“So this is yourself, is it!” he exclaimed, giving me a tremendous hug.
“Oh, uncle,” I expostulated, “wipe your old kisses off! Your breath
smells horribly of whisky and tobacco.”
“Gammon, that’s what makes my kisses so nice!” he answered; and, after
holding me at arm’s-length for inspection, “By George, you’re a
wonderful-looking girl! You’re surely not done growing yet, though! You
are such a little nipper. I could put you in my pocket with ease. You
aren’t a scrap like your mother. I’ll give the next shearer who passes
a shilling to cut that hair off. It would kill a dog in the hot
weather.”
“Everard, this is my niece, Sybylla” (aunt Helen was introducing us).
“You will have to arrange yourselves—what relation you are, and how to
address each other.”
The admiration expressed in his clear sharp eyes gave me a sensation
different to any I had ever experienced previously.
“I suppose I’m a kind of uncle and brother in one, and as either
relationship entitles me to a kiss, I’m going to take one,” he said in
a very gallant manner.
“You may take one if you can,” I said with mischievous defiance,
springing off the veranda into the flower-garden. He accepted my
challenge, and, being lithe as a cat, a tremendous scamper ensued.
Round and round the flower-beds we ran. Uncle Jay-Jay’s beard opened in
a broad smile, which ended in a loud laugh. Everard Grey’s coat-tails
flew in the breeze he made, and his collar was too high for athletic
purposes. I laughed too, and was lost, and we returned to the
veranda—Everard in triumph, and I feeling very red and uncomfortable.
Grannie had arrived upon the scene, looking the essence of brisk
respectability in a black silk gown and a white lace cap. She cast on
me a glance of severe disapproval, and denounced my conduct as
shameful; but uncle Jay-Jay’s eyes twinkled as he dexterously turned
the subject.
“Gammon, mother! I bet you were often kissed when that youngster’s age.
I bet my boots now that you can’t count the times you did the same
thing yourself. Now, confess.”
Grannie’s face melted in a smile as she commenced a little anecdote,
with that pathetic beginning, “When I was young.”
Aunt Helen sent me inside lest I should catch cold, and I stationed
myself immediately inside the window so that I should not miss the
conversation. “I should think your niece is very excitable,” Mr Grey
was saying to aunt Helen.
“Oh, very.”
“Yes; I have never seen any but very highly strung temperaments have
that transparent brilliance of expression.”
“She is very variable—one moment all joy, and the next the reverse.”
“She has a very striking face. I don’t know what it is that makes it
so.”
“It may be her complexion,” said aunt Helen; “her skin is whiter than
the fairest blonde, and her eyebrows and lashes very dark. Be very
careful you do not say anything that would let her know you think her
not nice looking. She broods over her appearance in such a morbid
manner. It is a weak point with her, so be careful not to sting her
sensitiveness in that respect.”
“Plain-looking! Why, I think she has one of the most fascinating faces
I’ve seen for some time, and her eyes are simply magnificent. What
colour are they?”
“The grass is not bad about Sydney. I think I will send a truck of fat
wethers away next week,” said uncle Jay-Jay to grannie.
“It is getting quite dark. Let’s get in to dinner at once,” said
grannie.
During the meal I took an opportunity of studying the appearance of
Everard Grey. He had a typically aristocratic English face, even to the
cold rather heartless expression, which is as established a point of an
English blue blood as an arched neck is of a thoroughbred horse.
A ringer, whose wife had been unexpectedly confined, came for grannie
when dinner was over, and the rest of us had a delightful musical
evening. Uncle Jay-Jay bawled “The Vicar of Bray” and “Drink, Puppy,
Drink” in a stentorian bass voice, holding me on his knee, pinching,
tickling, pulling my hair, and shaking me up and down between whiles.
Mr Hawden favoured us by rendering “The Holy City”. Everard Grey sang
several new songs, which was a great treat, as he had a well-trained
and musical baritone voice. He was a veritable carpet knight, and
though not a fop, was exquisitely dressed in full evening costume, and
showed his long pedigreed blood in every line of his clean-shaven face
and tall slight figure. He was quite a champion on the piano, and
played aunt Helen’s accompaniments while he made her sing song after
song. When she was weary uncle Jay-Jay said to me, “Now it’s your turn,
me fine lady. We’ve all done something to keep things rolling but you.
