her to the sulky, when Dawn came upon the scene after the concert and
presented me with a huge bunch of flowers, and Eweword also got his
nag ready for home-going. Dawn had not met Ernest since the night in
the street, and even now affected not to notice him, so thinking it
time to take the situation by the horns, I said--
"Here is Mr Ernest; you didn't see him because he was standing in the
shade."
Thus encouraged, he came forward and sturdily put out his hand, and
Dawn could not very well fail to observe that, as it was of
substantial build and held where the light shone full on it, so she
was constrained to meet it with her own, and received, as she
afterwards confessed, a lingering and affectionate pressure.
It was not of Ernest, however, but of Mrs Walker that she talked that
night as we prepared for rest, with our washhand basins full of
violets that had been crowded out of the quantity given to the
defeated candidate's wife.
"Fancy being lovely like she is! After looking at her I've given up
all hope. I suppose all I'm fit for is Mrs Eweword--Mrs 'Dora'
Eweword; do my housework in the morning and take one of these sulkies
full of youngsters for a drive in the afternoon like all the other
humdrum, tame-hen, _respectable_ married women! It's a sweet prospect,
isn't it?" she said vexedly, throwing herself on the bed.
"Don't be absolutely absurd! Look in the glass and you will see a far
more beautiful face, and one possessed of other qualities that make
for success."
"Oh, nonsense, you only say that to put me in a good humour. But how
do women find such good matches as Leslie Walker?--that's what I want
to know," she continued.
"Either by being beautiful or using strategic ability in the great
lottery. Mrs Walker probably used both these accomplishments. You can
achieve similar results by means of the first without the necessity of
developing the second. Silly girl, marry Leslie Walker's step-brother,
Ernest Breslaw, and if you do not live happily ever after it will not
be because you have not been furnished with a better opportunity than
most people."
She did not remark the relationship I thus divulged, showing that
Ernest's confidences must have included it.
"A girl can't _make_ a man marry her," was all she said. "I don't know
how to use strategy, and wouldn't crawl to do such a thing if I
could."
"Neither would I, but if I loved a man and saw that he loved me, I'd
secretly hoist a little flag of encouragement in some place where he
could see it," I made reply.
TWENTY-FIVE.
"LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM."
Next morning was gloriously spring-like; the violets raised their
heads in thick mats of blue and white in every available cranny of the
garden and other enclosures where they were allowed to assert
themselves, while other plants were opening their garlands to replace
them, and the air breathed such a note of balminess that Ernest came
to invite me to a boat-ride.
To the practised eye there were certain indications that he hoped for
Dawn's company too, but this was out of the question, as under
ordinary circumstances it is rarely that girls in Dawn's walk of life
can go pleasuring in the forenoon without previous warning, or what
would become of the half-cooked midday dinner? So we set out by
ourselves, and as the boat shot out to the middle of the stream
between the peach orchards, just giving a hint of their coming glory,
and past the erstwhile naked grape-canes, not cut away and replaced by
a vivid green, the rower made a studiedly casual remark, "Your friend
Miss Dawn spoke to me again at last. I wonder why on earth she threw
that dish of water on me; did she ever say that she had anything
against me?"
"No. If you could be a girl for half an hour you'd know that the man
to whom she shows most favour is frequently the one she most despises,
while he whom she ignores or ill-treats is the one she most warmly
regards."
"How on earth is that?"
"Oh, a species of shyness like your own, which makes you talk freely
of Dawn and Ada Grosvenor, because you have no particular interest in
them, whereas there is some name you guard jealously from me," I
cunningly replied.
"Is it true that Miss Dawn is engaged to Eweword? If she is let me
know in time to send her a wedding present. I'd like to, because she's
your friend," he said with such elaborate unconcern that I had
difficulty in suppressing a smile. His step-brother, the dilettante,
would never have been so clumsily transparent in a similar case.
"Nonsense; she's as much engaged to you as to him," I said
reassuringly, and that was all that passed between us on that subject.
He energetically confined our conversation to the lovely odour from
the lucerne fields we were passing on the river-bank, but I was not
surprised that the afternoon's post brought Dawn a letter that
smothered her in blushes, and plunged her in a gay abstraction too
complete for either Uncle Jake or Andrew to penetrate.
