N.B.—This is dull and egotistical. Better skip it. That’s my advice—S.
P. M.
As a tiny child I was filled with dreams of the great things I was to
do when grown up. My ambition was as boundless as the mighty bush in
which I have always lived. As I grew it dawned upon me that I was a
girl—the makings of a woman! Only a girl—merely this and nothing more.
It came home to me as a great blow that it was only men who could take
the world by its ears and conquer their fate, while women,
metaphorically speaking, were forced to sit with tied hands and
patiently suffer as the waves of fate tossed them hither and thither,
battering and bruising without mercy. Familiarity made me used to this
yoke; I recovered from the disappointment of being a girl, and was
reconciled to that part of my fate. In fact, I found that being a girl
was quite pleasant until a hideous truth dawned upon me—I was ugly!
That truth has embittered my whole existence. It gives me days and
nights of agony. It is a sensitive sore that will never heal, a grim
hobgoblin that nought can scare away. In conjunction with this brand of
hell I developed a reputation of cleverness. Worse and worse! Girls!
girls! Those of you who have hearts, and therefore a wish for
happiness, homes, and husbands by and by, never develop a reputation of
being clever. It will put you out of the matrimonial running as
effectually as though it had been circulated that you had leprosy. So,
if you feel that you are afflicted with more than ordinary
intelligence, and especially if you are plain with it, hide your
brains, cramp your mind, study to appear unintellectual—it is your only
chance. Provided a woman is beautiful allowance will be made for all
her shortcomings. She can be unchaste, vapid, untruthful, flippant,
heartless, and even clever; so long as she is fair to see men will
stand by her, and as men, in this world, are “the dog on top”, they are
the power to truckle to. A plain woman will have nothing forgiven her.
Her fate is such that the parents of uncomely female infants should be
compelled to put them to death at their birth.
The next unpleasant discovery I made in regard to myself was that I was
woefully out of my sphere. I studied the girls of my age around me, and
compared myself with them. We had been reared side by side. They had
had equal advantages; some, indeed, had had greater. We all moved in
the one little, dull world, but they were not only in their world, they
were of it; I was not. Their daily tasks and their little pleasures
provided sufficient oil for the lamp of their existence—mine demanded
more than Possum Gully could supply. They were totally ignorant of the
outside world. Patti, Melba, Irving, Terry, Kipling, Caine, Corelli,
and even the name of Gladstone, were only names to them. Whether they
were islands or racehorses they knew not and cared not. With me it was
different. Where I obtained my information, unless it was born in me, I
do not know. We took none but the local paper regularly, I saw few
books, had the pleasure of conversing with an educated person from the
higher walks of life about once in a twelvemonth, yet I knew of every
celebrity in literature, art, music, and drama; their world was my
world, and in fancy I lived with them. My parents discouraged me in
that species of foolishness. They had been fond of literature and the
higher arts, but now, having no use for them, had lost interest
therein.
I was discontented and restless, and longed unendurably to be out in
the stream of life. “Action! Action! Give me action!” was my cry. My
mother did her best with me according to her lights. She energetically
preached at me. All the old saws and homilies were brought into
requisition, but without avail. It was like using common nostrums on a
disease which could be treated by none but a special physician.
I was treated to a great deal of harping on that tiresome old string,
“Whatsoever your hand findeth to do, do it with all your might.” It was
daily dinned into my cars that the little things of life were the
noblest, and that all the great people I mooned about said the same. I
usually retorted to the effect that I was well aware that it was noble,
and that I could write as good an essay on it as any philosopher. It
was all very well for great people to point out the greatness of the
little, empty, humdrum life. Why didn’t they adopt it themselves?
“The toad beneath the harrow knows
Exactly where each tooth-point goes.
The butterfly upon the road
Preaches contentment to the toad.”
I wasn’t anxious to patronize the dull kind of tame nobility of the
toad; I longed for a few of the triumphs of the butterfly, decried
though they are as hollow bubbles. I desired life while young enough to
live, and quoted as my motto:
“Though the pitcher that goes to the sparkling rill
Too oft gets broken at last,
There are scores of others its place to fill
When its earth to the earth is cast.
Keep that pitcher at home, let it never roam,
But lie like a useless clod;
Yet sooner or later the hour will come
When its chips are thrown to the sod.
“Is it wise, then, say, in the waning day,
When the vessel is crack’d and old,
To cherish the battered potter’s clay
As though it were virgin gold?
Take care of yourself, dull, boorish elf,
Though prudent and sage you seem;
Your pitcher will break on the musty shelf,
And mine by the dazzling stream.”
I had sense sufficient to see the uselessness of attempting to be other
than I was. In these days of fierce competition there was no chance for
me—opportunity, not talent, was the main requisite. Fate had thought
fit to deny me even one advantage or opportunity, thus I was helpless.
I set to work to cut my coat according to my cloth. I manfully
endeavoured to squeeze my spirit into “that state of life into which it
has pleased God to call me”. I crushed, compressed, and bruised, but as
fast as I managed it on one side it burst out on another, and defied me
to cram it into the narrow box of Possum Gully.
“The restless throbbings and burnings
That hope unsatisfied brings,
The weary longings and yearnings
For the mystical better things,
Are the sands on which is reflected
The pitiless moving lake,
Where the wanderer falls dejected,
By a thirst he never can slake.”
In a vain endeavour to slake that cruel thirst my soul groped in
strange dark places. It went out in quest of a God, and finding one
not, grew weary.
