figure
corresponded with this luxuriant feature; the man was large and burly,
a trifle too stout for a perfect athlete, but powerful and vigorous almost
beyond anything then known in Carlingford. It was now summer, and warm
weather, and the dress of the new-comer was as unusual as the other
particulars of his appearance. In his broad straw-hat and linen coat he
stood cool and large in the shady hall of the Blue Boar, with glimpses
of white English linen appearing under his forest of beard, and round
his brown sun-scorched wrists. A very small stretch of imagination was
necessary to thrust pistols into his belt and a cutlass into his hand,
and reveal him as the settler-adventurer of a half-savage disturbed
country, equally ready to work or to fight, and more at home in the
shifts and expedients of the wilderness than among the bonds of
civilisation; yet always retaining, as English adventurers will, certain
dainty personal particulars--such, for instance, as that prejudice in
favour of clean linen, which only the highest civilisation can cultivate
into perfection. He went off down Grange Lane with the swing and poise
of a Hercules when the admiring waiters directed him to the Cottage.
Miss Wodehouse, who was standing at the door with Lucy, in the long grey
cloak and close bonnet lately adopted by the sisterhood of mercy, which
had timidly, under the auspices of the perpetual curate, set itself
a-going at St Roque's, looked after the savage man with an instinct of
gentle curiosity, wondering where he was going and where he came from.
To tell the truth, that tender-hearted soul could with more comfort
to herself have stepped down a little on the road to St Roque's, and
watched whether that extraordinary figure was in search of Nettie--a
suspicion which immediately occurred to her--than she could set out
upon the district-visiting, to which Lucy now led her forth. But Miss
Wodehouse had tremulously taken example by the late rector, whose abrupt
retirement from the duties for which he did not feel himself qualified,
the good people in Carlingford had scarcely stopped discussing. Miss
Wodehouse, deeply impressed in her gentle mind by the incidents of that
time, had considered it her duty to reclaim if possible--she who had no
circle of college dons to retire into--her own life from its habits of
quiet indolence. She consented to go with Lucy into all the charitable
affairs of Carlingford. She stood silent with a pitying face, and
believed in all the pretences of beggary which Lucy saw through by
natural insight. But it was no more her natural element than the long
grey cloak was a natural garment for that spotless, dove-coloured woman.
Her eyes turned wistfully after the stranger with suppressed impulses
of gentle curiosity and gossip. She knew very well he did not belong to
Carlingford. She knew nobody in Grange Lane or the neighbourhood to
whom he could belong. She wanted very much to stop and inquire at the
stable-boy of the Blue Boar, their own gardener's son, who and what this
new-comer was, and turned back to look after him before she turned out
of George Street following Lucy, with lively anxiety to know whether he
was going to St Roque's. Perhaps the labours of a sisterhood of mercy
require a special organisation even of the kind female soul. Miss
Wodehouse, the most tender-hearted of human creatures, did not rise to
that development; and, with a little pang of unsatisfied wonder, saw the
unaccustomed Hercules disappear in the distance without being able to
make out whither he was bound.
Nobody, however, who had been privileged to share the advantages of Mrs
Fred Rider's conversation for some time back, could be at a loss to guess
who this messenger from the wilderness was. It was Richard Chatham come
at last--he with whose name Nettie had been bored and punctured through
and through from the first day of his introduction into Susan's talk till
now. Mrs Fred had used largely in the interval that all-potent torture
of the "continual dropping;"--used it so perpetually as, though without
producing any visible effect upon Nettie's resolution, to introduce
often a certain sickness and disgust with everything into that steadfast
soul. Nor did she content herself with her own exertions, but skilfully
managed to introduce the idea into the minds of the children--ready, as
all children are, for change and novelty. Nettie had led a hard enough
life for these three months. She could not meet Edward Rider, nor he
her, with a calm pretence of friendship; and Susan, always insolent and
spiteful, and now mistress of the position, filled the doctor with an
amount of angry irritation which his longings for Nettie's society could
not quite subdue. That perpetual barrier between them dismayed both.
