“Sybylla, what are you doing? Where is your mother?”
“I’m ironing. Mother’s down at the fowl-house seeing after some
chickens. What do you want?”
It was my father who addressed me. Time, 2 o’clock p.m. Thermometer
hung in the shade of the veranda registering 105 1/2 degrees.
“I see Blackshaw coming across the flat. Call your mother. You bring
the leg-ropes—I’ve got the dog-leg. Come at once; we’ll give the cows
another lift. Poor devils—might as well knock ’em on the head at once,
but there might be rain next moon. This drought can’t last for ever.”
I called mother, got the leg-ropes, and set off, pulling my sun-bonnet
closely over my face to protect my eyes from the dust which was driving
from the west in blinding clouds. The dog-leg to which father had
referred was three poles about eight or ten feet long, strapped
together so they could be stood up. It was an arrangement father had
devised to facilitate our labour in lifting the cows. A fourth and
longer pole was placed across the fork formed by the three, and to one
end of this were tied a couple of leg-ropes, after being placed round
the beast, one beneath the flank and one around the girth. On the other
end of this pole we would put our weight while one man would lift with
the tail and another with the horns. New-chum cows would sulk, and we
would have great work with them; but those used to the performance
would help themselves, and up they’d go as nice as a daisy. The only
art needed was to draw the pole back quickly before the cows could
move, or the leg-ropes would pull them over again.
On this afternoon we had six cows to lift. We struggled manfully, and
got five on their feet, and then proceeded to where the last one was
lying, back downwards, on a shadeless stony spot on the side of a hill.
The men slewed her round by the tail, while mother and I fixed the
dog-leg and adjusted the ropes. We got the cow up, but the poor beast
was so weak and knocked about that she immediately fell down again. We
resolved to let her have a few minutes’ spell before making another
attempt at lifting. There was not a blade of grass to be seen, and the
ground was too dusty to sit on. We were too overdone to make more than
one-worded utterances, so waited silently in the blazing sun, closing
our eyes against the dust.
Weariness! Weariness!
A few light wind-smitten clouds made wan streaks across the white sky,
haggard with the fierce relentless glare of the afternoon sun.
Weariness was written across my mother’s delicate careworn features,
and found expression in my father’s knitted brows and dusty face.
Blackshaw was weary, and said so, as he wiped the dust, made mud with
perspiration, off his cheeks. I was weary—my limbs ached with the heat
and work. The poor beast stretched at our feet was weary. All nature
was weary, and seemed to sing a dirge to that effect in the
furnace-breath wind which roared among the trees on the low ranges at
our back and smote the parched and thirsty ground. All were weary, all
but the sun. He seemed to glory in his power, relentless and untiring,
as he swung boldly in the sky, triumphantly leering down upon his
helpless victims.
Weariness! Weariness!
This was life—my life—my career, my brilliant career! I was
fifteen—fifteen! A few fleeting hours and I would be old as those
around me. I looked at them as they stood there, weary, and turning
down the other side of the hill of life. When young, no doubt they had
hoped for, and dreamed of, better things—had even known them. But here
they were. This had been their life; this was their career. It was, and
in all probability would be, mine too. My life—my career—my brilliant
career!
Weariness! Weariness!
The summer sun danced on. Summer is fiendish, and life is a curse, I
said in my heart. What a great dull hard rock the world was! On it were
a few barren narrow ledges, and on these, by exerting ourselves so that
the force wears off our finger-nails, it allows us to hang for a year
or two, and then hurls us off into outer darkness and oblivion, perhaps
to endure worse torture than this.
The poor beast moaned. The lifting had strained her, and there were
patches of hide worn off her the size of breakfast-plates, sore and
most harrowing to look upon.
It takes great suffering to wring a moan from the patience of a cow. I
turned my head away, and with the impatience and one-sided reasoning
common to fifteen, asked God what He meant by this. It is well enough
to heap suffering on human beings, seeing it is supposed to be merely a
probation for a better world, but animals—poor, innocent animals—why
are they tortured so?