By the unknown way that the atmosphere of the higher life penetrated to
me, so came a knowledge of the sin and sorrow abroad in the world—the
cry of the millions oppressed, downtrodden, God-forsaken! The wheels of
social mechanism needed readjusting—things were awry. Oh, that I might
find a cure and give it to my fellows! I dizzied my brain with the
problem; I was too much for myself. A man with these notions is a curse
to himself, but a woman—pity help a woman of that description! She is
not merely a creature out of her sphere, she is a creature without a
sphere—a lonely being!
Recognizing this, I turned and cursed God for casting upon me a burden
greater than I could bear—cursed Him bitterly, and from within came a
whisper that there was nothing there to curse. There was no God. I was
an unbeliever. It was not that I sought after or desired atheism. I
longed to be a Christian, and fought against unbelief. I asked the
Christians around me for help. Unsophisticated fool! I might as well
have announced that I was a harlot. My respectability vanished in one
slap. Some said it was impossible to disbelieve in the existence of a
God: I was only doing it for notoriety, and they washed their hands of
me at once.
Not believe in God! I was mad!
If there really was a God, would they kindly tell me how to find Him?
Pray! pray!
I prayed, often and ardently, but ever came that heart-stilling whisper
that there was nothing to pray to.
Ah, the bitter, hopeless heart-hunger of godlessness none but an
atheist can understand! Nothing to live for in life—no hope beyond the
grave. It plunged me into fits of profound melancholy.
Had my father occupied one of the fat positions of the land, no doubt
as his daughter my life would have been so full of pleasant occupation
and pleasure that I would not have developed the spirit which torments
me now. Or had I a friend—one who knew, who had suffered and
understood, one in whom I could lose myself, one on whom I could lean—I
might have grown a nicer character. But in all the wide world there was
not a soul to hold out a hand to me, and I said bitterly, “There is no
good in the world.” In softer moods I said, “Ah, the tangle of it!
Those who have the heart to help have not the power, and those who have
the power have not the heart.”
Bad, like a too-strong opponent in a game of chess, is ever at the
elbow of good to checkmate it like a weakly managed king.
I am sadly lacking in self-reliance. I needed some one to help me over
the rough spots in life, and finding them not, at the age of sixteen I
was as rank a cynic and infidel as could be found in three days’ march.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Possum Gully Left Behind. Hurrah! Hurrah!
If a Sydney man has friends residing at Goulburn, he says they are up
the country. If a Goulburn man has friends at Yass, he says they are up
the country. If a Yass man has friends at Young, he says they are up
the country, and so on. Caddagat is “up the country”.
Bound thither on the second Wednesday in August 1896, I bought a ticket
at the Goulburn railway station, and at some time about 1 a.m. took my
seat in a second class carriage of the mail-train on its way to
Melbourne. I had three or four hours to travel in this train when I
would have to change to a branch line for two hours longer. I was the
only one from Goulburn in that carriage; all the other passengers had
been in some time and were asleep. One or two opened their eyes
strugglingly, stared glumly at the intruder, and then went to sleep
again. The motion of the train was a joy to me, and sleep never entered
my head. I stood up, and pressing my forehead to the cold window-pane,
vainly attempted, through the inky blackness of the foggy night, to
discern the objects which flew by.
I was too full of pleasant anticipation of what was ahead of me to
think of those I had left behind. I did not regret leaving Possum
Gully. Quite the reverse; I felt inclined to wave my arms and yell for
joy at being freed from it. Home! God forbid that my experiences at
Possum Gully should form the only food for my reminiscences of home. I
had practically grown up there, but my heart refused absolutely to
regard it as home. I hated it then, I hate it now, with its narrowing,
stagnant monotony. It has and had not provided me with one solitary
fond remembrance—only with dreary, wing-clipping, mind-starving
recollections. No, no; I was not leaving home behind, I was flying
homeward now. Home, home to Caddagat, home to ferny gullies, to the
sweet sad rush of many mountain waters, to the majesty of rugged
Borgongs; home to dear old grannie, and uncle and aunt, to books, to
music; refinement, company, pleasure, and the dear old homestead I love
so well.
All in good time I arrived at the end of my train journey, and was
taken in charge by a big red-bearded man, who informed me he was the
driver of the mail-coach, and had received a letter from Mrs Bossier
instructing him to take care of me. He informed me also that he was
glad to do what he termed “that same”, and I would be as safe under his
care as I would be in God’s pocket.
My twenty-six miles’ coach drive was neither pleasant nor eventful. I
was the only passenger, and so had my choice of seats. The weather
being cold and wet, I preferred being inside the box and curled myself
up on the seat, to be interrupted every two or three miles by the
good-natured driver inquiring if I was “all serene”.
At the Halfway House, where a change of the team of five horses was
affected, I had a meal and a warm, and so tuned myself up for the
remainder of the way. It got colder as we went on, and at 2.30 p.m. I
was not at all sorry to see the iron roofs of Gool-Gool township
disclosing to my view. We first went to the post office, where the
mail-bags were delivered, and then returned and pulled rein in front of
the Woolpack Hotel. A tall young gentleman in a mackintosh and cap, who
had been standing on the veranda, stepped out on the street as the
coach stopped, and lifting his cap and thrusting his head into the
coach, inquired, “Which is Miss Melvyn?”
Seeing I was the only occupant, he laughed the pleasantest of laughs,
disclosing two wide rows of perfect teeth, and turning to the driver,
said, “Is that your only passenger? I suppose it is Miss Melvyn?”
