DEPARTURE.
They decided to sell their furniture--with the exception of the piano
and the bureau, and sundry treasures that could bestowed away in the
latter capacious receptacle; and, on being made acquainted with the
fact, the obliging Mr. Hawkins offered to take it as it stood for a
lump sum of £50, and his offer was gratefully accepted. Sam Dunn was
very wroth over this transaction, for he knew the value of the dairy
and kitchen utensils and farm-yard appliances, which went to the new
tenant along with the household furniture that Mrs. Dunn, as a candid
friend, had disparaged and despised; and he reproached Elizabeth,
tenderly, but with tears in his eyes, for having allowed herself to
be "done" by not taking Mr. Brion's advice upon the matter, and shook
his head over the imminent fate of these three innocent and helpless
lambs about to fling themselves into the jaws of the commercial
wolves of Melbourne. Elizabeth told him that she did not like to be
always teasing Mr. Brion, who had already done all the legal business
necessary to put them in possession of their little property, and had
refused to take any fee for his trouble; that, as they had nothing more
to sell, no buyer could "do" them again; and that, finally, they all
thought fifty pounds a great deal of money, and were quite satisfied
with their bargain. But Sam, as a practical man, continued to shake his
head, and bade her remember him when she was in trouble and in need
of a faithful friend--assuring her, with a few strong seafaring oaths
(which did not shock her in the least, for they were meant to emphasise
the sincerity of his protestations), that she and her sisters should
never want, if he knew it, while he had a crust of bread and a breath
in his body.
And so they began to pack up. And the fuss and confusion of that
occupation--which becomes so irksome when the charm of novelty is
past--was full of enjoyment for them all. It would have done the
travel-worn cynic good to see them scampering about the house, as
lightly as the kittens that frisked after them, carrying armfuls of
house linen and other precious chattels to and fro, and prattling the
while of their glorious future like so many school children about to
pay a first visit to the pantomime. It was almost heartless, Mrs.
Dunn thought--dropping in occasionally to see how they were getting
on--considering what cause had broken up their home, and that their
father had been so recently taken from them that she (Mrs. Dunn) could
not bring herself to walk without hesitation into the house, still
fancying she should see him sitting in his arm-chair and looking at her
with those hard, unsmiling eyes, as if to ask her what business she had
there. But Mr. King had been a harsh father, and this is what harsh
fathers must expect of children who have never learned how to dissemble
for the sake of appearances. They reverenced his memory and held it
dear, but he had left them no associations that could sadden them like
the sight of their mother's clothes folded away in the long unopened
drawers of the wardrobe in her room--the room in which he had slept and
died only a few weeks ago.
These precious garments, smelling of lavender, camphor, and sandalwood,
were all taken out and looked at, and tenderly smoothed afresh, and
laid in a deep drawer of the bureau. There were treasures amongst them
of a value that the girls had no idea of--old gowns of faded brocade
and embroidered muslin, a yellow-white Indian shawl so soft that it
could be drawn through a wedding ring, yellower lace of still more
wonderful texture, and fans, and scarfs, and veils, and odds and ends
of ancient finery, that would have been worth considerably more than
their weight in gold to a modern art collector. But these reminiscences
of their mother's far-off girlhood, carefully laid in the bottom of the
drawer, were of no account to them compared with the half-worn gowns
of cheap stuff and cotton--still showing the print of her throat and
arms--that were spread so reverently on the top of them; and compared
with the numerous other memorials of her last days--her workbox, with
its unfinished bit of needlework, and scissors and thimble, and tapes
and cottons, just as she had left it--her Prayer-Book and Bible--her
favourite cup, from which she drank her morning tea--her shabby velvet
slippers, her stiff-fingered gardening gloves--all the relics that her
children had cherished of the daily, homely life that they had been
privileged to share with her; the bestowal of which was carried on in
silence, or with tearful whispers, while all the pets were locked out
of the room, as if it had been a religious function. When this drawer
was closed, and they had refreshed their saddened spirits with a long
walk, they set themselves with light hearts to fill the remainder of
the many shelves and niches of the bureau with piles of books and
music, painting materials, collections of wild flowers and shells and
seaweeds, fragments of silver plate that had lain there always, as
far as they knew, along with some old miniatures and daguerreotypes
in rusty leather cases, and old bundles of papers that Mr. Brion had
warned them to take care of--and with their own portfolios of sketches
and little personal treasures of various kinds, their father's watch,
and stick, and spurs, and spectacles--and so on, and so on.
After this, they had only to pack up their bed and table linen and
knives and forks, which were to go with them to Melbourne, and to
arrange their own scanty wardrobes to the best advantage.
