now."
"Dora is a funny name for a man."
"It ain't his name. He's called it for a lark because he was after a
girl up in town named Dora Cowper. She serves in a hay and corn store
at the corner. Things were gettin' on pretty strong, and he used to be
taking her out all hours of the night and day. Some reckon she's
better-lookin' than Dawn, and her mother put it around that Eweword
would make a brilliant match for her, and that shooed him off at once.
I reckon if I was a girl and wanted to ketch a man I'd hold me mag
about it, as I know two or three now has been turned off the same
way."
"Perhaps Dora Cowper didn't lose much."
"Well, he has a bosker farm, you see. He keeps a power of pigs and
fattens 'em. Then he went after one or two more girls, and now he
comes here. Buying these pumpkins is only a dodge to get a chip in
with Dawn. He has plenty lucerne for his pigs, but we have so many
pumpkins rotting we are glad to get rid of them at two bob a load, and
I suppose that is cheap to get a yarn with Dawn. He ain't preposed to
Dawn yet, but I'm sure he's goin' to, because I asked him if he was
goin' to marry Dora Cowper, an' he said no. Dawn is only pullin' his
leg for him--she's got all the blokes on a string. You should see her
with those that comes up in the summer. It's worth bein' alive in the
summer. We had melons here in millions. We used to open a big Dixie or
Cuban Queen and just only claw out the middle. We used to fill the
water-cask with 'em to cool, an' every time Dawn came out to dive in
her dipper, wouldn't she rouse! Me an' Uncle Jake used to race to see
who could eat the most, but he beat. He's a sollicker to stuff when he
gets anything he likes. It's a wonder we didn't bust. The oranges will
soon be ripe, that's good luck: I can eat eighty a-day easy. Here
comes old Bolliver!"
A huge figure as described by Dawn came out of the house in company
with Miss Flipp, and I recognised Mr Pornsch, the heavy swell who had
travelled in the 'bus with me on the day of my first arrival in
Noonoon.
With repulsive clumsiness he climbed into the vehicle, and then said
roughly, almost brutally, to his niece--
"Get in! get in!" and scarcely gave her time to be seated ere he hit
the pony and nearly screwed its jaw off getting out of the yard.
"Cock-a-doodle-do! Ain't it nice to have a sweet temper," loudly
remarked Andrew, as he stood aside. "He just is a purple plum. He's
the kind of old cove I'd like to get real narked and then scoot.
Wouldn't he splutter and think himself Lord Muck, and that every one
oughter be licking his boots!"
Dawn and "Dora" Eweword were still hanging over a garden fence as
Andrew went after his cows and I betook myself to the house. Uncle
Jake was in conference with his sister, and gave evidence of fearing I
should pursue him, so I mercifully betook myself to my own apartment.
Miss Flipp presently returned, and saying she had had tea up town with
her uncle and would not want any more, shut herself in her room, from
whence I soon detected the sound of impassioned sobbing. My first
impulse was to ask her what was the matter, but my second, born of a
wide experience of grief, led me to hold my tongue and tell no one
what I had heard; but to escape from the sound of that pitiable
weeping I went out in the garden, where I was joined by Mrs Clay.
"Did you see that young feller out there this afternoon? Fine stamp of
a young man, don't you think?" remarked she.
"He should be able for a good day's work."
"Yes; he's none of your tobacco-spitting, wizened-up little runts like
you'll see hangin' on to the corner-posts in Noonoon."
"Seems to admire your granddaughter?"
"An' he's not the first by a long way that has done that, though she
was only nineteen this month."
"I can quite believe it. She is a lovely girl."
"An' more than that, a good one. I've never had one moment's
uneasiness with Dawn; she took after me that way. I could let her go
out in the world anywhere with no fear of her goin' astray. She's got
a fine way with men, friendly and full of life, but let 'em attempt to
come an inch farther than she wants, and then see! Sometimes I'm
inclined to wish she's be a little more genteeler; but then I look
around an' see some of them sleek things, an' it's always them as are
no good, an' I'm glad then she's what she is. There's some girls here
in town,"--the old lady grew choleric,--"you'd think butter wouldn't
melt in their mouths, an' they try to sit on Dawn. It's because
they're jealous of her, that's what it is. I wouldn't own 'em! They'd
run a man into debt and be a curse to him; but there's Dawn, the man
that gets her, he'll have a woman that will be of use to him and not
just a ornament."