“As I wasn’t present at her birth, I can’t swear, but I believe her to
be that same, as sure as eggs is eggs,” he replied.
My identity being thus established, the young gentleman with the
greatest of courtesy assisted me to alight, ordered the hotel groom to
stow my luggage in the Caddagat buggy, and harness the horses with all
expedition. He then conducted me to the private parlour, where a
friendly little barmaid had some refreshments on a tray awaiting me,
and while warming my feet preparatory to eating I read the letter he
had given me, which was addressed in my grandmother’s handwriting. In
it she told me that she and my aunt were only just recovering from bad
colds, and on account of the inclemency of the weather thought it
unwise to come to town to meet me; but Frank Hawden, the jackeroo would
take every care of me, settle the hotel bill, and tip the coach-driver.
Caddagat was twenty-four miles distant from Gool-Gool, and the latter
part of the road was very hilly. It was already past three o’clock,
and, being rainy, the short winter afternoon would close in earlier; so
I swallowed my tea and cake with all expedition, so as not to delay Mr
Hawden, who was waiting to assist me into the buggy, where the groom
was in charge of the horses in the yard. He struck up a conversation
with me immediately.
“Seeing your name on yer bags, an’ knowin’ you was belonging to the
Bossiers, I ask if yer might be a daughter of Dick Melvyn, of
Bruggabrong, out by Timlinbilly.”
“Yes, I am.”
“Well, miss, please remember me most kindly to yer pa; he was a good
boss was Dick Melvyn. I hope he’s doin’ well. I’m Billy Haizelip,
brother to Mary and Jane. You remember Jane, I s’pose, miss?”
I hadn’t time to say more than promise to send his remembrances to my
father, for Mr Hawden, saying we would be in the dark, had whipped his
horses and was bowling off at a great pace, in less than two minutes
covering a rise which put Gool-Gool out of sight. It was raining a
little, so I held over us the big umbrella, which grannie had sent,
while we discussed the weather, to the effect that rain was badly
needed and was a great novelty nowadays, and it was to be hoped it
would continue. There had been but little, but the soil here away was
of that rich loamy description which little water turns to mud. It
clogged the wheels and loaded the break-blocks; and the near side horse
had a nasty way of throwing his front feet, so that he deposited soft
red lumps of mud in our laps at every step. But, despite these trifling
drawbacks, it was delightful to be drawn without effort by a pair of
fat horses in splendid harness. It was a great contrast to our poor
skinny old horse at home, crawling along in much-broken harness,
clumsily and much mended with string and bits of hide.
Mr Hawden was not at all averse to talking. After emptying our tongues
of the weather, there was silence for some time, which he broke with,
“So you are Mrs Bossier’s grand-daughter, are you?”
“Not remembering my birth, I can’t swear; but I believe myself to be
that same, as sure as eggs is eggs,” I replied.
He laughed. “Very good imitation of the coach-driver. But Mrs Bossier’s
grand-daughter! Well, I should smile!”
“What at?”
“Your being Mrs Bossier’s grand-daughter.”
“I fear, Mr Hawden, there is a suspicion reverse of complimentary in
your remark.”
“Well, I should smile! Would you like to have my opinion of you?”
“Nothing would please me more. I would value your opinion above all
things, and I’m sure—I feel certain—that you have formed a true
estimate of me.”
At any other time his conceit would have brought upon himself a fine
snubbing, but today I was in high feather, and accordingly very
pleasant, and resolved to amuse myself by drawing him out.
“Well, you are not a bit like Mrs Bossier or Mrs Bell; they are both so
good-looking,” he continued.
“Indeed!”
“I was disappointed when I saw you had no pretensions to prettiness, as
there’s not a girl up these parts worth wasting a man’s affections on,
and I was building great hopes on you. But I’m a great admirer of
beauty,” he twaddled.
“I am very sorry for you, Mr Hawden. I’m sure it would take quite a
paragon to be worthy of such affection as I’m sure yours would be,” I
replied sympathetically.
“Never mind. Don’t worry about it. You’re not a bad sort, and think a
fellow could have great fun with you.”
“I’m sure, Mr Hawden, you do me too much honour. It quite exhilarates
me to think that I meet with your approval in the smallest degree,” I
replied with the utmost deference. “You are so gentlemanly and nice
that I was alarmed at first lest you might despise me altogether.”
“No fear. You needn’t be afraid of me; I’m not a bad sort of fellow,”
he replied with the greatest encouragement.
By his accent and innocent style I detected he was not a colonial, so I
got him to relate his history. He was an Englishman by birth, but had
been to America, Spain, New Zealand, Tasmania, etc.; by his own make
out had ever been a man of note, and had played Old Harry everywhere.
I allowed him to gabble away full tilt for an hour on this subject,
unconscious that I had taken the measure of him, and was grinning
broadly to myself. Then I diverted him by inquiring how long since the
wire fence on our right had been put up. It bore evidence of recent
erection, and had replaced an old cockatoo fence which I remembered in
my childhood.
“Fine fence, is it not? Eight wires, a top rail, and very stout posts.
Harry Beecham had that put up by contract this year. Twelve miles of
it. It cost him a lot: couldn’t get any very low tenders, the ground
being so hard on account of the drought. Those trees are Five-Bob
Downs—see, away over against the range. But I suppose you know the
places better than I do.”
We were now within an hour of our destination. How familiar were many
landmarks to me, although I had not seen them since I was eight years
old.