Can you sing?”
“No,”
“Can this youngster sing, Helen?”
“She sings very nicely to herself sometimes, but I do not know how she
would manage before company. Will you try something, Sybylla?”
Uncle Jay-Jay waited to hear no more, but carrying me to the
music-stool, and depositing me thereon, warned me not to attempt to
leave it before singing something.
To get away to myself, where I was sure no one could bear me, and sing
and sing till I made the echoes ring, was one of the chief joys of my
existence, but I had never made a success in singing to company.
Besides losing all nerve, I had a very queer voice, which every one
remarked. However, tonight I made an effort in my old favourite, “Three
Fishers Went Sailing”. The beauty of the full-toned Ronisch piano, and
Everard’s clever and sympathetic accompanying, caused me to forget my
audience, and sing as though to myself alone, forgetting that my voice
was odd.
When the song ceased Mr Grey wheeled abruptly on the stool and said,
“Do you know that you have one of the most wonderful natural voices I
have heard. Why, there is a fortune in such a voice if it were,
trained! Such chest-notes, such feeling, such rarity of tone!”
“Don’t be sarcastic, Mr Grey,” I said shortly.
“Upon my word as a man, I mean every word I say,” he returned
enthusiastically.
Everard Grey’s opinion on artistic matters was considered worth having.
He dabbled in all the arts—writing, music, acting, and sketching, and
went to every good concert and play in Sydney. Though he was clever at
law, it was whispered by some that he would wind up on the stage, as he
had a great leaning that way.
I walked away from the piano treading on air. Would I really make a
singer? I with the voice which had often been ridiculed; I who had
often blasphemously said that I would sell my soul to be able to sing
just passably. Everard Grey’s opinion gave me an intoxicated sensation
of joy.
“Can you recite?” he inquired.
“Yes,” I answered firmly.
“Give us something,” said uncle Jay-Jay.
I recited Longfellow’s “The Slave’s Dream”. Everard Grey was quite as
enthusiastic over this as he had been about my singing.
“Such a voice! Such depth and width! Why, she could fill the Centennial
Hall without an effort. All she requires is training.”
“By George, she’s a regular dab! But I wish she would give us something
not quite so glum,” said uncle Jay-Jay.
I let myself go. Carried away by I don’t know what sort of a spirit, I
exclaimed, “Very well, I will, if you will wait till I make up, and
will help me.”
I disappeared for a few minutes, and returned made up as a fat old
Irish woman, with a smudge of dirt on my face. There was a general
laugh.
Would Mr Hawden assist me? Of course he was only too delighted, and
flattered that I had called upon him in preference to the others. What
would he do?
I sat him on a footstool, so that I might with facility put my hand on
his sandy hair, and turning to uncle, commenced:
“Shure, sir, seeing it was a good bhoy yez were afther to run errants,
it’s meself that has brought this youngsther for yer inspection. It’s a
jool ye’ll have in him. Shure I rared him meself, and he says his
prayers every morning. Kape sthill, honey! Faith, ye’re not afraid of
yer poor old mammy pullin’ yer beautiful cur-r-rls?”
Uncle Jay-Jay was laughing like fun; even aunt Helen deigned to smile;
and Everard was looking on with critical interest.
“Go on,” said uncle. But Mr Hawden got huffy at the ridicule which he
suspected I was calling down upon him, and jumped up looking fit to eat
me.
I acted several more impromptu scenes with the other occupants of the
drawing-room. Mr Hawden emitted “Humph!” from the corner where he
grumpily sat, but Mr Grey was full of praise.
“Splendid! splendid!” he exclaimed. “You say you have not had an hour’s
training, and never saw a play. Such versatility. Your fortune would be
made on the stage. It is a sin to have such exceptional talent wasting
in the bush. I must take her to Sydney and put her under a good
master.”
“Indeed, you’ll do no such thing,” said uncle. “I’ll keep her here to
liven up the old barracks. You’ve got enough puppets on the stage
without a niece of mine ever being there.”
