“What horse are you going to take?”
“Old Tadpole. He’s the only one available.”
“Well, you be careful and don’t push him too quickly up that pinch by
Flea Creek, or he might drop dead with you. He’s so fat and old.”
“All right,” I replied, snatching a bridle and running up the orchard,
where old Tadpole had been left in case of emergency. I clapped a
side-saddle on his back, a hat on my head, jumped on just as I was, and
galloped for my life in the direction of Bimbalong, seven miles
distant. I eased my horse a little going up Flea Creek pinch, but with
this delay reached my destination in half an hour, and sent the men
galloping in the direction of the fire. I lingered for afternoon tea,
and returned at my leisure.
It was sundown when I got in sight of Caddagat. Knowing the men would
not be home for some time, I rode across the paddock to yard the cows.
I drove them home and penned the calves, unsaddled my horse and
returned him to the orchard, then stood upon the hillside and enjoyed
the scene. It had been a fearfully hot day, with a blasting,
drought-breathed wind; but the wind had dropped to sleep with the
sunlight, and now the air had cooled. Blue smoke wreathed hill and
hollow like a beauteous veil. I had traversed drought-baked land that
afternoon, but in the immediate vicinity of Caddagat house there was no
evidence of an unkind season. Irrigation had draped the place with
beauty, and I stood ankle-deep in clover. Oh, how I loved the old
irregularly built house, with here and there a patch of its low iron
roof peeping out of a mass of greenery, flowers, and fruit—the place
where I was born—home! Save for the murmur of the creek, the evening
was wrapped in silence—sweet-breathed, balmy-browed, summer quietude. I
stretched out my hand and stained my fingers, next my lips and teeth,
with the sweet dark fruit of a mulberry-tree beside me. The shadows
deepened; I picked up my saddle, and, carrying it housewards, put it in
its place in the harness-room among the fig- and apricot-trees—laden to
breaking point with ripe and ripening fruit. The two servant girls had
departed on their Christmas holiday that morning, so grannie and auntie
were the only members of the family at home. I could not see or hear
them anywhere, so, presuming they were out walking, I washed my hands,
lit a lamp, and sat down to my tea, where it had been left for me on
the dining-table. I remembered—wonderful aberration from my usual
thoughtlessness—that the book I had left in the hammock had a beautiful
cover which the dew would spoil, so I left my tea to bring it in. Two
little white squares struck my eye in the gathering dusk. I picked them
up also, and, bringing them to the light, opened the one addressed to
me, and read:
No doubt what I have to write will not be very palatable to you; but it
is time you gave up pleasuring and began to meet the responsibilities
of life. Your father is lazier if anything, and drinks more than ever.
He has got himself into great debt and difficulties, and would have
been sold off again but for Peter M’Swat. You will remember Peter
M’Swat? Well, he has been good enough to lend your father 500 pounds at
4 per cent, which means 20 pounds per year interest. Your father would
have no more idea of meeting this amount than a cat would have. But now
I am coming to the part of the matter which concerns you. Out of
friendship to your father, Mr M’Swat is good enough to accept your
services as governess to his children, in lieu of interest on the
money. I have told him you will be in Yarnung In Friday the 8th of
January 1897, where he will meet you. Be careful to remember the date.
I am sorry I could not give you more notice; but he wants his children
to commence school as soon as possible, and he deserves every
consideration in the matter. Perhaps you will not find it as pleasant
as Caddagat; but he has been very good, and offers you a fair number of
holidays, and what he will give you is equal to 20 pounds. That is a
lot in these times, when he could easily get so many better girls than
you are in every way for half the money, and make your father pay the
interest, and thereby be 10 pounds in pocket. You will have to help Mrs
M’Swat with the work and sewing; but that will do you good, and I hope
you will try hard to give every satisfaction. I have also written to
your grandmother.
That letter wiped away ever vestige of my appetite for the dainties
before me. M’Swat’s! Send—me—to M’Swat’s! I could not believe it! It
must be a nightmare! M’Swat’s!
Certainly, I had never been there; but all those who had gave graphic
descriptions of the total ignorance of Mrs M’Swat. Why, the place was
quite tabooed on account of its squalor and dirt!
The steel of my mother’s letter entered my soul. Why had she not
expressed a little regret at the thing she was imposing on me? Instead,
there was a note of satisfaction running through her letter that she
was able to put an end to my pleasant life at Caddagat. She always
seemed to grudge me any pleasure. I bitterly put it down as accruing
from the curse of ugliness, as, when mentioning Gertie, it was ever, “I
have let Gertie go to such and such an entertainment. We could not very
well afford it, but the poor little girl does not have many pleasures
for her years.” I was smaller than Gertie, and only eleven months
older; but to me it was “You must think of something besides pleasure.”
The lot of ugly girls is not joyful, and they must be possessed of
natures very absurdly sanguine indeed ever to hope for any enjoyment in
life.
It was cruel, base, horrible of my mother to send me to M’Swat’s. I
would not go—not for 50 pounds a day! I would not go! I would not! not
for any consideration.
I stamped about in a fever of impatience until grannie appeared, when I
handed both letters to her, and breathlessly awaited her verdict.
“Well, child, what do you say?”
“Say? I won’t go! I can’t! I won’t! Oh, grannie, don’t send me there—I
would rather die.”
“My dear child, I would not be willing to part with you under any
circumstances, but I cannot interfere between a mother and her child. I
would not have allowed any one to do it with me, and believe in acting
the same towards any other mother, even though she is my own daughter.