A river ran on our right, occasionally a glimmer of its noisy waters
visible through the shrubbery which profusely lined its banks. The
short evening was drawing to a close. The white mists brought by the
rain were crawling slowly down the hills, and settling in the hollows
of the ranges on our left. A V-shaped rift in them, known as Pheasant
Gap, came into view. Mr Hawden said it was well named, as it swarmed
with lyrebirds. Night was falling. The skreel of a hundred curlews
arose from the gullies—how I love their lonely wail!—and it was quite
dark when we pulled up before the front gate of Caddagat.
A score of dogs rushed yelping to meet us, the front door was thrown
open, lights and voices came streaming out.
I alighted from the buggy feeling rather nervous. I was a pauper with a
bad character. How would my grandmother receive me? Dear old soul, I
had nothing to fear. She folded me in a great warm-hearted hug, saying,
“Dear me, child, your face is cold. I’m glad you’ve come. It has been a
terrible day, but we’re glad to have the rain. You must be frozen. Get
in to the fire, child, as fast as you can. Get in to the fire, get in
to the fire. I hope you forgive me for not going to meet you.” And
there was my mother’s only sister, my tall graceful aunt, standing
beside her, giving me a kiss and cordial hand-clasp, and saying,
“Welcome, Sybylla. We will be glad to have a young person to brighten
up the old home once more. I am sorry I was too unwell to meet you. You
must be frozen; come to the fire.”
My aunt always spoke very little and very quietly, but there was
something in her high-bred style which went right home.
I could scarcely believe that they were addressing me. Surely they were
making a mistake. This reception was meant for some grand relative
honouring them with a visit, and not for the ugly, useless, bad little
pauper come to live upon their bounty.
Their welcome did more than all the sermons I had ever heard put
together towards thawing a little of the pitiless cynicism which
encrusted my heart.
“Take the child inside, Helen, as fast as you can,” said grannie,
“while I see that the boy attends to the horses. The plaguey fellow
can’t be trusted any further than the length of his nose. I told him to
tie up these dogs, and here they are yelp-yelping fit to deafen a
person.”
I left my wet umbrella on the veranda, and aunt Helen led me into the
dining-room, where a spruce maid was making a pleasant clatter in
laying the table. Caddagat was a very old style of house, and all the
front rooms opened onto the veranda without any such preliminary as a
hall, therefore it was necessary to pass through the dining-room to my
bedroom, which was a skillion at the back. While auntie paused for a
moment to give some orders to the maid, I noticed the heavy silver
serviette rings I remembered so well, and the old-fashioned
dinner-plates, and the big fire roaring in the broad white fireplace;
but more than all, the beautiful pictures on the walls and a table in a
corner strewn with papers, magazines, and several very new-looking
books. On the back of one of these I saw “Corelli”, and on
another—great joy!—was _Trilby_. From the adjoining apartment, which
was the drawing-room, came the sweet full tones of a beautiful piano.
Here were three things for which I had been starving. An impulse to
revel in them immediately seized me. I felt like clearing the table at
a bound, seizing and beginning to read both books, and rushing in to
the piano and beginning to play upon it there and then, and examine the
pictures—all three things at once. Fortunately for the reputation of my
sanity, however, aunt Helen had by this time conducted me to a pretty
little bedroom, and saying it was to be mine, helped me to doff my cape
and hat.
While warming my fingers at the fire my eyes were arrested by a
beautiful portrait hanging above the mantelpiece. It represented a
lovely girl in the prime of youth and beauty, and attired in floating
white dinner draperies.
“Oh, aunt Helen! isn’t she lovely? It’s you, isn’t it?”
“No. Do you not recognize it as your mother? It was taken just before
her marriage. I must leave you now, but come out as soon as you arrange
yourself—your grandmother will be anxious to see you.”
When aunt Helen left me I plastered my hair down in an instant without
even a glance in the mirror. I took not a particle of interest in my
attire, and would go about dressed anyhow. This was one symptom which
inclined my mother to the belief of my possible insanity, as to most
young girls dress is a great delight. I had tried once or twice to make
myself look nice by dressing prettily, but, by my own judgment,
considering I looked as ugly as ever, I had given it up as a bad job.
The time which I should have spent in arranging my toilet passed in
gazing at my mother’s portrait. It was one of the loveliest faces
imaginable. The features may not have been perfect according to rule of
thumb, but the expression was simply angelic—sweet, winning, gentle,
and happy. I turned from the contemplation of it to another
photograph—one of my father—in a silver frame on the dressing-table.
This, too, was a fine countenance, possessed of well-cut features and
refined expression. This was the prince who had won Lucy Bossier from
her home. I looked around my pretty bedroom—it had been my mother’s in
the days of her maidenhood. In an exclusive city boarding-school, and
amid the pleasant surroundings of this home, her youth had been spent.
I thought of a man and his wife at Possum Gully. The man was
blear-eyed, disreputable in appearance, and failed to fulfil his duties
as a father and a citizen. The woman was work-roughened and
temper-soured by endless care and an unavailing struggle against
poverty. Could that pair possibly be identical with this?
This was life as proved by my parents! What right had I to expect any
better yield from it? I shut my eyes and shuddered at the possibilities
and probabilities of my future. It was for this that my mother had
yielded up her youth, freedom, strength; for this she had sacrificed
the greatest possession of woman.
Here I made my way to the dining-room, where grannie was waiting for me
and gave me another hug.
“Come here, child, and sit beside me near the fire; but first let me
have a look at you,” and she held me at arm’s length.