When we were once more in our big room, commanding a view of the
Western mail with its cosy lights twinkling across the valley, she
extended me the privilege of perusing one of the simplest and most
straightforward avowals of love from a young man to a maiden it has
been my delight to encounter.
"DEAR MISS DAWN,--You will be very surprised at receiving
such a letter from me, but I hope you will not be offended.
I have loved you since the first day I saw you, but have
kept it so well to myself that no one has suspected it,
perhaps not even yourself. Will you be my wife? I love you
better than life, and am willing to wait any number of years
up to ten, if you can only give me hope of eventually
winning you. I do not expect you to care for me at once, but
if you can give me hope that you do not dislike me I shall
be content to wait. You are so beautiful and good, I am
afraid to ask you to marry me, but I would try hard to make
you happy, and being in a position to live comfortably, you
could continue any studies you like." Here followed a most
business-like and lucid statement of his affairs, and the
ending--"Please do not keep me waiting long for a reply, and
let me know if I am to interview your grandmother. I am sure
I can satisfy her in regard to my position and
antecedents.--Yours devotedly,
"R. ERNEST BRESLAW."
He was honest. Not fearing that his income might tempt a girl of
Dawn's or indeed any other's station, he had in no way attempted to
test her affection ere mentioning it. After the manner of his
type--one of the best--he would place complete reliance where he
loved, and feel sure of the same in return.
"Good heavens! has he really all that money?" she exclaimed.
"So I believe."
"I'd be able to live the life I want, then. Learn to sing, have lovely
dresses, and travel about. I'm not thinking only of his money, but
don't you think people who marry on nothing are fools and selfish? A
woman who marries a man who is only able to keep her and her children
in starvation is a fool, and a man who wants a woman to suffer what
wives have to, and drudge in poverty, is a selfish brute--that's what
I've always thought. As for gassing about love when there's no comfort
to keep it alive, that's about as foundationless as we, always being
supposed to think men our superiors, even the ones a blind idiot could
see are inferior."
"Are you going to marry him?"
"I want to, but what on earth am I to do with 'Dora' Eweword?"
"Break his heart to keep Ernest's together?"
"Break _his_ heart! It's the style to break, isn't it? He can have
Dora Cowper or Ada Grosvenor, they both want him. If grandma got wind
of the situation though, she'd put my pot on properly. She'd carry on
like fury, and let me have neither of them--that would be the end of
it. I can't make out why I fooled with that 'Dora' at all. I'll write
and ask Ernest to give me a week;" and with her characteristic
promptitude she sat down, and favoured a style as unadorned as that of
the knight himself.
"DEAR MR ERNEST,--Your letter received. I care for you, but
cannot give you a definite answer at once. There may be
obstacles in the way of accepting your kind offer; if you
will give me a week to consider matters, I will answer you
definitely then.--Yours with love,
DAWN."
As she got into bed she said with a happy giggle, "He says he loved
me from the first day he saw me, and you thought he only came to see
you!"
"Well, my dear, you can't expect people whose hearts are broken from
over-work, and whose hair is grey from want of love, to be as quick as
beautiful young ladies whose affairs have come to a happy head with a
splendid young knight;" and what I inwardly thought was, that at all
events I had discovered the knight's symptoms long before he had done
so.
"Would you like Mr Ernest and me to marry?" she asked.
"Oh, I don't object," I laconically replied.
"Well, I'll marry him as soon as ever he likes if I can get rid of
'Dora.' I'll see 'Dora' and see if I can do it without a rumpus first,
but if he hasn't got sense to be quiet, well, I won't give in without
a fight. Ernest mightn't like it if he knew, but I bet he will have to
keep dark about worse things on his part if I only knew,--he's
different to ninety-nine per cent of men if he hasn't," she said as
she opened the French lights wider to the crisp breath of scented
night and blew out the lamp.
"You don't mind his hair being red now, do you?" I maliciously
inquired in the darkness, and though she feigned sleep I knew that
owing to a delightful wakefulness another beside myself heard the
splendid music of the trains that night. The style of her breathing
told that she was still awake some hours later when the old moon
climbed high and came shining, shining down the valley, divided in two
by its noble river, and laid out in orchard and agricultural squares.