I went to bed that night greatly elated. Flattery is sweet to youth. I
felt pleased with myself, and imagined, as I peeped in the
looking-glass, that I was not half bad-looking after all.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Yah!
“Bah, you hideous animal! Ha ha! Your peerless conceit does you credit.
So you actually imagined that by one or two out of every hundred you
might be considered passable. You are the most uninteresting person in
the world. You are small and nasty and bad, and every other thing
that’s abominable. That’s what you are.”
This address I delivered to my reflection in the glass next morning. My
elation of the previous night was as flat as a pancake. Dear, oh dear,
what a fool I had been to softly swallow the flattery of Mr Grey
without a single snub in return! To make up for my laxity, if he
continued to amuse himself by plastering my vanity with the ointment of
flattery, I determined to serve up my replies to him red-hot and well
seasoned with pepper.
I finished my toilet, and in a very what’s-the-good-o’-anything mood
took a last glance in the glass to say, “You’re ugly, you’re ugly and
useless; so don’t forget that and make a fool of yourself again.”
I was in the habit of doing this; it had long ago taken the place of a
morning prayer. I said this, that by familiarity it might lose a little
of its sting when I heard it from other lips, but somehow it failed in
efficacy.
I was late for breakfast that morning. All the others were half through
the meal when I sat down.
Grannie had not come home till after twelve, but was looking as brisk
as usual.
“Come, Sybylla, I suppose this comes of sitting up too late, as I was
not here to hunt you to bed. You are always very lively at night, but
it’s a different tune in the morning,” she said, when giving me the
usual morning hug.
“When I was a nipper of your age, if I didn’t turn out like greased
lightning every morning, I was assisted by a little strap oil,”
remarked uncle Jay-Jay.
“Sybylla should be excused this morning,” interposed Mr Grey. “She
entertained us for hours last night. Little wonder if she feels languid
this morning.”
“Entertained you I What did she do?” queried grannie.
“Many things. Do you know, gran, that you are robbing the world of an
artist by keeping Sybylla hidden away in the bush? I must persuade you
to let me take her to Sydney and have her put under the best masters in
Sydney.”
“Under masters for what?”
“Elocution and singing.”
“I couldn’t afford it.”
“But I’d bear the expense myself. It would only be returning a trifle
of all you have done for me.”
“What nonsense! What would you have her do when she was taught?”
“Go on the stage, of course. With her talent and hair she would cause
quite a sensation.”
Now grannie’s notions are the stage were very tightly laced. All actors
and actresses, from the lowest circus man up to the most glorious
cantatrice, were people defiled in the sight of God, and utterly
outside the pale of all respectability, when measured with her code of
morals.
She turned energetically in her chair, and her keen eyes flashed with
scorn and anger as she spoke.
“Go on the stage! A grand-daughter of mine! Lucy’s eldest child! An
actress—a vile, low, brazen hussy! Use the gifts God has given her with
which to do good in showing off to a crowd of vile bad men! I would
rather see her struck dead at my feet this instant! I would rather see
her shear off her hair and enter a convent this very hour. Child,
promise you will never be a bold bad actress.”
“I will never be a _bold bad_ actress, grannie,” I said, putting great
stress on the adjectives, and bringing out the actress very faintly.
“Yes,” she continued, calming down, “I’m sure you have not enough bad
in you. You may be boisterous, and not behave with sufficient propriety
sometimes, but I don’t think you are wicked enough to ever make an
actress.”
Everard attempted to defend his case.
“Look here, gran, that’s a very exploded old notion about the stage
being a low profession. It might have been once, but it is quite the
reverse nowadays. There are, of course, low people on the stage, as
there are in all walks of life. I grant you that; but if people are
good they can be good on the stage as well as anywhere else. On account
of a little prejudice it would be a sin to rob Sybylla of the brilliant
career she might have.”
“Career!” exclaimed his foster-mother, catching at the word. “Career!
That is all girls think of now, instead of being good wives and mothers
and attending to their homes and doing what God intended. All they
think of is gadding about and being fast, and ruining themselves body
and soul. And the men are as bad to encourage them,” looking severely
at Everard.
