induced them to meet Mrs Martha Clay's overture, for they were
thorough snobs, but if they had come prepared to patronise, their
intention was killed ere it bore fruit.
The hostess hired the town 'bus to convey them from the station, and
despatched Andrew, with many injunctions to "conduct hisself with
reason," to meet them there, while she and Dawn waited to receive them
on one of the old porches. It was a bower of roses and pot-plants, and
further shaded by a graceful pepper-tree, and made a beautiful frame
for the grandmother and the maiden,--the old dame so straight and
vigorous, the girl as roseate and fresh as her name, but each equally
haughty and bent upon maintaining their iron independence of the
people who had discarded the girl and her mother ere the former had
been born.
Personal appearance was much in their favour, and no practised belle
of thirty could have held her own better than the inexperienced girl
of nineteen, whose native wit and downright honesty of purpose were
more than equal to all the diplomacy of thrust and parry to be gained
by living in society. Her stepmother, who was apparently as
good-natured as she seemed brainless, was prepared to be gushing, but
that was nipped in the bud by the way Dawn extended her pretty, firm
hand with the dimpling wrist and knuckles and exquisitely tapering
fingers.
Her father and aunt, who were tall and angular, with thin faces of
dull expression, met a similar reception, and she presented them to me
herself, explaining that I was a very dear friend with her for the
wedding.
I had long since risen from a boarder to be a guest and friend of the
house, and it had devolved upon me to exhibit the presents and
interview the endless callers at this time of nine days' wonder.
It being hot, the ladies retired to doff their hats ere partaking of
afternoon tea, and Dawn took her father's hat while he trumpeted in
his handkerchief and attempted a few commonplace platitudes from the
biggest and stiffest arm-chair in the "parler," into which he had
subsided. I left the room, but could hear him from where I stood
awaiting the ladies' reappearance, one from the room that had been
Miss Flipp's and the other from the one I had at first occupied, and
Mr George Mudeheepe was to occupy the third one of these apartments,
which had been empty since the tragedy.
"Dawn, my dear, you are your mother once again," he said with a sigh;
"I have never seen you, and now you are sufficiently grown to be
married."
"Yes," said the girl.
"Will you give me a kiss?"
"I'd rather not. You see you are only a stranger to me. I have never
heard of you only as the man who was a monster to my mother. I never
saw her, but I remember to love her for what she did for me, whereas
you, what did you do for her and me? I would like you to understand
how I feel on this subject, so that there can be no mistake," said the
girl honestly.
"Oh, well, I didn't come here to be told that, but to give consent to
your marriage."
"Oh!" said the girl, rearing the pretty head with its wealth of bright
hair, "as for that, I'm going to marry. If you like to exercise your
authority I'll run away and you can't unmarry me. It is at grandma's
wish you are here; she said to let old bitterness sleep for the time
you are here, and so I will now that I have explained that I utterly
refuse to recognise that a father is anything but a stranger unless he
discharges the responsibilities of the office. For the sake of the
race I maintain this ground," she concluded in words that had been put
into her mouth by one of the speakers at Ada Grosvenor's election
league, and the appearance of the ladies put an end to further
contention.
Dawn's judgments were remorseless, as becoming clean-souled, fearless
youth as yet unacquainted with the great gulf 'twixt the ideal and
real, and untainted by that charity and complaisance which, like
senility, come with advancing years.
The aunt was elderly and unprepossessing, and the stepmother of the
type bespeaking champagne and too much eating for the exercise taken,
for her head was partly sunk in a huge mass of adipose substance that
had once been bosom, and the other proportions of her figure were in
keeping.
The cups were spread in the dining-room, so thither we repaired to eat
and drink while representations of Jim Clay and Jake Sorrel, senior,
who had wept for the sufferings of the convicts, glowered down upon
the gathering of plebeians who were half swells and the swells who
were wholly plebeian.
Presently grandma and I excused ourselves and left Dawn with her
relations.
"What do you think of 'em? Are they any better than Dawn an' me?" said
the old dame as we got out of hearing. "How do I compare with that old
sack of charcoal?"
Ay, how did she compare? As a slight, active, handsome woman, still
vigorous at seventy-six, with one who, though thirty years her junior, was
already almost helpless from obesity and natural clumsiness,--that's how
she compared!
"Them's some of the swells for you--one of the 'old families,' who
think they're made of different stuff to you an' me. What do you think
of Dawn, Jim Clay's granddaughter, who drove the coach, when placed
beside her aunt, the granddaughter of an admiral in the army?"
"She looks as though Jim Clay had been a general in the navy and she
had done justice to her heredity," I gravely replied.
"Andrew, come here an' tell me how you managed 'em, an' what you think
of the great bugs now you've seen 'em," commanded the old lady of that
individual, as he emerged from the kitchen with both hands full of
cake.
"Did you walk up to 'em an' say, 'Are you Mr and Mrs Mudeheepe, I'm
Mrs Clay's grandson?' like I told you."