The great silver light outlined the glorious hills that walled the
west away from the little towns and villages, and here and there a
gleaming white cluster of tombstones bespoke the graveyards where
slept the early pioneers and the folk who had followed them, and which
one by one, as opening buds or withered stalks, were settling their
last earthly score. The little homesteads lay royally, peacefully free
from danger of molestation amid their wealth of trees and vines.
Cottages raised on piles, and vain in the distinction of small
protruding gables, pretentiously called bay windows, and with keys
rusting for want of use in the cheap patent door-locks, were quickly
superseding the earlier dwellings. These squat old cots generally had
thresholds higher than the floors; their home-made slab doors knew no
fastening but a latch with a string unfailingly on the outside day and
night, and with their beetling verandahs and tiny box skillions, were
crouchingly hard set upon the genial plain.
TWENTY-SIX.
"OFF WITH THE OLD."
Dawn was not a procrastinator, so she lost no time in sending Eweword
a message to meet her next night at eight at the corner of the
Gulagong Road for the purpose of a private talk.
She was going to take something to Mrs Rooney-Molyneux and the baby as
an excuse to be abroad at that hour of the night, and requested me to
accompany her, so that she would not be saddled with Andrew as
protector. We set out immediately after tea, and had time for a chat
with Mrs Rooney-Molyneux about her son. Both were enjoying good
health, thanks to the opportune arrival of a well-to-do sister, and
the fact that, in honour of an heir to his name, the father had lately
abstained from alcoholic drinks, and made an occasional pound by
writing letters for people.
We had some trouble to dissuade him from escorting us home, but
emerged at last without him, and within a few minutes of eight
o'clock.
The cloudless, breezeless night, though a little chilly, was heavy
with the odours of spring and free from the asperity of frost. The
only sounds breaking its stillness were the trains passing across the
long viaduct approaching the bridge. The vehicles which met from the
two roads--the Great Western, leading in from Kangaroo, and the
Gulagong, coming from the thickly-populated valley down the
river-banks--had gone into town earlier for the Saturday night
promenade, and we practically had to ourselves the broad highway,
showing white in the soft starlight.
I walked behind Dawn, and she, having found Eweword, who had been
first at the tryst, they came back towards the river a few hundred
yards and stopped behind some shrubbery, while I took up a place on
the other side of it, as directed beforehand by this very
business-like young person, to act as witness in case of future
trouble.
"Well, Dawn, what has turned up?" said the young man after a pause.
"There's something that might explain the situation better than a lot
of talk."
Claude, alias "Dora" Eweword, struck a match, and upon discovering the
fragments of his engagement-ring in the piece of paper she had handed
him, was silent for a minute or two, and then said--
"Dawn, so you want it to be all off. I knew that this long while, and
have been mustering pluck to say so, but it seems you have got in
before me."
"Perhaps you were going to say you were pulling my leg like you did
with Dora Cowper?"
"No, I was not," and his tone was exceedingly manly. "I was going to
say that, much as I care, I'd rather let you go free than hold you to
your agreement when I saw you didn't care for me."
"You were mighty smart!"
"No, I'm only a dunce, but even a dunce can liven up sufficiently when
he's in love to see whether his sweetheart cares for him or not, and
you didn't take much pains to hide the state of affairs," he said with
a rueful laugh. "I know enough about girls to know when they really
care."
"Practice, like," said Dawn.
"You can say that if you like," he gravely replied.
"Well, things were rather mixed, but now I know what I want."
"And that you don't want me?" he interposed.
"Well, you can marry Ada Grosvenor or Dora Cowper."
"We can leave that to the future; it doesn't enter into this question
at all," he said with a dignity that made the girl ashamed of herself.
"There will be no difficulty about my marrying, the main thing is
whether you are all right. It's easier for a man than a girl if he
does make a hash of it."
"Oh, Claude, don't be so good and generous, or you'll make me mad
because I'm not going to have you after all."
"Good and generous! Nonsense! I'm only doing what any decent fellow
would do; you'd do as much and more for me if things were reversed,"
he said, taking her hand. "Great Scott, what sort of a crawler did you
take me for? Did you think I'd cut up nasty about it? Surely you knew
I'd wish you well even if you were not for me; but won't you tell me
who it is that has put my light out?"