“There is a great deal of truth in what you say, gran, I admit. You can
apply it to many of our girls, I am sorry to confess, but Sybylla could
not be brought under that classification. You must look at her in a
different way. If—”
“I look at her as the child of respectable people, and will not have
the stage mentioned in connection with her.” Here Grannie thumped her
fist down on the table and there was silence, complete, profound. Few
dared argue with Mrs Bossier.
Dear old lady, she was never angry long, and in a minute or two she
proceeded with her breakfast, saying quite pleasantly:
“Never mention such a subject to me again; but I’ll tell you what you
can do. Next autumn, some time in March or April, when the
fruit-preserving and jam-making are done with, Helen can take the child
to Sydney for a month or so, and you can show them round. It will be a
great treat for Sybylla as she has never been in Sydney.”
“That’s right, let’s strike a bargain on that, gran,” said Everard.
“Yes; it’s a bargain, if I hear no more about the stage. God intends
His creatures for a better life than that.”
After breakfast I was left to entertain Everard for some while. We had
a fine time. He was a perfect gentleman and a clever conversationalist.
I was always desirous of enjoying the company of society people who
were well bred and lived according to etiquette, and possessed of
leisure and culture sufficient to fill their minds with something more
than the price of farm produce and a hard struggle for existence.
Hitherto I had only read of such or seen them in pictures, but here was
a real live one, and I seized my opportunity with vim. At my
questioning and evident interest in his talk he told me of all the
latest plays, actors, and actresses with whom he was acquainted, and
described the fashionable balls, dinners, and garden-parties he
attended. Having exhausted this subject, we fell to discussing books,
and I recited snatches of poems dear to me. Everard placed his hands
upon my shoulders and said:
“Sybylla, do you know you are a most wonderful girl? Your figure is
perfect, your style refreshing, and you have a most interesting face.
It is as ever-changing as a kaleidoscope—sometimes merry, then stern,
often sympathetic, and always sad when at rest. One would think you had
had some sorrow in your life.”
Lifting my skirt at either side, I bowed several times very low in what
I called my stage bow, and called into requisition my stage smile,
which displayed two rows of teeth as white and perfect as any
twenty-guinea set turned out on a gold plate by a fashionable dentist.
“The handsome gentleman is very kind to amuse himself at the expense of
a little country bumpkin, but he would do well to ascertain if his
flattery would go down before administering it next time,” I said
sarcastically, and I heard him calling to me as I abruptly went off to
shut myself in my room.
“How dare anyone ridicule me by paying idle brainless compliments! I
knew I was ugly, and did not want any one to perjure his soul
pretending they thought differently. What right had I to be small? Why
wasn’t I possessed of a big aquiline nose and a tall commanding
figure?” Thus I sat in burning discontent and ill-humour until soothed
by the scent of roses and the gleam of soft spring sunshine which
streamed in through my open window. Some of the flower-beds in the
garden were completely carpeted with pansy blossoms, all colours, and
violets-blue and white, single and double. The scent of mignonette,
jonquils, and narcissi filled the air. I revelled in rich perfumes, and
these tempted me forth. My ruffled feelings gave way before the
delights of the old garden. I collected a number of vases, and, filling
them with water, set them on a table in the veranda near one of the
drawing-room windows. I gathered lapfuls of the lovely blossoms, and
commenced arranging them in the vases.
Part of the old Caddagat house was built of slabs, and one of the
wooden walls ran along the veranda side of the drawing-room, so the
songs aunt Helen and Everard Grey were trying to the piano came as a
sweet accompaniment to my congenial task.
Presently they left off singing and commenced talking. Under the same
circumstances a heroine of a story would have slipped away; or, if that
were impossible without discovery, she would have put her fingers in
her ears, and would have been in a terrible state of agitation lest she
should hear something not intended for her. I did not come there with a
view to eavesdropping. It is a degradation to which I never stoop. I
thought they were aware of my presence on the veranda; but it appears
they were not, as they began to discuss me (wonderfully interesting
subject to myself), and I stayed there, without one word of disapproval
from my conscience, to listen to their conversation.