"He'll have an ornament too."
"Perhaps so. I've spent a lot of money on her education. She's been
taught painting and dancing. I had her down at the Ladies' College in
Sydney for two years finishing, an' she's had more chances of being a
lady than most. Some of these things in town here turn up their noses
at her an' say, 'She's only old Mrs Clay's granddaughter, who keeps a
accommodation house,' but I pay me bills and ain't ashamed to walk up
town an' look 'em all in the face."
"But it's generally those who owe the most who have the most lordly
mien."
"You're right. I could point you out some of them up town as hasn't a
shirt to their back, an' they look as they owned everythink--the
brazenest things!" The old dame's indignation waxed startling in its
intensity.
"But I was going to tell you about young Eweword. I've set me heart on
him for Dawn. He's somethink worth lookin' at an' worth havin' too. He
knows how to farm and make it pay, an' owns one of the best pieces of
land about Noonoon--all his own. Dawn don't seem to take to him as
she ought. He was after a girl here in town, a Dora Cowper, an' so she
says she ain't goin' to take any leavin's; but he ain't any leavin's,
she can be sure of that, for if he'd wanted Dora Cowper they'd have
snapped him up, an' I think as long as a young feller don't go making
too much of a fool of a girl, a little flirtation's only natural. This
has been the mischief with Dawn. There's a lot of people here in the
summer from the city, and they're all taken with her, and for
everlasting telling her she's wasting her talents here, that she ought
to be on the stage. It's a wonder people can't mind their own
concerns!" (The old dame grew choleric again.) "It makes her think
what I can give her ain't good enough. It's all very fine in a good
comfortable home of her own, with love and protection around her, to
think people mean that sort of thing, an' that w'en she walked out in
the world they would be anxious to worship her. Just let her go out
an' try, an' she'd find it all moonshine; but w'en I tell her, she
only thinks I'm a old pig, an' only she's that stubborn I know she'd
never come back. (I would be the same myself w'en young, so can't
blame her.) I'd let her have a taste of hardship to bring her to her
bearin's. But while I'm alive she'll never have my consent to be a
actress. W'en I was young they was looked upon as the lowest hussies.
I'd like to hear what my mother would say if I had wanted to be
one--paintin' meself up an' kickin' up me heels and showin' meself
before men in the loudest manner!"
I concluded not to divulge my profession while at Clay's, and to boot,
I held much the same point of view.
"She thinks she'd like to marry some fine feller and be a toff; an'
she's got this danger that's always the drawback of a girl bein'
pretty, so many fellers come after them at the start they get finnicky
an' think they can marry any one, an' leave it too late, an' in the
end they marry some rubbishing feller an' don't came out half so well
as the plain ones that was content with a fair thing w'en they had the
chance of it. Just the same with a boy; it's a bad thing for them to
be able to do everythink, they are so terribly smart they end up by
doin' nothink, an' the ploddin' feller they grinned at for bein' a
booby, because he stuck to the one thing, comes out on top."
"Just so; want of concentration plucks one every time."
"That's wot I want to save Dawn from. It's all right while I live, an'
I don't want her to be chuckin' herself at the head of any Tom or
Dick, but I won't live for ever, an' marriage is like everythink else,
you want to have your eye on a good thing an' not humbug too much.
W'en I'm gone"--the austere old face softened--"I wouldn't like to
think of her I've spent so much money on, an' rared with me own hand,
as I did her an' her mother before her, growin' old an' sour an'
lonely, or bein' a slave to some worthless crawler." The old voice
grew perilously soft, and saved itself from a break by a swift
crescendo.
"As I say, I suppose she's waitin' for some great impossible feller to
come along, like we do w'en we're young; but these upper ten is the
worst matches a girl can make, an' besides there's too many trying to
ketch them in their own rank. I've had lots of 'em here, an' to see
these swell girls the way they try to ketch some one would make you
ill. Don't you think so?"
"Well, my sympathies are always with the swell girl in the matrimonial
market," I replied. "She has a far harder time than those of the
working classes. You see, so many of the well-to-do eligibles prefer
working girls--actresses, chorus-singers, and barmaids, which, in
addition to marriage in their own class, gives these girls a chance of
stepping up; whereas the swell girls cannot marry grooms and footmen
and raise them to their rank as their brothers can their housemaids
and ballet-girls. To be a success the society girl must marry a man of
sufficient means to keep her as an expensive toy, and this description
of bachelor being scarce in any case, little wonder she has to hunt
hard and tries to protect her preserves from poachers. Think of it
that way."