"No; I seen it on their luggage without arskin' them, an' one look at
'em was enough for me. I didn't bother tellin' 'em who I was. I didn't
care if they had fell down an' broke their necks--the bloomin'
long-nosed old goats! I just took hold of their things an' flung 'em
in the 'bus, and the old fat one she says, 'Are you Mrs Clay's groom?'
an' I says, 'Mrs Clay is my grandma,' an' she says, 'Oh'!"
"Well, you might have introduced yourself a bit better to make things
more agreeabler, but they really are the untakin'est people I've seen
for a long time. Ain't I delighted that Dawn took after my side! An'
now, though she's me own, do you think I'm over conceited to think her
fit for the king's son?"
"Certainly not," I replied; for it would have taken a very estimable
son of a king to be meet for this Princess of the Break-of-Day,
appropriately christened Dawn!
THIRTY.
FOR FURTHER PARTICULARS CONSULT 'THE NOONOON ADVERTISER' OF THAT DATE.
That was a grand wedding celebrated in Noonoon ere the orange blossoms
had turned into oranges, but for details it would be better to refer
to that most reliable little journal, 'The Noonoon Advertiser.' Only a
few particulars remain in my mind, but the paper published a full
account, including a minute description of the bride's gown and a
careful list of the presents. It was much to the horror of Ernest that
the latter was inserted, but it would have been much more horrible to
Grandma Clay had the mention of so much as a jam-spoon been omitted,
so he consoled himself with the reflection that it was only in 'The
Noonoon Advertiser,' and took care to keep the list out of the account
which appeared in the Sydney dailies. The curious, by consulting a
back number of the little country sheet, may learn that Mrs L. Witcom
(_née_ Carry, the ex-lady help) gave the bride one of many pairs of
shadow-work pillow shams, and that Miss Grosvenor contributed one of
the equally numerous drawn-thread table centres. Mrs Bray presented a
ribbon-work cushion; Dr Smalley, some of the jam-spoons; Andrew, a
bread-fork; and Mr J. Sorrel, great-uncle of the bride, a silver
cream-jug; while Mr Claude (alias "Dora") Eweword kept himself in mind
by an afternoon tea-set. The complete list took a column, and included
dozens of magnificent articles from sporting associations and chums of
the bridegroom.
The bride--a glorious vision in Duchesse satin and accessories in
keeping, and with real orange blossoms in hair, corsage, and train;
the proud shyness of the gentle and stalwart groom standing beside
her, and the brave old grandmother drawn up a little in the rear,
formed a picture I shall never forget. The old lady performed her
office with flashing eyes, a steady voice, and an individuality which
none could despise or overlook.
Excepting her grandmother, Dawn was unattended, and as the young
couple came down the aisle, by previous request of the bride, I had
the honour of accompanying the old lady from the church, and she said,
as we drove away over the scattered rose petals to be in readiness to
receive the guests--
"I've done it--give me little girl away, an' without misgivin's, for
if she's as happy as I was she'll do. When the time was here there was
some patches of me life wasn't too soft, but lookin' back, I would
marry Jim Clay over again if I could."
The caterpillars that had been eating the grape-vines and giving
Andrew exercise as destroyer, had turned into millions of white
butterflies that flecked the golden sunlight like a vast flotilla of
miniature aerial yachts, and enhanced the splendour of that balmy
wedding-day. It was the month of roses, and, intertwined with jasmine
and mignonette, they formed the chief decorations in the roomy marquee
erected for the breakfast under the big old cedars overlooking the
river. All Noonoonites of any importance sat down to the repast, and
their names, from that of Mrs Bray to Mrs Dr Tinker, are recorded in
'The Noonoon Advertiser.' The last-mentioned lady did not exhibit any
of her famous characteristics at the function further than to use a
gorgeous fan she carried in rapping her husband over the knuckles
every time his attention wandered from her remarks. The toasts were
many and long, and it fell to "Dora" Eweword to respond to that of the
"ladies." Since the announcement of Dawn's engagement to Ernest,
"Dora" had been frequently seen out driving with Ada Grosvenor, and he
paid her marked attention at the wedding; but this was private, not
public, information.
After I had helped Dawn into her travelling dress I had a few words
apart with Ernest while Grandma Clay bade a private good-bye to his
wife.
"Well," he said, with self-contained and pardonable triumph, "I've won
her in spite of that dish of water."
"Yes, we three have accomplished our desire."
"What three?"
"Mr and Mrs R. E. Breslaw and myself!"
"Oh, was it your desire too?" he said with a happy laugh.
The bride now appeared, and wringing my hand as he said--
"You'll come to us when we return," he stepped forward to place her in
the carriage that took them to the railway.
The paper had better be again consulted for accurate account of the
confetti pelting and other customary happenings that took place at the
station. These details, and the real greatness of Dawn's match, and
her aristocratic relatives, who, as often suspected, had not proved to
be only a myth, were the chief theme of conversation for many days.