“My word, didn’t gran make a to-do this morning when I proposed to
train Sybylla for the stage! Do you know that girl is simply reeking
with talent; I must have her trained. I will keep bringing the idea
before gran until she gets used to it. I’ll work the
we-should-use-the-gifts-God-has-given-us racket for all it is worth,
and you might use your influence too, Helen.”
“No, Everard; there are very few who succeed on the stage. I would not
use my influence, as it is a life of which I do not approve.”
“But Sybylla _would_ succeed. I am a personal friend of the leading
managers, and my influence would help her greatly.”
“Yes; but what would you do with her? A young gentleman couldn’t take
charge of a girl and bring her out without ruining her reputation.
There would be no end of scandal, as the sister theory would only be
nonsense.”
“There is another way; I could easily stop scandal.”
“Everard, what do you mean!”
“I mean marriage,” he replied deliberately.
“Surely, boy, you must be dreaming! You have only seen her for an hour
or two. I don’t believe in these sudden attachments.”
Perhaps she here thought of one (her own) as sudden, which had not
ended happily.
“Everard, don’t do anything rashly. You know you are very fickle and
considered a lady-killer—be merciful to my poor little Sybylla, I pray.
It is just one of your passing fancies. Don’t wile her passionate young
heart away and then leave her to pine and die.”
“I don’t think she is that sort,” he replied laughingly.
“No, she would not die, but would grow into a cynic and sceptic, which
is the worst of fates. Let her alone. Flirt as much as you will with
society belles who understand the game, but leave my country maiden
alone. I hope to mould her into a splendid character yet.”
“But, Helen, supposing I am in earnest at last, you don’t think I’d
make her a bad old hubby, do you?”
“She is not the girl for you. You are not the man who could ever
control her. What I say may not be complimentary but it is true.
Besides, she is not seventeen yet, and I do not approve of romantic
young girls throwing themselves into matrimony. Let them develop their
womanhood first.”
“Then I expect I had better hide my attractions under a bushel during
the remainder of my stay at Caddagat?”
“Yes. Be as nice to the child as you like, but mind, none of those
little ladies’-man attentions with which it is so easy to steal—”
I waited to hear no more, but, brimming over with a mixture of
emotions, tore through the garden and into the old orchard. Bees were
busy, and countless bright-coloured butterflies flitted hither and
thither, sipping from hundreds of trees, white or pink with bloom—their
beauty was lost upon me. I stood ankle-deep in violets, where they had
run wild under a gnarled old apple-tree, and gave way to my wounded
vanity.
“Little country maiden, indeed! There’s no need for him to bag his
attractions up. If he exerted himself to the utmost of his ability, he
could not make me love him. I’m not a child. I saw through him in the
first hour. There’s not enough in him to win my love. I’ll show him I
think no more of him than of the caterpillars on the old tree there.
I’m not a booby that will fall in love with every gussie I see. Bah,
there’s no fear of that! I hate and detest men!”
“I suppose you are rehearsing some more airs to show off with tonight,”
sneered a voice behind me.
“No, I’m realisticing; and how _dare_ you thrust your obnoxious
presence before me when I wish to be alone! Haven’t I often shown—”
“While a girl is disengaged, any man who is her equal has the right to
pay his addresses to her if he is in earnest,” interrupted Mr Hawden.
It was he who stood before me.
“I am well aware of that,” I replied. “But it is a woman’s privilege to
repel those attentions if distasteful to her. You seem disinclined to
accord me that privilege.”
Having delivered this retort, I returned to the house, leaving him
standing there looking the fool he was.
I do not believe in spurning the love of a blackfellow if he behaves in
a manly way; but Frank Hawden was such a drivelling mawkish style of
sweetheart that I had no patience with him.
Aunt Helen and Everard had vacated the drawing-room, so I plumped down
on the piano-stool and dashed into Kowalski’s galop, from that into
“Gaité de Coeur” until I made the piano dance and tremble like a thing
possessed. My annoyance faded, and I slowly played that saddest of
waltzes, “Weber’s Last”. I became aware of a presence in the room, and,
facing about, confronted Everard Grey.
“How long have you been here?” I demanded sharply.
“Since you began to play. Where on earth did you learn to play? Your
execution is splendid. Do sing ‘Three Fishers’, please.”