"We shall certainly want some clothes," said Eleanor, surveying their
united stock of available wearing apparel on Elizabeth's bedroom floor.
"I propose that we appropriate--say £5--no, that might not be enough;
say £10--from the furniture money to settle ourselves up each with a
nice costume--dress, jacket, and bonnet complete--so that we may look
like other people when we get to Melbourne."
"We'll get there first," said Patty, "and see what is worn, and the
price of things. Our black prints are very nice for everyday, and we
can wear our brown homespuns as soon as we get away from Mrs. Dunn. She
said it was disrespectful to poor father's memory to put on anything
but black when she saw you in your blue gingham, Nelly. Poor old soul!
one would think we were a set of superstitious heathen pagans. I wonder
where she got all those queer ideas from?"
"She knows a great deal more than we do, Patty," said wise Elizabeth,
from her kneeling posture on the floor.
They packed all their clothes into two small but weighty brass-bound
trunks, leaving out their blue ginghams, their well-worn water-proofs,
and their black-ribboned sailor hats to travel in. Then they turned
their attention to the animals, and suffered grievous trouble in their
efforts to secure a comfortable provision for them after their own
departure. The monkey-bear, the object of their fondest solicitude,
was entrusted to Sam Dunn, who swore with picturesque energy that he
would cherish it as his own child. It was put into a large cage with
about a bushel of fresh gum leaves, and Sam was adjured to restore
it to liberty as soon as he had induced it to grow fond of him. Then
Patty and Eleanor took the long walk to the township to call on Mrs.
Hawkins, in order to entreat her good offices for the rest of their
pets. But Mrs. Hawkins seized the precious opportunity that they
offered her for getting the detailed information, such as only women
could give, concerning the interior construction and capabilities of
her newly-acquired residence, and she had no attention to spare for
anything else. The girls left, after sitting on two green rep chairs
for nearly an hour, with the depressing knowledge that their house was
to be painted inside and out, and roofed with zinc, and verandahed with
green trellis-work; and that there was to be a nice road made to it, so
that the family could drive to and from their place of business; and
that it was to have "Sea View Villa" painted on the garden gate posts.
But whether their pets were to be allowed to roam over the transformed
premises (supposing they had the heart to do so) was more than they
could tell. So they had an anxious consultation with Elizabeth, all
the parties concerned being present, cuddled and fondled on arms and
knees; and the result was a determination _not_ to leave the precious
darlings to the tender mercies of the Hawkins family. Sam Dunn was to
take the opossum in a basket to some place where there were trees,
a river, and other opossums, and there turn him out to unlearn his
civilisation and acquire the habits and customs of his unsophisticated
kinsfolk--a course of study to which your pet opossum submits himself
very readily as a rule. The magpies were also to be left to shift for
themselves, for they were in the habit of consorting with other magpies
in a desultory manner, and they could "find" themselves in board and
lodging. But the cats--O, the poor, dear, confiding old cats! O, the
sweet little playful kitties!--the girls were distracted to know what
to do for _them_. There were so many of them, and they would never be
induced to leave the place--that rocky platform so barren of little
birds, and those ancient buildings where no mouse had been allowed so
much as to come into the world for years past. They would not be fed,
of course, when their mistresses were gone. They would get into the
dairy and the pantry, and steal Mrs. Hawkins's milk and meat--and it
was easy to conjecture what would happen _then_. Mrs. Hawkins had boys
moreover--rough boys who went to the State school, and looked capable
of all the fiendish atrocities that young animals of their age and sex
were supposed to delight in. Could they leave their beloved ones to the
mercy of _boys?_ They consulted Sam Dunn, and Sam's advice was----
Never mind. Cats and kittens disappeared. And then only Dan Tucker
was left. Him, at any rate, they declared they would never part with,
while he had a breath in his faithful body. He should go with them to
Melbourne, bless his precious heart!---or, if need were, to the ends of
the earth.
And so, at last, all their preparations were made, and the day came
when, with unexpected regrets and fears, they walked out of the old
house which had been their only home into the wide world, where they
were utter strangers. Sam Dunn came with his wood-cart to carry their
luggage to the steamer (the conveyance they had selected, in preference
to coach and railway, because it was cheaper, and they were more
familiar with it); and then they shut up doors and windows, sobbing as
they went from room to room; stood on the verandah in front of the sea
to solemnly kiss each other, and walked quietly down to the township,
hand in hand, and with the terrier at their heels, to have tea with Mr.
Brion and his old housekeeper before they went on board.