"Can't you guess?"
"Well, I suppose it's--"
"The red-headed mug," put in Dawn.
"Yes, I saw it all along, but that night in the street finished
matters. I knew my chances were as dead as a door-nail after that. You
only took me because something went out of gear between you, and
that's why you made me keep it dark."
"Oh, I don't want to say that, Claude."
"No, but I'm saying it; and now, is there anything else I can do for
you except wish you luck?"
"Only promise not to let grandma or any one know."
"Did you think it necessary to tell me that. I'd not be likely to howl
about my set-back. You needn't fear. I'll act with common-sense, and
pull through. I won't drown myself and haunt you, or any of that sort
of business," he said cheerfully.
"Oh, thank you more than I can say," she exclaimed enthusiastically;
"I hope you'll soon find some one better than I--some one as good as
yourself. Good-bye!"
"Well, Dawn, I wish you joy anyhow, and good luck to the fellow who
has got the best of me. He seems an alright sort from what I can make
out, and will be able to give you everything you want. Good-bye!" He
drew her to him, and as she did not resist, kissed her warmly on the
cheek, and let her go. He wanted to see her to her gate, but she
dismissed him, and he walked away through the spring night whistling a
cheery air. When he was safely gone I came out from hiding, and taking
Dawn's arm moved homewards.
The girl was weeping, but so softly that I was not aware of it till
her warm tears fell on my hand.
Oh, the never-ending fret and fume of being! When it is not discarded
love or jealousy that is agitating the human bosom, it is unsatisfied
ambition, the worry of parental responsibility, or loneliness and
regret that one has never tasted them. The past--what has it been? The
future--what will it be? The present--what does it matter? but a
thousand curses on its pin-pricks, wounding like sword-thrusts, and
which all must endure!
"Oh dear, I wish he hadn't been so nice," sobbed the girl. "He has
made me feel so ashamed that I don't think I'm fit to marry Ernest! I
wish he had been nasty to me, and then I wouldn't have cared. But you
don't think he cares, do you? Listen to him whistling so merrily!"
"It is not those who whine loudest who feel most."
"But men don't really have any feelings in this sort of thing, do
they?"
"Feeling is not peculiar to any section or sex of the community, but
to a percentage of all humanity. This is my belief, but I cannot
attempt to judge which feel and which do not."
"Who would have dreamt of him being so sweet-natured about it?"
"Nobility of character and unselfishness are also traits we cannot
find in any set place."
"I wish I hadn't been such a cat. I can't forgive myself."
I smiled happily as Eweword's action bespoke a character more in
keeping with his imposing physique than that betrayed when he had
vulgarly spoken of pulling a girl's leg. That had been like seeing a
beautiful house occupied by nothing but poachers, and I loved
humanity, so that it always hurt to see even the meanest individual do
less than their best.
"Well, cheer up," I said. "Take care not to similarly transgress
again. We all are constantly committing regrettable actions, but so
long as we are careful not to repeat them we may hope to make some
headway."
So the knight received a favourable reply, and the man supplanted by
him went another way.
TWENTY-SEVEN.
"One might think better of marriage if one's married friends
would not confide in one so much."--_Reflections of a
Bachelor Girl._
Mrs Martha Clay proved a little obstreperous in regard to Ernest
Breslaw filling the position of grandson-in-law.
"You always get what you don't want," said she; "an' that's why one of
the same class as treated me daughter so shocking is now to be
pesterin' me for me grandchild in the same way. A girl of the decent
class wants to look a long time before she leaps with one of them
swells. They just take to a girl out of their own click out of the
contrariness of human nature, and then by-and-by give 'em a dog's
life. I know there's bad in all classes, but them upstarts have so
much more licence to be up to bad capers,--that's where it comes in.
And anyhow I ain't breakin' me neck to have Dawn married. None of my
people ever had any trouble to get married, an' she can wait a bit an'
look round an' see if this feller can stand the test of waitin',"
concluded the old dame, with the light of conflict in her steel-blue
eye.