“Excuse me; I haven’t time now. Besides I am not competent to sing to
you,” I said brusquely, and made my exit.
“Mr Hawden wants you, Sybylla,” called aunt Helen. “See what he wants
and let him get away to his work, or your grannie will be vexed to see
him loitering about all the morning.”
“Miss Sybylla,” he began, when we were left alone, “I want to apologize
to you. I had no right to plague you, but it all comes of the way I
love you. A fellow gets jealous at the least little thing, you know.”
“Bore me with no more such trash,” I said, turning away in disgust.
“But, Miss Sybylla, what am I to do with it?”
“Do with what?”
“My love.”
“Love!” I retorted scornfully. “There is no such thing.”
“But there is, and I have found it.”
“Well, you stick to it—that’s my advice to you. It will be a treasure.
If you send it to my father he will get it bottled up and put it in the
Goulburn museum. He has sent several things there already.”
“Don’t make such a game of a poor devil. You know I can’t do that.”
“Bag it up, then; put a big stone to make it sink, and pitch it in the
river.”
“You’ll rue this,” he said savagely.
“I may or may not,” I sang over my shoulder as I departed.
CHAPTER TWELVE
One Grand Passion
I had not the opportunity of any more private interviews with Everard
Grey till one morning near his departure, when we happened to be alone
on the veranda.
“Well, Miss Sybylla,” he began, “when I arrived I thought you and I
would have been great friends; but we have not progressed at all. How
do you account for that?”
As he spoke he laid his slender shapely hand kindly upon my head. He
was very handsome and winning, and moved in literary, musical, and
artistic society—a man from my world, a world away.
Oh, what pleasure I might have derived from companionship with him! I
bit my lip to keep back the tears. Why did not social arrangements
allow a man and a maid to be chums—chums as two men or two maids may be
to each other, enjoying each other without thought beyond pure platonic
friendship? But no; it could not be. I understood the conceit of men.
Should I be very affable, I feared Everard Grey would imagine he had
made a conquest of me. On the other hand, were I glum he would think
the same, and that I was trying to hide my feelings behind a mask of
brusquerie. I therefore steered in a bee-line between the two manners,
and remarked with the greatest of indifference:
“I was not aware that you expected us to be such cronies—in fact, I
have never given the matter a thought.”
He turned away in a piqued style. Such a beau of beaux, no doubt he was
annoyed that an insignificant little country bumpkin should not be
flattered by his patronage, or probably he thought me rude or
ill-humoured.
Two mornings later uncle Jay-Jay took him to Gool-Gool _en route_ for
Sydney. When departing he bade me a kindly good-bye, made me promise to
write to him, and announced his intention of obtaining the opinion of
some good masters are my dramatic talent and voice, when I came to
Sydney as promised by my grandmother. I stood on the garden fence
waving my handkerchief until the buggy passed out of sight among the
messmate-trees about half a mile from the house.
“Well I hope, as that dandified ape has gone—and good riddance to
him—that you will pay more heed to my attentions now,” said Mr Hawden’s
voice, as I was in the act of descending from the fence.
“What do you mean by your attentions?” I demanded.
“What do I mean! That is something like coming to business. I’ll soon
explain. You know what my intentions are very well. When I am
twenty-four, I will come into my property in England. It is
considerable, and at the end of that time I want to marry you and take
you home. By Jove! I would just like to take you home. You’d surprise
some English girls I know.”
“There would be more than one person surprised if I married you,” I
thought to myself, and laughed till I ached with the motion.
“You infernal little vixen! What are you laughing at? You’ve got no
more sense than a bat if such a solemn thing only provokes your mirth.”
“Solemn—why, it’s a screaming farce!” I laughed more and more.
“What’s a farce?” he demanded fiercely.
“The bare idea of you proposing to me.”
“Why? Have I not as much right to propose as any other man?”
“Man!” I laughed. “That’s where the absurdity arises. My child, if you
were a man, certainly you could propose, but do you think I’d look at a
boy, a child! If ever I perpetrate matrimony the participant in my
degradation will be a fully developed man—not a hobbledehoy who falls
in love, as he terms it, on an average about twice a week. Love! Ho!”