Meetings which always ended in pain were best avoided, except at those
intervals when longing love could not, even under that penalty, refuse
itself the gratification; but the dismal life which was lighted up
only by those unfrequent, agitating, exasperating encounters, and
which flowed on through a hundred petty toilsome duties to the fretful
accompaniment of Susan's iterations and the novel persecution now
carried on by the children, was naturally irksome to the high-spirited
and impatient nature which, now no longer heart-whole or fancy-free, did
not find it so easy to carry its own way triumphantly through those
heavy clogs of helplessness and folly. In the days when Miss Wodehouse
pitied and wondered, Nettie had required no sympathy; she had carried
on her course victorious, more entirely conscious of the supreme
gratification of having her own way than of the utter self-sacrifice
which she made to Fred and his family. But now the time predicted by
Miss Wodehouse had arrived. Nettie's own personal happiness had come to
be at stake, and had been unhesitatingly given up. But the knowledge of
that renunciation dwelt with Nettie. Not all the natural generosity of
her mind--not that still stronger argument which she used so often, the
mere necessity and inevitableness of the case--could blind her eyes to
the fact that she _had_ given up her own happiness; and bitter flashes
of thought would intervene, notwithstanding even the self-contempt and
reproach with which she became aware of them. That doubtful complicated
matter, most hard and difficult of mortal problems, pressed hard upon
Nettie's mind and heart. In former days, when she scornfully denied it
to be self-sacrifice, and laboured on, always indomitable, unconscious
that what she did was anything more than the simplest duty and necessity,
all was well with the dauntless, all-enterprising soul; but growing
knowledge of her own heart, of other hearts, cast dark and perplexing
shades upon Nettie, as upon all other wayfarers, in these complex paths.
The effect upon her mind was different from the effect to be expected
according to modern sentimental ethics. Nettie had never doubted of
the true duty, the true necessity, of her position, till she became
conscious of her vast sacrifice. Then a hundred doubts appalled her. Was
she so entirely _right_ as she had supposed? Was it best to relieve the
helpless hands of Fred and Susan of their natural duties, and bear these
burdens for them, and disable herself, when her time came, from the
nobler natural yoke in which her full womanly influence might have told
to an extent impossible to it now? These questions made Nettie's head,
which knew no fanciful pangs, ache with painful thought, and confused
her heart and dimmed her lights when she most needed them to burn
brightly. While, at the very time when these doubts assailed her, her
sister's repetitions and the rising discontent and agitations of the
children, came in to over-cloud the whole business in a mist of sick
impatience and disgust. Return to Australia was never out of Susan's
mind, never absent from her pertinacious foolish lips. Little Freddy
harped upon it all day long, and so did his brother and sister. Nettie
said nothing, but retired with exasperated weariness upon her own
thoughts--sometimes thinking, tired of the conflict, why not give in to
them? why not complete the offering, and remove once for all into the
region of impossibility that contradictory longing for another life that
still stirred by times in her heart? She had never given expression to
this weary inclination to make an end of it, which sometimes assailed
her fatigued soul; but this was the condition in which Richard Chatham's
visit found her, when that Bushman, breathing of the wilds and the
winds, came down the quiet suburban road to St Roque's, and, filling the
whole little parlour with his beard and his presence, came stumbling
into the confined room, where Mrs Fred still lay on the sofa, and Nettie
pursued her endless work.
"Sorry to hear of the poor doctor's accident," said the Australian, to
whom Fred bore that title. "But he always was a bit of a rover; though
it's sad when it comes to that. And so you are thinking of a return to
the old colony? Can't do better, _I_ should say--there ain't room in
this blessed old country for anything but tax-gatherers and gossips. I
can't find enough air to breathe, for my part--and what there is, is
taxed--leastways the light is, which is all the same. Well, Mrs Rider!
say the word, ma'am, and I'm at your disposal. I'm not particular for a
month or two, so as I get home before next summer; and if you'll only
tell me your time, I'll make mine suit, and do the best I can for you
all. Miss Nettie's afraid of the voyage, is she? That's a new line for
her, I believe. Something taken her fancy in this horrid old box of a
place, eh? Ha! ha! but I'll be head-nurse and courier to the party, Miss
Nettie, if you trust yourselves to me."
"We don't mean to go back, thank you," said Nettie. "It is only a fancy
of Susan's. Nobody ever dreamt of going back. It is much too expensive
and troublesome to be done so easily. Now we are here, we mean to stay."
The Bushman looked a little startled, and his lips formed into a whistle
of astonishment, which Nettie's resolute little face kept inaudible.
"Taken your fancy very much, eh, Miss Nettie?" said the jocular savage,
who fancied raillery of one kind or other the proper style of conversation
to address to a young lady. Nettie gave that big hero a flashing sudden
glance which silenced him. Mr Chatham once more formed an inaudible
whew! with his lips, and looked at Mrs Fred.
"But _your_ heart inclines to the old colony, Miss Susan?--I beg your
pardon--didn't remember what I was saying at that moment. Somehow you
look so much as you used to do, barring the cap," said the Australian,
"that one forgets all that has happened. You incline to cross the seas
again, Mrs Rider, without thinking of the expense?--and very sensible
too. There never was a place like this blessed old country for swallowing
up a man's money. You'll save as much in a year in the colony as will
take you across."