All the engines in the sheds at the time, and whose music had lulled
me to sleep o' nights, blew the bride a royal fanfare as she entered
her first, _engaged_, and further cock-a-doodled "good luck" as the
train steamed out.
Most keenly of all I remember that it was piteously lonely, and as
dreary as though the sun had lost its power, when the panting engine
had climbed the hill from the sleepy little town, and dropped out of
hearing on the down grade from the old valley of ripening peach and
apricot, bearing the girl for ever away from the slow, meandering
grooves of life of which her vigorous young soul was weary.
A meeting of the municipal council claimed Uncle Jake that night,
Andrew went over to discuss the situation with Jack Bray, and the
loneliness of the old dining-room was insupportable to grandma and me.
Joy and beauty seemed to have fled from the scented nights beside the
river,--even the whistle and rush of the trains breathed a forlorn
note to my bereaved fancy, and there was a tear in grandma's eye as
she said--
"Well, she's really gone for altogether--she that I helped into the
world and rared with my own hand, and named after the Dawn in which
she came. That's the order of life. It's always the same--you can't
keep any one for always. I couldn't abear it here now--it seems as if
everything in life was done, and there's no need for me to stay if
Ernest puts Andrew in the way of this electrical engineerin' he's so
mad for. Jake can board somewhere. He don't care about things so much.
I'll go to Dawn: thank God she wants me, an' I've got plenty to take
me away if she gets tired of me, as young folks often do of the old,
and which is only natural after all. I can let or sell the place, an'
w'en I'm gone it will be enough for Dawn if ever she's threw on the
world like I was. Everythink seems fair with her now, but this is a
life of ups an' downs, and there's no tellin' what may happen."
L'ENVOI.
What interest can there be in the play after the knight has settled
affairs with the lady, or in the story-book when the heroine and hero
have gone on a honeymoon preparatory to living happily ever
after?--and that is what befell my tale in Noonoon.
I listen no more to the splendid music of the locomotives as they roar
across the queer old bridge, nor watch the red light flashing from
their coaling doors as they climb the Blue Mountain ascent and fire as
they go. Their far-carrying rumble has been succeeded by the more
thunderous voice of the sea on the rock-walled coast of my native
land.
Four months have elapsed since the wedding in Noonoon, yet Ernest is
still content to let his athletic ambitions remain in abeyance while
he squanders his time in the sweet dalliance of love. Squander, I say;
but on reviewing the expired years, how sanely sweet the youthful
hours we dallied shine from amid the years we toiled, fumed, cursed,
sweated, and strove to step past our brother in the bootless race for
pleasure, opulence, or popularity!
Being able to indulge in the insignia of wealth, even without being
the good fellow he is, Ernest finds it is of little significance that
his hair is "what fond mothers term auburn," while Dawn's triumphs
were assured from the outset. As mistress of a fine town mansion,
with good looks, with smart ideas of dress, and smarter ability to
verbally hold her own in any set, it goes without saying that her
grandmother having "kep' a accommodation" is not remembered against
her to any harmful extent in everyday life, where a large percentage
of folks in all cliques have to survive the knowledge of their
progenitors having been worse things than irreproachable proprietors
and conductors of most exemplary accommodation houses for those who
travel.
As Ada Grosvenor is not a girl in a book but in everyday life, I
cannot record that she has married a man worthy of her. Such an one
would have to be a leader of men--a prime minister, reformer, or other
prominent worker in the cause of humanity--and as these do not abound
in the quiet whirlpools of existence, I can only hope that she does
not drop in for a too impossible noodle, as is frequently the fate of
noble women. "Dora" Eweword would have done very well to discharge the
clodhopping work of her earthly journey--could have made her
bread-and-butter and carried her parcels, but if I can depend on
Andrew's letters, which breathe more heavily of generosity than of
grammar and gracefulness, this eligible and strapping young member of
Noonoon society has been rejected a second time, so that Mrs Bray's
fears that he would be made over conceited by adulation from
marriageable girls seems to have been unnecessary.
Noonoon is enshrined in my heart as one of the pleasantest valleys on
earth, so during enforcedly idle hours it has given me delight to
paint its beauty, however feebly, and to put some of the doings of
some of its folk in a story, that others might possibly enjoy them
too. But I put the MSS. aside till, as the good country doctor so
much esteemed in his circle expresses it, I shall have "pegged out,"
and the heroine and hero of the plot shall then judge whether it is
fit or not for publication. It has interested me to write, but
"My life has crept so long on a broken wing
. . . . . . . .
That I come to be grateful at last for a little thing,"
and those whose lives are strong, fruitful, and successful may have no
patience with the sentimental meanderings of an old woman who has
outlived joy and usefulness.
* * * * *
And now, may the Lady of my tale, as her life progresses from dawn to
noon, high noon to afternoon, dusk, evening, and night, have the
Knight of her choice and peace always beside her, till new dawns break
in other worlds beyond this place of fears and phantoms.
THE END.
End of Project Gutenberg's Some Everyday Folk and Dawn, by Miles Franklin