"There is a lot in that, and that's why I like to see Dawn have young
Eweword, who's a man I'd be happy to leave her to; but I daren't say a
word, she's mighty touchy an' would flash up that she'd leave if I
want to get rid of her. But while I've got breath in me body there's
one thing I will set me foot on, an' that's these good-for-nothing
skunks like bankers' sons an' them sort of high an' mighty pauper
nobodies; they're fearful matches for any one. I know too much about
the swells an' the old families of the colony, I'm thankful I ain't
one of them. My father came out here a long time ago, an' I was born
out here. He was a sergeant in the police. I am near seventy-six, an'
can remember plain for seventy years back in the days w'en there was
plenty convicts, an' me father, seein' his position, was put to see
the floggin' of them. Me and another little girl that's dead now used
to climb up a tree an' look over the wall like children would. We was
stationed in Goulburn then, an' I'll never forget the scenes to me
dyin' day. The men used to be stripped to the waist and tied on a
triangle and walloped till they was cut to pieces, till they screamed
like little children for mercy, and poor old wretches that had roamed
the world for sixty years used to screech Mother! Mother! like little
children. It was heart-renderin'! An' what used they be flogged for,
do you think?--for the piggishness of the swells mostly. I'll tell
you. There was a old feller lived out at Kaligiwa--that's more than
twenty miles the other side of Goulburn, an' there's Parry's Lagoon
there called after him till this day. He was a old Lord Muck if ever
there was one, an' by reason of that got a land grant an' men
assigned, an' he ought to have been give to them to kick--would have
been the right thing; an' then he had a lot of skunks of sons,--took
after their father, of course, an' hadn't much chance of bein'
anythink else,--an' w'en they used to ride to town they used to have a
man tied to the stirrup just to hold it."
"What was that for?"
"What was it for?" she raged. "It was because they was those skunks of
swells that think other people is only made as floor wipes for 'em!
An' this feller used to have to run all the way to town, and if he
hadn't strength to run all the way he'd be dragged, an' if he give any
lip the Parrys 'u'd report 'em; an' me father says he's often seen 'em
flogged till their backs were like ploughed, an' then have to run the
twenty miles home. Me father used to come in every day and fling
hisself down an' cry and sob as if his heart would break, an' say he'd
rather starve than stay in the police. Now, the Parrys got up an' one
of them had a 'Sir' sent out to his name, and you'll see 'em writ
about as one of the few _old_ families; and I hold that Dawn come from
better stock than them, and has more to be proud of in her
grandfather--he had some heart in him. An' Lord! there's Miss Flipp's
uncle, one look at him ought to be sufficient warnin' to any girl.
The likes of him is common among the swells--too much stuffin' an'
drinkin' an' debochary. Nice thing if Dawn married a swell an' he
developed into a old pig like that. I can tell you another great
family of swells, the Goburnes--entertained the Royalties w'en they
was out here, an' are such bugs one of 'em married the Governor's
daughter. They got up about the same way. In the old days w'en things
were carelesser an' land wasn't much, the old cock of all had the
surveyor that was gone on his daughter measurin' the land, an' got him
to slice in great pieces by false measurement, an' worked the lives
out of convicts--as big a brute as the Parrys. That's the breed of the
swells, an' I have a horror of them. The people as I consider ought to
be the swells in this country is them that came out first, the free
emigrants, and honestly worked up the colony with their own hands, an'
their children done the same for four or five generations--them's the
only proper Australian aristocracy we've got. That's why I have sich a
contempt for this Rooney-Molyneux, Mrs Bray was tellin' of; only times
is different he'd be the same, he's got the sort of pride that thinks
his wife is a black gin because she was only a milliner."
Out past the placard advertising Mrs Clay's boats gleamed the
highroad, and from where we walked could be seen a now unused old
stone milepeg, carved in Roman lettering, its legend differing
somewhat from that in modern figures painted on the miniature wooden
post by which it had been deposed. It was one of many relics of the
dead and gone convicts who had done giant pioneer labour in this broad
bright land in the days when Grandma Clay's mother had been young.