Fortunately I was able to bring forward a seductive statement of the
case. Walker--the man who had made the money for Breslaw and his
step-brother--had been a grand level-headed old labourer, and though
his sons had been educated in the great English schools, they were
not far removed from honest utilitarian folk, and owing to this, and
in conjunction with Dawn, when her real name was divulged,--being a
daughter of one of the "old families," to wit, the Mudeheepes of
Menangle, the old dame consented to be reconciled.
Now that the oppression of Carry had been removed, Mrs Bray came over
and beamed upon us in her usual inspiriting way.
The electioneering gossip having died out, she reopened the old budget
concerning the misdoings of the Noonoon aristocracy, and once more the
name of Mrs Tinker figured so largely on the bill that I deeply
regretted my inability to encounter this much-discussed individual.
However, when Dawn flung into the quiet pool the bomb of her
approaching wedding with one of the best "catches" of New South Wales,
all other topics faded into insignificance, and every woman who had
the slightest acquaintance with the bride-elect called on her to warn
her against the horrors to be discovered after she had irrevocably
taken the contemplated step in the dark.
As Dawn was going to take it speedily, they were very enthusiastic and
unanimous in their evidence against the married state under present
conditions, and the thoughtful student of life on listening to the
testimony of these women of the respectable useful class, supposed to
be comfortably and happily married, will know that notwithstanding the
great epoch of female enfranchisement the workers for the cause of
women have yet no time for rest.
Dawn was so visibly worried by the revelations made to her in the most
natural way, that grandma grew concerned and published her mind on
the subject.
"Women ought to hold their tongues and let young girls come to things
gradual. To have it thrust upon them sudden is too much of a
eye-opener for them. The way women tell how their husbands treat them
nowadays is surprisin'. We all know that with the best of men marriage
ain't a path of roses, but in my day women kep' it to theirselves.
They suffered it in silence and thought it was the right thing, but
they're getting too much sense now; and perhaps all this cryin' out
against it will be a means to an end, for a grievance can't be
remedied till it's aired, that's for certain," said she.
Mrs Bray was in great form during those days, and though her
assertions frequently lacked logic, and betrayed in her the very
shortcomings which she railed against in men, nevertheless I liked
her, for she blurted out that with which the little quiet woman rules
by keeping it in the background, well hidden under seeming humility.
"Look here, Dawn," said she on one of these occasions, "when you get a
home of your own, take my advice and don't never let no other woman in
it. You can't, seein' what men are. There's no trustin' none of them,
and if you think you can you'll find yourself sold. And try soon as
ever you're married to get something into your own hands, as a married
woman is helpless to earn her livin'; and once you have any children
you're right at the mercy of a man, and if he ain't pleased with you
in every way you're in a pretty fix, because the law upholds men in
every way. If you don't feel inclined to be their abject slave they
can even take your children from you, and what do you think of that?
It shows we ain't got the vote none too soon, I reckon! I'm not sayin'
that you'll get that kind of a crawler; some of them is good,--a jolly
sight better than some of the women,--but the most, when you come to
live with them, is as hard as nails. They don't know how to be nothing
else. They never know what it is to be quite helpless and dependent,
so what do they care. They just glory and triumph over women bein'
under them, because they know there's nothing to bring them down, and
you want to set your wits to get some hold on a man,--he has plenty on
you by law and everything else,--get some property or something in
your name so that he can't make a dishcloth of you altogether. Bein'
rich you'll have a somewhat easier time, but it's when you've got
mountains of work, when you ain't feelin' as strong as Sandow for it,
an' have one child at your skirts an' another in your arms, an' your
husband to think women ain't intended for nothink better,--that this
is God's design for 'em, like most men do,--it's then that married
life ain't the heaven some young girls think it's goin' to be. This
ain't a description of no uncommon case but among them all around you,
and supposed to be the fortunate ones. I think girls want warnin', so
they ain't goin' into it with their eyes shut."
The picture painted by this lady was duplicated by sadder pictures of
the small worn type, and some weeks of this brought us to advanced
spring and a bride-to-be so worried and unhappy that she had lost her
appetite and the roses from her cheeks, and grew visibly thinner.
Ernest, who managed to snatch a little time from worshipping his
bride-elect wherein to superintend the furnishing of his house, was
exceedingly sensitive that his affianced should look so perceptibly
miserable.