“Dear, oh, dear, what a little thing you are, and not a bit like any of
your relations! I am glad your skin is so nice and clear; all my
children had beautiful complexions. Goodness me, I never saw such hair!
A plait thicker than my arm and almost to your knees! It is that
beautiful bright brown like your aunt’s. Your mother’s was flaxen. I
must see your hair loose when you are going to bed. There is nothing I
admire so much as a beautiful head of hair.”
The maid announced that dinner was ready, grannie vigorously rang a
little bell, aunt Helen, a lady, and a gentleman appeared from the
drawing-room, and Mr Hawden came in from the back. I discovered that
the lady and gentleman were a neighbouring squatter and a new governess
he was taking home. Grannie, seeing them pass that afternoon in the
rain, had gone out and prevailed upon them to spend the night at
Caddagat.
Mr Hawden took no notice of me now, but showed off to the others for my
benefit. After dinner we had music and singing in the drawing-room. I
was enjoying it immensely, but grannie thought I had better go to bed,
as I had been travelling since about midnight last night. I was neither
tired nor sleepy, but knew it useless to protest, so bade every one
good night and marched off. Mr Hawden acknowledged my salute with great
airs and stiffness, and aunt Helen whispered that she would come and
see me by and by, if I was awake.
Grannie escorted me to my room, and examined my hair. I shook it out
for her inspection. It met with her approval in every way. She
pronounced it beautifully fine, silky, and wavy, and the most wonderful
head of hair she had seen out of a picture.
A noise arose somewhere out in the back premises. Grannie went out to
ascertain the cause of it and did not return to me, so I extinguished
my lamp and sat thinking in the glow of the firelight.
For the first time my thoughts reverted to my leave-taking from home.
My father had kissed me with no more warmth than if I had been leaving
for a day only; my mother had kissed me very coldly, saying shortly,
“It is to be hoped, Sybylla, that your behaviour to your grandmother
will be an improvement upon what it has ever been to me.” Gertie was
the only one who had felt any sorrow at parting with me, and I knew
that she was of such a disposition that I would be forgotten in a day
or two. They would never miss me, for I had no place in their
affections. True, I was an undutiful child, and deserved none. I
possessed no qualities that would win either their pride or love, but
my heart cried out in love for them.
Would Gertie miss me tonight, as I would have missed her had our
positions been reversed? Not she. Would my absence from the noisy
tea-table cause a blank? I feared not.
I thought of poor mother left toiling at home, and my heart grew heavy;
I failed to remember my father’s faults, but thought of his great
patience with me in the years agone, and all my old-time love for him
renewed itself. Why, oh, why, would they not love me a little in
return! Certainly I had never striven to be lovable. But see the love
some have lavished upon them without striving for it! Why was I ugly
and nasty and miserable and useless—without a place in the world?
CHAPTER NINE
Aunt Helen’s Recipe
“Dear me, Sybylla, not in bed yet, and tears, great big tears! Tell me
what is the cause of them.”
It was aunt Helen’s voice; she had entered and lit the lamp.
There was something beautifully sincere and real about aunt Helen. She
never fussed over any one or pretended to sympathize just to make out
how nice she was. She was real, and you felt that no matter what wild
or awful rubbish you talked to her it would never be retailed for any
one’s amusement—and, better than all, she never lectured.
She sat down beside me, and I impulsively threw my arms around her neck
and sobbed forth my troubles in a string. How there was no good in the
world, no use for me there, no one loved me or ever could on account of
my hideousness.
She heard me to the end and then said quietly, “When you are fit to
listen I will talk to you.”
I controlled myself instantly and waited expectantly. What would she
say? Surely not that tame old yarn anent this world being merely a
place of probation, wherein we were allowed time to fit ourselves for a
beautiful world to come. That old tune may be all very well for old
codgers tottering on the brink of the grave, but to young persons with
youth and romance and good health surging through their veins, it is
most boresome. Would she preach that it was flying in the face of
providence to moan about my appearance? it being one of the greatest
blessings I had, as it would save me from countless temptations to
which pretty girls are born. That was another piece of old croaking of
the job’s comforter order, of which I was sick unto death, as I am sure
there is not an ugly person in the world who thinks her lack of beauty
a blessing to her. I need not have feared aunt Helen holding forth in
that strain. She always said something brave and comforting which made
me ashamed of myself and my selfish conceited egotism.
“I understand you, Sybylla,” she said slowly and distinctly, “but you
must not be a coward. There is any amount of love and good in the
world, but you must search for it. Being misunderstood is one of the
trials we all must bear. I think that even the most common-minded
person in the land has inner thoughts and feelings which no one can
share with him, and the higher one’s organization the more one must
suffer in that respect. I am acquainted with a great number of young
girls, some of them good and true, but you have a character containing
more than any three of them put together. With this power, if properly
managed, you can gain the almost universal love of your fellows. But
you are wild and wayward, you must curb and strain your spirit and
bring it into subjection, else you will be worse than a person with the
emptiest of characters. You will find that plain looks will not prevent
you from gaining the _friendship_ love of your fellows—the only real
love there is. As for the hot fleeting passion of the man for the maid,
which is wrongfully designated love, I will not tell you not to think
of it, knowing that it is human nature to demand it when arriving at a
certain age; but take this comfort: it as frequently passes by on the
other side of those with well-chiselled features as those with faces of
plainer mould.”
She turned her face away, sighed, and forgetful of my presence lapsed
into silence. I knew she was thinking of herself.
Love, not _friendship_ love, for anyone knowing her must give her love
and respect, but the other sort of love had passed her by.