Fine old grandma, daughter of a fine old dad who had wept for the
cruelty endured by the men who had worked in chain-gangs and were
flogged under his superintendence, and thinking thus I turned to the
old dame who had ceased talking and said--
"And what of your father, did he get away from seeing the convicts
flogged?"
"Yes; me mother thought he was goin' mad. He used to sob in his sleep
an' call out and squirm that he couldn't bear to see them flogged, an'
leap up in bed in a sweat. So he gave up the police an' we went a long
way farther back to Gool-Gool on the Yarrangung, a tributary of the
Murrumbidgee. The train in them days was only a little way out of
Sydney, an' me father got a job of drivin' Cobb & Co.'s coaches from
Gool-Gool to Yarrandogi, an' me an' me mother an' sisters an' Jake
there used to live in a little tent at the first stage out of
Gool-Gool, an' take care of the horses. I was fond of them horses, and
used to sneak out to harness them on to the swingle-bar w'en I was no
higher than the table. It's a wonder I didn't get me brains knocked
out. I was lots smarter than Jake there with the horses, though it
ain't supposed to be girl's work. But it came nacheral to me, an' I
think in that case it's right. That's why I never was one to narrer
girls down an' say you mustn't do this and that because you're a girl.
I've always found, in spite of their talk, the best and gamest mothers
is the ones that grew out of the tomboy girls. Well, it come that me
father, being a steady man an' very kind and well liked, he got on
surprisin', an' soon the tent give place to a bark hut. That's the way
people worked up in my days, an' what they had was their own. They
didn't want to start in mansions an' eat off of silver at the expense
of others like in these times! After that we moved a long way down an'
took up a position on the Murra-Murra run beside the Sydney road,
where the coaches passed in the night; an' me mother made hot coffee
for the passengers, an' we drove a roarin' trade, had to git girls in
to help, an' put up a large accommodation house, and respectable
people always made to us" (the old head went high and the eyes
flashed) "because we was clean, temperance people, there never was no
D.T.'s or sly grog where we had the rule. An' that's why I always like
to have a few people in the house to this day. I'm used to their
company like, an' feel there's nothing goin' on or doing without them.
Well, I grew up in time. I can't say it meself, but them as knew me
then could tell you I wasn't disfigured in any way or a cripple, an'
had no lack of admirers. Me an' me two sisters had 'em by the score
waitin' till we grew old enough to be married. I can tell you there
was some smart fellers among 'em. Those were the times! Me sisters
made what is called swell matches, an' not bein' used to bein' cooped
up, their lives was failures. I was the only one married in me own
circle, and my life was a pattern to the others. I was the oldest an'
waited last, an' me mother was that disappointed in me that I had to
run away, an' I have me reasons for fearin' Dawn is on for a swell. I
seen me sisters' lives. I call them unwholesome marriages when girls
marries these fellers, an' their narrer-minded people sits on her an'
is that depraved they turn him agen her!" Mrs Clay was vehement.
"When Dawn's mother grew up she was Dawn's image, an' we was keepin' a
accommodation house too, that is Jim Clay an' me, and Dawn's mother
was reckoned the prettiest and best girl in them parts, an' had lovers
from far and near; but there came a feller up from Sydney to stay,
nothin' to blow about neither, but he was dreadfully gone on me
daughter. He seemed all right, but I was agen him--being a
swell,--till me daughter threatened she'd run away with him if I
didn't let her have him peaceful, an' rememberin' me own youth, I let
her have him in spite of me misgivin's. She went home with him, an' it
appears he was like these crawlin' fellers--couldn't do nothink, only
what their parents give them; an' w'en they found he'd married a fine,
good, wholesome girl, instead of one of their own style--one of the
Parrys for instance--they cut him off with a shilling, an' poor thing
she nearly starved, an' took to work to keep him, an' he always
growlin' at her like the coward he was, that only for her he'd have
been well off. A mess-alliance his people called it, but the mess
wasn't from poor Mary's side. Well, w'en it come that she was to be a
mother, his people took her in and told her, if you please, that if it
was a boy they'd take it theirselves and educate it fit for their
family, but if it was a girl they wouldn't. The poor thing, not bein'
able for anythink an' too proud to come home, stood their insults as
long as she could, an' at last she sneaked out at night and set off to
walk to me. It is pitiable to think of."
The poor old voice trembled.