“Come now, we’ll lift her once more,” said my father. At it we went
again; it is surprising what weight there is in the poorest cow. With
great struggling we got her to her feet once more, and were careful
this time to hold her till she got steady on her legs. Father and
mother at the tail and Blackshaw and I at the horns, we marched her
home and gave her a bran mash. Then we turned to our work in the house
while the men sat and smoked and spat on the veranda, discussing the
drought for an hour, at the end of which time they went to help someone
else with their stock. I made up the fire and we continued our ironing,
which had been interrupted some hours before. It was hot unpleasant
work on such a day. We were forced to keep the doors and windows closed
on account of the wind and dust. We were hot and tired, and our feet
ached so that we could scarcely stand on them.
Weariness! Weariness!
Summer is fiendish and life is a curse, I said in my heart.
Day after day the drought continued. Now and again there would be a few
days of the raging wind before mentioned, which carried the dry grass
off the paddocks and piled it against the fences, darkened the air with
dust, and seemed to promise rain, but ever it dispersed whence it came,
taking with it the few clouds it had gathered up; and for weeks and
weeks at a stretch, from horizon to horizon, was never a speck to mar
the cruel dazzling brilliance of the metal sky.
Weariness! Weariness!
I said the one thing many times but, ah, it was a weary thing which
took much repetition that familiarity might wear away a little of its
bitterness!
CHAPTER SIX
Revolt
In spite of our pottering and lifting, with the exception of five, all
our cows eventually died; and even these and a couple of horses had as
much as they could do to live on the whole of the thousand acres which,
without reserve, were at their disposal. They had hardly any grass—it
was merely the warmth and water which kept them alive. Needless to say,
we were on our beam-ends financially. However, with a little help from
more fortunate relatives, and with the money obtained from the sale of
the cowhides and mother’s poultry, we managed to pay the interest on
the money borrowed from the bishop, and keep bread in our mouths.
Unfortunately for us, at this time the bishop’s agent proved a
scoundrel and absconded. My father held receipts to show that to this
agent he had regularly paid the interest of the money borrowed; but
through some finicking point of law, because we had not money to
contend with him, his lordship the bishop now refused to acknowledge
his agent and one-time pillar of the cathedral, and, having law on his
side, served a writ on us. In the face of our misfortunes this was too
much: we begged for time, which plea he answered by putting in the
bailiff and selling everything we possessed. Our five cows, two horses,
our milk separator, plough, cart, dray, buggy, even our cooking
utensils, books, pictures, furniture, father’s watch—our very beds,
pillows, and blankets. Not a thing besides what we stood up in was left
us, and this was money for the payment of which my father held
receipts.
But for the generosity of our relatives we would have been in a pretty
plight. They sent us sufficient means to buy in everything, and our
neighbours came to our rescue with enthusiasm and warm-hearted genuine
sympathy. The bailiff—a gentleman to the core—seeing how matters stood,
helped us to the utmost of his power.
Our goods were disposed of on the premises, and the neighbours arranged
a mock sale, at which the bailiff winked. Our friends had sent the
money, and the neighbours did the bidding—none bidding against each
other—and thus our belongings went for a mere trifle. Every cloud has
its silver lining, and the black cloud of poverty has a very bright
silver lining.
In poverty you can get at the real heart of people as you can never do
if rich. People are your friends from pure friendship and love, not
from sponging self-interestedness. It is worth being poor once or twice
in a lifetime just to experience the blessing and heartrestfulness of a
little genuine reality in the way of love and friendship. Not that it
is impossible for opulence to have genuine friends, but rich people, I
fear, must ever have at their heart cankering suspicion to hint that
the friendship and love lavished upon them is merely
self-interestedness and sham, the implements of trade used by the
fawning toadies who swarm around wealth.
In conjunction with the bishop’s name, the approaching sale of our
goods had been duly advertised in the local papers, and my father
received several letters of sympathy from the clergy deploring the
conduct of the bishop. These letters were from men unknown to father,
who were unaware that Richard Melvyn was being sold off for a debt
already paid.
By the generosity of relatives and the goodness of neighbours as kind
as ever breathed, our furniture was our own again, but what were we to
do for a living? Our crops were withering in the fields for want of
rain, and we had but five cows—not an over-bright outlook. As I was
getting to bed one night my mother came into my room and said
seriously, “Sybylla, I want to have a talk with you.”