Twelve years before I went to Caddagat, when Helen Bossier had been
eighteen and one of the most beautiful and lovable girls in Australia,
there had come to Caddagat on a visit a dashing colonel of the name of
Bell, in the enjoyment of a most extended furlough for the benefit of
his health. He married aunt Helen and took her to some part of America
where his regiment was stationed. I have heard them say she worshipped
Colonel Bell, but in less than a twelvemonth he tired of his lovely
bride, and becoming enamoured of another woman, he tried to obtain a
divorce. On account of his wife’s spotless character he was unable to
do this; he therefore deserted her and openly lived with the other
woman as his mistress. This forced aunt Helen to return to Caddagat,
and her mother had induced her to sue for a judicial separation, which
was easily obtained.
When a woman is separated from her husband it is the religion of the
world at large to cast the whole blame on the wife. By reason of her
youth and purity Mrs Bell had not as much to suffer in this way as some
others. But, comparatively speaking, her life was wrecked. She had been
humiliated and outraged in the cruellest way by the man whom she loved
and trusted. He had turned her adrift, neither a wife, widow, nor maid,
and here she was, one of the most estimably lovable and noble women I
have ever met.
“Come, Sybylla,” she said, starting up brightly, “I have a plan—will
you agree to it? Come and take one good long look at yourself in the
glass, then I will turn it to the wall, and you must promise me that
for three or four weeks you will not look in a mirror. I will put as
many as I can out of your way, and you must avoid the remainder. During
this time I will take you in hand, and you must follow my directions
implicitly. Will you agree? You will be surprised what a nice-looking
little girl I will make of you.”
Of course I agreed. I took a long and critical survey of myself in the
glass. There was reflected a pair of hands, red and coarsened with
rough work, a round face, shiny and swollen with crying, and a small
round figure enshrouded in masses of hair falling in thick waves to
within an inch or two of the knees. A very ugly spectacle, I thought.
Aunt Helen turned the face of the large mirror flat against the wall,
while I remarked despondently, “you can make me only middling ugly, you
must be a magician.”
“Come now, part of my recipe is that you must not think of yourself at
all. I’ll take you in hand in the morning. I hope you will like your
room; I have arranged it on purpose to suit you. And now good night,
and happy dreams.”
I awoke next morning in very fine spirits, and slithering out of my bed
with alacrity, revelled—literally wallowed—in the appointments of my
room. My poor old room at Possum Gully was lacking in barest
necessaries. We could not afford even a wash-hand basin and jug;
Gertie, the boys, and myself had to perform our morning ablutions in a
leaky tin dish on a stool outside the kitchen door, which on cold
frosty mornings was a pretty peppery performance: but this room
contained everything dear to the heart of girlhood. A lovely bed,
pretty slippers, dainty white China-matting and many soft skins on the
floor, and in one corner a most artistic toilet set, and a wash-stand
liberally supplied with a great variety of soap—some of it so
exquisitely perfumed that I felt tempted to taste it. There were pretty
pictures on the walls, and on a commodious dressing-table a big mirror
and large hand-glasses, with their faces to the wall at present.
Hairpins, fancy combs, ribbons galore, and a pretty work-basket greeted
my sight, and with delight I swooped down upon the most excruciatingly
lovely little writing-desk. It was stuffed full with all kinds of paper
of good quality—fancy, all colours, sizes, and shapes, plain, foreign
note, pens, ink, and a generous supply of stamps. I felt like writing a
dozen letters there and then, and was on the point of giving way to my
inclination, when my attention was arrested by what I considered the
gem of the whole turn-out. I refer to a nice little bookcase containing
copies of all our Australian poets, and two or three dozen novels which
I had often longed to read. I read the first chapters of four of them,
and then lost myself in Gordon, and sat on my dressing-table in my
nightgown, regardless of cold, until brought to my senses by the
breakfast-bell. I made great pace, scrambled into my clothes
helter-skelter, and appeared at table when the others had been seated
and unfolded their serviettes.
Aunt Helen’s treatment for making me presentable was the wearing of
gloves and a shady hat every time I went outside; and she insisted upon
me spending a proper time over my toilet, and would not allow me to
encroach upon it with the contents of my bookshelf.
“Rub off some of your gloomy pessimism and cultivate a little more
healthy girlish vanity, and you will do very well,” she would say.
I observed these rites most religiously for three days. Then I
contracted a slight attack of influenza, and in poking around the
kitchen, doing one of the things I oughtn’t at the time I shouldn’t, a
servant-girl tipped a pot of boiling pot-liquor over my right foot,
scalding it rather severely. Aunt Helen and grannie put me to bed,
where I yelled with pain for hours like a mad Red Indian, despite their
applying every alleviative possible. The combined forces of the burn
and influenza made me a trifle dicky, so a decree went forth that I was
to stay in bed until recovered from both complaints. This effectually
prevented me from running in the way of any looking-glasses.
I was not sufficiently ill to be miserable, and being a pampered
invalid was therefore fine fun. Aunt Helen was a wonderful nurse. She
dressed my foot splendidly every morning, and put it in a comfortable
position many times throughout the day. Grannie brought me every dainty
in the house, and sent special messengers to Gool-Gool for more. Had I
been a professional glutton I would have been in paradise. Even Mr
Hawden condescended so far as to express his regret concerning the
accident, and favoured me with visits throughout each day; and one
Sunday his gallantry carried him to a gully where he plucked a bouquet
of maidenhair fern—the first of the season—and put them in a bowl
beside my bed. My uncle Julius, the only other member of the family
besides the servants, was away “up the country” on some business or
another, and was not expected home for a month or so.