"That is what I always say;--but of course my wishes are little thought
of," said Mrs Fred, with a sigh; "of course it's Nettie we have to look
to now. If she does not choose, to be sure, it does not matter what I
wish. Ah! if I don't look different, I feel different--things are
changed _now_."
The Bushman gave a puzzled glance, first at one sister and then at the
other. It occurred to him that Fred had not been so much of a strength
and protection to his family as this speech implied, and that Nettie had
been the person whom Mrs Rider had to "look to" even before they left
that colony for which she now sighed. But Mrs Fred, in her sorrow and
her white cap, was an interesting figure to the eyes which were not much
accustomed to look upon womankind. He had no doubt hers was a hard case.
Nettie sat opposite, very busy, silent, and resolute, flashing dangerous
sudden glances occasionally at her languid sister and their big visitor.
It was confusing to meet those brilliant impatient wrathful eyes; though
they were wonderfully bright, they put out the wild man of the woods,
and made him feel uncomfortable. He turned with relief to those milder
orbs which Mrs Fred buried in her handkerchief. Poor little oppressed
woman, dependent upon that little arbitrary sister! The sincerest pity
awoke in the Bushman's heart.
"Well!" he said, good-humouredly, "I hope you'll come to be of one mind
when Miss Nettie thinks it over again; and you have only to drop me a
line to let me know when your plans are formed; and it will go hard
with me, but I'll make mine suit them one way or another. All that I can
do for you in the way of outfit or securing your passages--or even, if
you would allow me----"
Here the good fellow paused, afraid to venture any further. Nettie looked
up in a sudden blaze, and transfixed him with her eye.
"We have enough for everything we want, thank you," said Nettie, looking
through and through his guilty benevolent intentions, and bringing a
flush of confusion to his honest cheeks. "When I say I cannot afford
anything, I don't mean to ask anybody's assistance, Mr Chatham. We can
do very well by ourselves. If it came to be best for the children--or if
Susan keeps on wishing it, and gets her own way, as she generally does,"
said Nettie, with heightened colour, dropping her eyes, and going on at
double speed with her work, "I daresay we shall manage it as we did
before. But that is my concern. Nobody in the world has anything to do
with it but me."
"Oh, Nettie, dear, you're giving in at last!--do say you'll go! and
Mr Chatham promises he'll take care of us on the way," cried Mrs
Fred, clasping her hands. They were thin hands, and looked delicate in
contrast with her black dress. She was very interesting, pathetic, and
tender to the rough eyes of the Bushranger. He thought that imperative
little creature opposite, with her brilliant glances, her small head
drooping under those heavy braids of hair, her tiny figure and rapid
fingers, looked like a little cruel sprite oppressing the melancholy
soul. When Nettie rose from the table, goaded into sudden intolerance by
that appeal, the climax of the "continual dropping," and threw her work
indignantly on the table, and called Freddy to come directly, and get
dressed for his walk, the impression made by her supposed arbitrary and
imperious behaviour was not diminished. She went out disdainful, making
no reply, and left those two to a private conference. Then Mrs Fred
unbosomed her bereaved heart to that sympathetic stranger. She told him
how different everything was now--how hard it was to be dependent even
on one's sister--how far otherwise things might have been, if poor dear
Fred had been more prudent: one way or other, all her life through,
Susan had been an injured woman. All her desire was to take the children
back to the colony before she died. "If Nettie would but yield!" sighed
Mrs Fred, clasping her hands.
"Nettie must yield!" cried the Bushranger, full of emotion; and Susan
cried a little, and told him how much the poor dear children wished it;
and knew in her fool's heart that she had driven Nettie to the extremest
bounds of patience, and that a little more persistence and iteration
would gain the day.
In the mean time Nettie went out with Freddy--the other two being at
school--and took him across the fields for his afternoon walk. The
little fellow talked of Australia all the way, with a childish treachery
and betrayal of her cause which went to Nettie's heart. She walked by
his side, hearing without listening, throbbing all over with secret
disgust, impatience, and despair. She too perceived well enough the
approaching crisis. She saw that once more all her own resolution--the
purpose of her heart--would be overborne by the hopeless pertinacity of
the unconvincible, unreasoning fool. She did not call her sister hard
names--she recognised the quality without giving it its appropriate
title--and recognised also, with a bitterness of resistance, yet a sense
of the inevitable, not to be described, the certain issue of the unequal
contest. What chance had the generous little heart, the hasty temper,
the quick and vivacious spirit, against that unwearying, unreasoning
pertinacity? Once more she must arise, and go forth to the end of the
world: and the sacrifice must be final now.