“Talk away,” I responded rather sullenly, for I expected a long
sing-song about my good-for-nothingness in general—a subject of which I
was heartily tired.
“Sybylla, I’ve been studying the matter over a lot lately. It’s no use,
we cannot afford to keep you at home. You’ll have to get something to
do.”
I made no reply, and my mother continued, “I am afraid we will have to
break up the home altogether. It’s no use; your father has no idea of
making a living. I regret the day I ever saw him. Since he has taken to
drink he has no more idea of how to make a living than a cat. I will
have to give the little ones to some of the relatives; the bigger ones
will have to go out to service, and so will your father and I. That’s
all I can see ahead of us. Poor little Gertie is too young to go out in
the world (she was not twelve months younger than I); she must go to
your grandmother, I think.”
I still made no reply, so my mother inquired, “Well, Sybylla, what do
you think of the matter?”
“Do you think it absolutely necessary to break up the home?” I said.
“Well, you suggest something better if you are so clever,” said mother,
crossly. “That is always the way; if I suggest a thing it is
immediately put down, yet there is never any one to think of things but
me. What would you do? I suppose you think you could make a living on
the place for us yourself.”
“Why can’t we live at home? Blackshaw and Jansen have no bigger places
than we, and families just as large, and yet they make a living. It
would be terrible for the little ones to grow up separated; they would
be no more to each other than strangers.”
“Yes; it is all very well for you to talk like that, but how is your
father to start again with only five cows in the world? It’s no use,
you never talk sense. You’ll find my way is always the best in the
end.”
“Would it not be easier,” I replied, “for our relations to each give a
little towards setting us up again, than to be burdened with the whole
responsibility of rearing a child? I’m sure they’d much prefer it.”
“Yes, perhaps it would be better, but I think _you_ will have to get
your own living. What would they say about having to support such a big
girl as you are?”
“I will go and earn my own living, and when you get me weeded out of
the family you will have a perfect paradise. Having no evil to copy,
the children will grow up saints,” I said bitterly.
“Now, Sybylla, it is foolish to talk like that, for you know that you
take no interest in your work. If you’d turn to and help me rear
poultry and make dresses—and why don’t you take to cooking?”
“Take to cooking!” I retorted with scorn. “The fire that a fellow has
to endure on that old oven would kill a horse, and the grit and dirt of
clearing it up grinds on my very nerves. Besides, if I ever do want to
do any extra fancy cooking, we either can’t afford the butter or the
currants, or else the eggs are too scarce! Cook, be grannied!”
“Sybylla! Sybylla, you are getting very vulgar!”
“Yes, I once was foolish enough to try and be polite, but I’ve given it
up. My style of talk is quite good enough for my company. What on earth
does it matter whether I’m vulgar or not. I can feed calves and milk
and grind out my days here just as well vulgar as unvulgar,” I answered
savagely.
“There, you see you are always discontented about your home. It’s no
use; the only thing is for you to earn your own living.”
“I will earn my own living.”
“What will you do? Will you be examined for a pupil-teacher? That is a
very nice occupation for girls.”
“What chance would I have in a competitive exam. against Goulburn
girls? They all have good teachers and give up their time to study. I
only have old Harris, and he is the most idiotic old animal alive;
besides, I loathe the very thought of teaching. I’d as soon go on the
wallaby.”
“You are not old enough to be a general servant or a cook; you have not
experience enough to be a housemaid; you don’t take to sewing, and
there is no chance of being accepted as a hospital nurse: you must
confess there is nothing you can do. You are really a very useless girl
for your age.”
“There are heaps of things I could do.”
“Tell me a few of them.”
I was silent. The professions at which I felt I had the latent power to
excel, were I but given a chance, were in a sphere far above us, and to
mention my feelings and ambitions to my matter-of-fact practical mother
would bring upon me worse ridicule than I was already forced to endure
day by day.
“Mention a few of the things you could do.”
I might as well have named flying as the professions I was thinking of.
Music was the least unmentionable of them, so I brought it forward.