The Bossiers and Beechams were leaders of swelldom among the
squattocracy up the country, and firm and intimate friends. The
Beechams resided at Five-Bob Downs, twelve miles from Caddagat, and
were a family composed of two maiden ladies and their nephew, Harold.
One of these ladies was aunt Helen’s particular friend, and the other
had stood in the same capacity to my mother in days gone by, but of
late years, on account of her poverty, mother had been too proud to
keep up communication with her. As for Harold Beecham, he was nearly as
much at home at Caddagat as at Five-Bob Downs. He came and went with
that pleasant familiarity practised between congenial spirits among
squatterdom. The Bossiers and Beechams were congenial spirits in every
way—they lived in the one sphere and held the one set of ideas, the
only difference between them, and that an unnoticeable one, being that
the Bossiers, though in comfortable circumstances, were not at all
rich, while Harold Beecham was immensely wealthy. When my installation
in the role of invalid took place, one Miss Beecham was away in
Melbourne, and the other not well enough to come and see me, but Harold
came regularly to inquire how I was progressing. He always brought me a
number of beautiful apples. This kindness was because the Caddagat
orchard had been too infested with codlin moth for grannie to save any
last season.
Aunt Helen used to mischievously tease me about this attention.
“Here comes Harry Beecham with some more apples,” she would say. “No
doubt he is far more calculating and artful than I thought he was
capable of being. He is taking time by the forelock and wooing you ere
he sees you, and so will take the lead. Young ladies are in the
minority up this way, and every one is snapped up as soon as she
arrives.”
“You’d better tell him how ugly I am, auntie, so that he will carry
apples twelve miles on his own responsibility, and when he sees me
won’t be vexed that all his work has been for nothing. Perhaps, though,
it would be better not to describe me, or I will get no more apples,” I
would reply.
Aunt Helen was a clever needlewoman. She made all grannie’s dresses and
her own. Now she was making some for me, which, however, I was not to
see until I wore them. Aunt Helen had this as a pleasant surprise, and
went to the trouble of blindfolding me while I was being fitted. While
in bed, grannie and auntie being busy, I was often left hours alone,
and during that time devoured the contents of my bookshelf.
The pleasure, so exquisite as to be almost pain, which I derived from
the books, and especially the Australian poets, is beyond description.
In the narrow peasant life of Possum Gully I had been deprived of
companionship with people of refinement and education who would talk of
the things I loved; but, at last here was congeniality, here was
companionship.
The weird witchery of mighty bush, the breath of wide sunlit plains,
the sound of camp-bells and jingle of hobble chains, floating on the
soft twilight breezes, had come to these men and had written a tale on
their hearts as had been written on mine. The glory of the starlit
heavens, the mighty wonder of the sea, and the majesty of thunder had
come home to them, and the breathless fulness of the sunset hour had
whispered of something more than the humour of tomorrow’s weather. The
wind and rain had a voice which spoke to Kendall, and he too had
endured the misery of lack of companionship. Gordon, with his sad, sad
humanism and bitter disappointment, held out his hand and took me with
him. The regret of it all was I could never meet them—Byron, Thackeray,
Dickens, Longfellow, Gordon, Kendall, the men I loved, all were dead;
but, blissful thought! Caine, Paterson, and Lawson were still living,
breathing human beings—two of them actually countrymen, fellow
Australians!
I pored with renewed zeal over the terse realism and pathos of Lawson,
and enjoyed Paterson’s redolence of the rollicking side of the
wholesome life beneath these sunny skies, which he depicted with grand
touches of power flashing here and there. I learnt them by heart, and
in that gloriously blue receptacle, by and by, where many pleasant
youthful dreams are stowed, I put the hope that one day I would clasp
hands with them, and feel and know the unspeakable comfort and
heart-rest of congenial companionship.
CHAPTER TEN
Everard Grey
Uncle Julius had taken a run down to Sydney before returning to
Caddagat, and was to be home during the first week in September,
bringing with him Everard Grey. This young gentleman always spent
Christmas at Caddagat, but as he had just recovered from an illness he
was coming up for a change now instead. Having heard much of him, I was
curious to see him. He was grandmamma’s adopted son, and was the orphan
of very aristocratic English parents who had left him to the
guardianship of distant relatives. They had proved criminally
unscrupulous. By finding a flaw in deeds, or something which none but
lawyers understand, they had deprived him of all his property and left
him to sink or swim. Grannie had discovered, reared, and educated him.
Among professions he had chosen the bar, and was now one of Sydney’s
most promising young barristers. His foster-mother was no end proud of
him, and loved him as her own son.
In due time a telegram arrived from uncle Julius, containing
instructions for the buggy to be sent to Gool-Gool to meet him and
Everard Grey.
By this time I had quite recovered from influenza and my accident, and
as they would not arrive till near nightfall, for their edification I
was to be dressed in full-blown dinner costume, also I was to be
favoured with a look at my reflection in a mirror for the first time
since my arrival.
During the afternoon I was dispatched by grannie on a message some
miles away, and meeting Mr Hawden some distance from the house, he took
it upon himself to accompany me. Everywhere I went he followed after,
much to my annoyance, because grannie gave me many and serious
talkings-to about the crime of encouraging young men.