"She had more'n a hundred miles to travel an' it took her days, but
some folk was good, an' one cold night about three hours before
daylight she startled me by comin' into my room. I remember it like
yesterday. 'Mother,' she says, 'I'm ill; I'm goin' to die; you won't
let them take my child, will you?' I thought her wanderin', an' she
was so gentle it frightened me; for we was always saucy ladies, I can
tell you--every one of us, an' you can see Dawn is the same now. But
that's only a way; w'en I'm ill she's as tender as anythink. It's
grandma wouldn't this do you good, and that do you good? An' her
little hands is very clever an' nice about my old bones w'en they
ache. Well, her mother was took bad an' me an' her father done our
best, an' her baby came into the world--a poor miserable little
winjin' thing, an' its mother turnin' over said, 'What's that light,
mother, comin' in, is it the Dawn?' an' lookin' up I see it was the
Dawn; an' she never spoke again, but went off simple an' sudden just
then, an' that's how Dawn come to get her name. I never thought she'd
live to be called by it though. Little winjin' thing! I had to feed
her on the bottle an' everythink disagreed with her. We had to keep a
old cow especial. I remember her as clear as yesterday--a big old cow
with a dew-lap an' a crumpled horn; we called her Ladybird because she
was spots all over. As for _them_ getting Dawn! They had the cheek to
write an' say if it was a boy they'd take it. They had the cheek after
what happened--that's swells for you again! I writ them one letter in
return that I reckon ought to last them to their dying day. I told
them it wasn't any matter to them what _my_ child was; that they had
_murdered_ one already, let that be sufficient for them; that they'd
get no more unless over my dead body; an' that all I regretted was
that the child had any of their cowardly blood in it, that it almost
discouraged me about its rarin'. An' Dawn don't know her name, an'
won't unless she's married. Her father married again, an' I'm glad to
say never had another child, an' I believe hankers for Dawn, an' he
will hanker for my part; an' I've got Dawn tootered up agen him too.
Now you can see the blow it would be to me if she took up with a
swell--there's no happiness marryin' out of yer own religion or class.
Mine was what I'd call a love match now. Jim Clay _was_ a lover! I've
seen him come in with a team of five all buckin', an' it snowin' an'
never anythink but a laugh out of him. He'd ride miles an' miles to
see me. The crawlers about these parts nowadays toddle about on bikes
or sit like great-grandfathers in sulkies, an' if it was to sprinkle
they'd think half a mile too far to go to see their sweetheart. I
think the heart of the world must be dyin' out."
"You'll tell me about Jim Clay, won't you?" I said; "for I am an
Australian--one of those you consider entitled to be termed a real
aristocrat. My people for several generations have practically worked
in the building of the State, though I must admit they belonged to the
leisured class at home."
"Well, that ain't nothink agen 'em when they don't make it nothink
agen 'em, if you understand. If a swell can prove hisself as good an'
useful a man as another, he deserves the credit, an' comes out ahead
too, because he has the education, an' sometimes that is useful. I'll
tell you about me young days. Lately me mind seems to be goin' back
more an' more to old times."
"Grandma! Grandma!" called Dawn's rich young voice, "come to tea.
Andrew and Carry want to go up town after."
As I turned and looked at this glowing vision I laughed to think of
her as a "little winjin' thing," and was grateful to the good offices
of old Ladybird with the dew-lap and a crumpled horn.
"You needn't be in such a hurry all of a suddent," said grandma
crossly. "It's a different tune w'en _you're_ hangin' over the fence
talkin' somewhere. There's no hurry roundin' me in to tea _then_!"
We lingered awhile watching the afterglow above the great range
dividing the coast land from the vast stretches of the interior, and
which was no longer an impassable barrier to the people of the State.
Now the train toiled over a stile-like way connecting east and west,
and Noonoon and Kangaroo, divided by a mile and the river, nestled
immediately at the foot of the zigzag climb.
They lay asleep against the ranges in a slow-going world of their own,
their little houses gleaming white in the fading light.
There was a flush on the old woman's face as she turned
houseward--also an afterglow. 'Twas a fitting nook for her present
days, the decline of those splendidly vigorous years behind! What
satisfaction to look back on strenuous, fruitful years, and be able to
afford rest during the last stages!
I, too, had rest; but it was only the ignominious idleness of a young
boat with a broken propeller yarded among honourably worn-out craft to
await a foundering.
FOUR.
DAWN'S AMBITION.