“Music! But it would take years of training and great expense before
you could earn anything at that! It is quite out of the question. The
only thing for you to do is to settle down and take interest in your
work, and help make a living at home, or else go out as a nurse-girl,
and work your way up. If you have any ability in you it would soon
show. If you think you could do such strokes, and the home work is not
good enough for you, go out and show the world what a wonderful
creature you are.”
“Mother, you are unjust and cruel!” I exclaimed. “You do not understand
one at all. I never thought I could do strokes. I cannot help being
constituted so that grimy manual labour is hateful to me, for it is
hateful to me, and I hate it more and more every day, and you can
preach and preach till you go black in the face, and still I’ll hate it
more than ever. If I have to do it all my life, and if I’m cursed with
a long life, I’ll hate it just as much at the end as I do now. I’m sure
it’s not any wish of mine that I’m born with inclinations for better
things. If I could be born again, and had the designing of myself, I’d
be born the lowest and coarsest-minded person imaginable, so that I
could find plenty of companionship, or I’d be born an idiot, which
would be better still.”
“Sybylla!” said my mother in a shocked tone. “It is a wonder God
doesn’t strike you dead; I never heard—”
“I don’t believe there is a God,” I said fiercely, “and if there is,
He’s not the merciful being He’s always depicted, or He wouldn’t be
always torturing me for His own amusement.”
“Sybylla, Sybylla! That I should ever have nurtured a child to grow up
like this! Do you know that—”
“I only know that I hate this life. I hate it, I hate it, I hate it,” I
said vehemently.
“Talk about going out to earn your own living! Why, there’s not a woman
living would have you in her house above a day. You are a perfect
she-devil. Oh God!” And my mother began to cry. “What have I done to be
cursed with such a child? There is not another woman in the district
with such a burden put upon her. What have I done? I can only trust
that my prayers to God for you will soften your evil heart.”
“If your prayers are answered, it’s more than ever mine were,” I
retorted.
“_Your_ prayers!” said my mother, with scorn. “The horror of a child
not yet sixteen being so hardened. I don’t know what to make of you,
you never cry or ask forgiveness. There’s dear little Gertie now, she
is often naughty, but when I correct her she frets and worries and
shows herself to be a human being and not a fiend.”
So saying my mother went out of the room.
“I’ve asked forgiveness once too often, to be sat upon for my pains,” I
called out.
“I believe you’re mad. That is the only feasible excuse I can make for
your conduct,” she said as a parting shot.
“Why the deuce don’t you two get to bed and not wrangle like a pair of
cats in the middle of the night, disturbing a man’s rest?” came in my
father’s voice from amid the bedclothes.
My mother is a good woman—a very good woman—and I am, I think, not
quite all criminality, but we do not pull together. I am a piece of
machinery which, not understanding, my mother winds up the wrong way,
setting all the wheels of my composition going in creaking discord.
She wondered why I did not cry and beg forgiveness, and thereby give
evidence of being human. I was too wrought up for tears. Ah, that tears
might have come to relieve my overburdened heart! I took up the
home-made tallow candle in its tin stick and looked at my pretty
sleeping sister Gertie (she and I shared the one bed). It was as mother
had said. If Gertie was scolded for any of her shortcomings, she
immediately took refuge in tears, said she was sorry, obtained
forgiveness, and straightaway forgot the whole matter. She came within
the range of mother’s understanding, I did not; she had feelings,
mother thought, I had none. Did my mother understand me, she would know
that I am capable of more depths of agony and more exquisite heights of
joy in one day than Gertie will experience in her whole life.
Was I mad as mother had said? A fear took possession of me that I might
be. I certainly was utterly different to any girl I had seen or known.
What was the hot wild spirit which surged within me? Ah, that I might
weep! I threw myself on my bed and moaned. Why was I not like other
girls? Why was I not like Gertie? Why were not a new dress, everyday
work, and an occasional picnic sufficient to fill my mind? My movements
awakened Gertie.
“What is the matter, dear Sybylla? Come to bed. Mother has been
scolding you. She is always scolding some one. That doesn’t matter. You
say you are sorry, and she won’t scold any more. That’s what I always
do. Do get into bed. You’ll be tired in the morning.”
“What does it matter if I will be. I wish I would be dead. What’s the
good of a hateful thing like I am being alive. No one wants or cares
for me.”