Frank Hawden had changed his tune, and told me now that it mattered not
that I was not pretty, as pretty or not I was the greatest brick of a
girl he had met. His idea for this opinion was that I was able to talk
theatres with him, and was the only girl there, and because he had
arrived at that overflowing age when young men have to be partial to
some female whether she be ugly or pretty, fat or lean, old or young.
That I should be the object of these puerile emotions in a fellow like
Frank Hawden, filled me with loathing and disgust.
It was late in the afternoon when Hawden and I returned, and the buggy
was to be seen a long way down the road, approaching at the
going-for-the-doctor pace at which uncle Julius always drove.
Aunt Helen hustled me off to dress, but I was only half-rigged when
they arrived, and so was unable to go out and meet them. Uncle Julius
inquired for that youngster of Lucy’s, and aunt Helen replied that she
would be forthcoming when they were dressed for dinner. The two
gentlemen took a nip, to put a little heart in them uncle Julius said,
and auntie Helen came to finish my toilet while they were making
theirs.
“There now, you have nothing to complain of in the way of looks,” she
remarked at the completion of the ceremony. “Come and have a good look
at yourself.”
I was decked in my first evening dress, as it was a great occasion. It
was only on the rarest occasion that we donned full war-paint at
Caddagat. I think that evening dress is one of the prettiest and most
idiotic customs extant. What can be more foolish than to endanger one’s
health by exposing at night the chest and arms—two of the most vital
spots of the body—which have been covered all day? On the other hand,
what can be more beautiful than a soft white bosom rising and falling
amid a dainty nest of silk and lace? Every woman looks more soft and
feminine in a _decollete_ gown. And is there any of the animal lines
known pleasanter to the eye than the contour of shapely arms? Some
there are who cry down evening dress as being immodest and indecent.
These will be found among those whose chest and arms will not admit of
being displayed, or among those who, not having been reared to the
custom, dislike it with many other things from want of use.
Aunt Helen took me into the wide old drawing-room, now brilliantly
lighted. A heavy lamp was on each of the four brackets in the corners,
and another swung from the centre of the ceiling, and candelabra threw
many lights from the piano. Never before had I seen this room in such a
blaze of light. During the last week or two aunt Helen and I had
occupied it every night, but we never lighted more than a single candle
on the piano. This had been ample light for our purpose. Aunt Helen
would sing in her sweet sad voice all the beautiful old songs I loved,
while I curled myself on a mat at her side and read books—the music
often compelling me to forget the reading, and the reading occasionally
rendering me deaf to the music; but through both ever came the solemn
rush of the stream outside in its weird melancholy, like a wind
ceaselessly endeavouring to outstrip a wild vain regret which
relentlessly pursued.
“Your uncle Julius always has the drawing-room lighted like this; he
does not believe in shadowy half light—calls it sentimental bosh,” said
aunt Helen in explanation.
“Is uncle like that?” I remarked, but my question remained unanswered.
Leaving a hand-mirror with me, aunt Helen had slipped away.
One wall of the drawing-room was monopolized by a door, a big bookcase,
and a heavy bevelled-edged old-fashioned mirror—the two last-mentioned
articles reaching from floor to ceiling. Since my arrival the face of
the mirror had been covered, but this evening the blue silken curtains
were looped up, and it was before this that I stood.
I looked, and looked again in pleased surprise. I beheld a young girl
with eyes and skin of the clearest and brightest, and lips of brilliant
scarlet, and a chest and pair of arms which would pass muster with the
best. If Nature had been in bad humour when moulding my face, she had
used her tools craftily in forming my figure. Aunt Helen had proved a
clever maid and dressmaker. My pale blue cashmere dress fitted my fully
developed yet girlish figure to perfection. Some of my hair fell in
cunning little curls on my forehead; the remainder, tied simply with a
piece of ribbon, hung in thick waves nearly to my knees. My toilet had
altered me almost beyond recognition. It made me look my age—sixteen
years and ten months—whereas before, when dressed carelessly and with
my hair plastered in a tight coil, people not knowing me would not
believe that I was under twenty. Joy and merriment lit up my face,
which glowed with youth, health, and happiness, which rippled my lips
in smiles, which displayed a splendid set of teeth, and I really
believe that on that night I did not look out of the way ugly.
I was still admiring my reflection when aunt Helen returned to say that
Everard and uncle Julius were smoking on the veranda and asking for me.
“What do you think of yourself, Sybylla?”
“Oh, aunt Helen, tell me that there is something about me not
completely hideous!”
She took my face between her hands, saying:
“Silly child, there are some faces with faultless features, which would
receive nothing more than an indifferent glance while beside other
faces which might have few if any pretensions to beauty. Yours is one
of those last mentioned.”
“But that does not say I am not ugly.”
“No one would dream of calling you plain, let alone ugly; brilliant is
the word which best describes you.”
Uncle Julius had the upper part of his ponderous figure arrayed in a
frock-coat. He did not take kindly to what he termed “those skittish
sparrow-tailed affairs”. Frock-coats suited him, but I am not partial
to them on every one. They look well enough on a podgy, fat, or broad
man, but on a skinny one they hang with such a forlorn, dying-duck
expression, that they invariably make me laugh.
Julius John Bossier, better known as J. J. Bossier, and better still as
Jay-Jay—big, fat, burly, broad, a jovial bachelor of forty, too fond of
all the opposite sex ever to have settled his affections on one in
particular—was well known, respected, and liked from Wagga Wagga to
Albury, Forbes to Dandaloo, Bourke to Hay, from Tumut to Monaro, and
back again to Peak Hill, as a generous man, a straight goer in business
matters, and a jolly good fellow all round.