“I love you, Sybylla, better than all the rest. I could not do without
you,” and she put her pretty face to mine and kissed me.
What a balm to the tempest-tossed soul is a little love, though it may
be fleeting and fickle! I was able to weep now, with wild hot tears,
and with my sister’s arms around me I fell asleep without undressing
further.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Was E’er a Rose Without Its Thorn?
I arose from bed next morning with three things in my head—a pair of
swollen eyes, a heavy pain, and a fixed determination to write a book.
Nothing less than a book. A few hours’ work in the keen air of a late
autumn morning removed the swelling from my eyes and the pain from my
temples, but the idea of relieving my feelings in writing had taken
firm root in my brain. It was not my first attempt in this direction.
Two years previously I had purloined paper and sneaked out of bed every
night at one or two o’clock to write a prodigious novel in point of
length and detail, in which a full-fledged hero and heroine performed
the duties of a hero and heroine in the orthodox manner. Knowing our
circumstances, my grandmother was accustomed, when writing to me, to
enclose a stamp to enable me to reply. These I saved, and with them
sent my book to the leading Sydney publisher. After waiting many weeks
I received a polite memo to the effect that the story showed great
ability, but the writer’s inexperience was too much in evidence for
publication. The writer was to study the best works of literature, and
would one day, no doubt, take a place among Australian novelists.
This was a very promising opinion of the work of a child of thirteen,
more encouraging than the great writers got at the start of their
literary career; but it seemed to even my childish intelligence that
the memo was a stereotyped affair that the publisher sent in answer to
all the MSS. of fameless writers submitted to him, and also sent in all
probability without reading as much as the name of the story. After
that I wrote a few short stories and essays; but now the spirit moved
me to write another book—not with any hope of success, as it was
impossible for me to study literature as advised. I seldom saw a book,
and could only spare time in tiny scraps to read them when I did.
However, the few shillings I had obtained at odd times I spent on
paper, and in secret robbed from much-needed rest a few hours weekly
wherein to write. This made me very weary and slow in the daytime, and
a sore trial to my mother. I was always forgetting things I should not
have forgotten, because my thoughts were engaged in working out my
story. The want of rest told upon me. I continually complained of
weariness, and my work was a drag to me.
My mother knew not what to make of it. At first she thought I was lazy
and bad, and punished me in various ways; but while my book occupied my
mind I was not cross, gave her no impudence, and did not flare up. Then
she began to fear I must be ill, and took me to a doctor, who said I
was much too precocious for my years, and would be better when the
weather got warmer. He gave me a tonic, which I threw out the window. I
heard no more of going out as nurse-girl: father had joined a neighbour
who had taken a road contract, and by this means the pot was kept, if
not quite, at least pretty near, boiling.
Life jogged along tamely, and, as far as I could see, gave promise of
going to the last slip-rails without a canter, until one day in July
1896 mother received a letter from her mother which made a pleasant
change in my life, though, like all sweets, that letter had its bitter
drop. It ran as follows:—
My dear daughter, Lucy,
Only a short letter this time. I am pressed for time, as four or five
strangers have just come and asked to stay for the night, and as one of
the girls is away, I have to get them beds. I am writing about Sybylla.
I am truly grieved to hear she is such a source of grief and annoyance
to you. The girl must surely be ill or she would never act as you
describe. She is young yet, and may settle down better by and by. We
can only entrust her to the good God who is ever near. Send her up to
me as soon as you can. I will pay all expenses. The change will do her
good, and if her conduct improves, I will keep her as long as you like.
She is young to mention in regard to marriage, but in another year she
will be as old as I was when I married, and it might be the makings of
her if she married early. At any rate she will be better away from
Possum Gully, now that she is growing into womanhood, or she may be in
danger of forming ties beneath her. She might do something good for
herself up here: not that I would ever be a matchmaker in the least
degree, but Gertie will soon be coming on, and Sybylla, being so very
plain, will need all the time she can get.
Your loving mother,
L. Bossier.
My mother gave me this letter to read, and, when I had finished
perusing it, asked me would I go. I replied coldly:
“Yes. Paupers and beggars cannot be choosers, and grandmother might as
well keep me at Caddagat as at Possum Gully”—for my grandmother
contributed greatly to the support of our family.
As regards scenery, the one bit of beauty Possum Gully possessed was
its wattles. Bowers of grown and scrubs of young ones adorned the hills
and gullies in close proximity to the house, while groves of different
species graced the flats. Being Sunday, on this afternoon I was at
liberty for a few hours; and on receiving the intelligence contained in
the letter, I walked out of the house over a low hill at the back into
a gully, where I threw myself at the foot of a wattle in a favourite
clump, and gave way to my thoughts.
So mother had been telling my grandmother of my faults—my grandmother
whom I loved so dearly. Mother might have had enough honour and
motherly protection to have kept the tale of my sins to herself. Though
this intelligence angered, it did not surprise me, being accustomed to
mother telling every neighbour what a great trial I was to her—how
discontented I was, and what little interest I took in my work. It was
the last part of the letter which finished up my feelings. Oh heavens!
Surely if my mother understood the wild pain, the days and hours of
agony pure and complete I have suffered on account of my appearance,
she would never have shown me that letter.
I was to be given more time on account of being ugly—I was not a
valuable article in the marriage market, sweet thought! My grandmother
is one of the good old school, who believed that a girl’s only proper
sphere in life was marriage; so, knowing her sentiments, her purpose to
get me married neither surprised nor annoyed me. But I was plain. Ah,
bosh! Oh! Ah! I cannot express what kind of a feeling that fact gave
me. It sank into my heart and cut like a cruel jagged knife—not because
it would be a drawback to me in the marriage line, for I had an
antipathy to the very thought of marriage. Marriage to me appeared the
most horribly tied-down and unfair-to-women existence going. It would
be from fair to middling if there was love; but I laughed at the idea
of love, and determined never, never, never to marry.
The other side of the letter—the part which gave me joy—was the
prospect of going to Caddagat.
Caddagat, the place where I was born! Caddagat, whereat, enfolded in
grandmotherly love and the petting which accrued therefrom, I spent
some of my few sweet childish days. Caddagat, the place my heart fondly
enshrines as home. Caddagat, draped by nature in a dream of beauty.
Caddagat, Caddagat! Caddagat for me, Caddagat for ever! I say.
Too engrossed with my thoughts to feel the cold of the dull winter day,
I remained in my position against the wattle-tree until Gertie came to
inform me that tea was ready.
“You know, Sybylla, it was your turn to get the tea ready; but I set
the table to save you from getting into a row. Mother was looking for
you, and said she supposed you were in one of your tantrums again.”
Pretty little peacemaker! She often did things like that for me.
“Very well, Gertie, thank you. I will set it two evenings running to
make up for it—if I’m here.”
“If you are here! What do you mean?”
“I am going away,” I replied, watching her narrowly to see if she
cared, for I was very hungry for love.
“Going to run away becauses mother is always scolding you?”
“No, you little silly! I’m going up to Caddagat to live with grannie.”
“Always?”
“Yes.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“Honour bright?”
“Yes; really and truly and honour bright.”
“Won’t you ever come back again?”
“I don’t know about _never_ coming back again; but I’m going up for
always, as far as a person can lay out ahead of her. Do you care?”
Yes she cared. The childish mouth quivered, the pretty blue-eyed face
fell, the ready tears flowed fast. I noticed every detail with savage
comfort. It was more than I deserved, for, though I loved her
passionately, I had ever been too much wrapped in self to have been
very kind and lovable to her.
“Who will tell me stories now?”
It was a habit of mine to relate stories to her out of my own fertile
imagination. In return for this she kept secret the fact that I sat up
and wrote when I should have been in bed. I was obliged to take some
means of inducing her to keep silence, as she—even Gertie, who firmly
believed in me—on waking once or twice at unearthly hours and
discovering me in pursuit of my nightly task, had been so alarmed for
my sanity that I had the greatest work to prevent her from yelling to
father and mother on the spot. But I bound her to secrecy, and took a
strange delight in bringing to her face with my stories the laughter,
the wide-eyed wonder, or the tears—just as my humour dictated.
“You’ll easily get someone else to tell you stories.”
“Not like yours. And who will take my part when Horace bullies me?”