However, there is time to get a reply before you would have to start,
so I will write and see what can be done.”
The dear old lady, with her prompt businesslike propensities, sat down
and wrote there and then. I wrote also—pleaded with my mother against
her decree, begged her to leave me at Caddagat, and assured her I could
never succeed at M’Swat’s.
I did not sleep that night, so arose betimes to await the first
traveller, whom I asked to post the letters.
We got an answer to them sooner than we expected—at least grannie did.
Mother did not deign to write to me, but in her letter to grannie I was
described as an abominably selfish creature, who would not consider her
little brothers and sisters. I would never be any good; all I thought
of was idleness and ease. Most decidedly I could not get out of going
to M’Swat’s, as mother had given her word.
“I am sorry for you,” said grannie, “but it cannot be helped. You can
stay there for two or three years, and then I can have you here again.”
I was inconsolable, and would not listen to reason. Ah! that uncle
Jay-Jay had been at home to rescue me from this. Then aunt Helen
brought her arguments to bear upon me, and persuaded me to think it was
necessary for the benefit of my little brothers and sisters that I
should take up this burden, which I knew would be too much for me.
It was a great wrench to be torn away from Caddagat—from refinement and
comfort—from home! As the days till my departure melted away, how I
wished that it were possible to set one’s weight against the grim wheel
of time and turn it back! Nights I did not sleep, but drenched my
pillow with tears. Ah, it was hard to leave grannie and aunt Helen,
whom I worshipped, and turn my back on Caddagat!
I suppose it is only a fancy born of the wild deep love I bear it, but
to me the flowers seem to smell more sweetly there; and the shadows,
how they creep and curl! oh, so softly and caressingly around the
quaint old place, as the great sun sets amid the blue peaks; and the
never-ceasing rush of the crystal fern-banked stream—I see and hear it
now, and the sinking sun as it turns to a sheet of flame the mirror
hanging in the backyard in the laundry veranda, before which the
station hands were wont to comb and wash themselves. Oh, the memories
that crowd upon me! Methinks I can smell the roses that clamber up the
veranda posts and peep over the garden gate. As I write my eyes grow
misty, so that I cannot see the paper.
The day for my departure arrived—hot, 110 degrees in the shade. It was
a Wednesday afternoon. Frank Hawden was to take me as far as Gool-Gool
that evening, and see me on to the coach next day. I would arrive in
Yarnung about twelve or one o’clock on Thursday night, where, according
to arrangement, Mr M’Swat would be waiting to take me to a hotel,
thence to his home next day.
My trunks and other belongings were stowed in the buggy, to which the
fat horses were harnessed. They stood beneath the dense shade of a
splendid kurrajong, and lazily flicked the flies off themselves while
Frank Hawden held the reins and waited for me.
I rushed frantically round the house taking a last look at nooks and
pictures dear to me, and then aunt Helen pressed my hand and kissed me,
saying:
“The house will be lonely without you, but you must brighten up, and
I’m sure you will not find things half as bad as you expect them.”
I looked back as I went out the front gate, and saw her throw herself
into a chair on the veranda and cover her face with her hands. My
beautiful noble aunt Helen! I hope she missed me just a little, felt
just one pang of parting, for I have not got over that parting yet.
Grannie gave me a warm embrace and many kisses. I climbed on to the
front seat of the buggy beside my escort, he whipped the horses—a cloud
of dust, a whirr of wheels, and we were gone—gone from Caddagat!
We crossed the singing stream: on either bank great bushes of
blackthorn—last native flower of the season—put forth their wealth of
magnificent creamy bloom, its rich perfume floating far on the hot
summer air. How the sunlight blazed and danced and flickered on the
familiar and dearly loved landscape! Over a rise, and the house was
lost to view, then good-bye to the crystal creek. The trees of Five-Bob
Downs came within eye-range far away on our left. What merry nights I
had spent there amid music, flowers, youth, light, love, and summer
warmth, when the tide of life seemed full! Where now was Harold Beecham
and the thirty or more station hands, who but one short month before
had come and gone at his bidding, hailing him boss?
It was all over! My pleasant life at Caddagat was going into the past,
fading as the hills which surrounded it were melting into a hazy line
of blue.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
My Journey
The coach was a big vehicle, something after the style of a bus, the
tilt and seats running parallel with the wheels. At the rear end,
instead of a door, was a great tail-board, on the principle of a
spring-cart. This was let down, and, after we scrambled over it into
our seats, it was fixed half-mast, all the luggage piled thereon, and
firmly roped into position. When this was completed, to any one on the
ground only the heads of passengers were visible above the pile. Had
the coach capsized we would have been in a nice fix, as the only means
of exit was by crawling up through the back of the box-seat, which rose
breast-high—an awkward feat.
Frank Hawden and I parted good friends. I leant out and waved my
handkerchief, until a bend of the road hid him from sight.
It was noon, the thermometer registered 112 degrees in the shade, and
the dust was simply awful. It rose in such thick grey clouds that often
it was impossible to discern the team of five which pulled us, and
there was danger of colliding with passing vehicles. We were very much
crowded, there being sixteen passengers. When we settled down and got
started, I discovered that I was the only representative of my sex, and
that I was sandwiched between a perky youth in his teens and a
Chinaman, while a black fellow and a man with a red beard sat opposite.
A member of Parliament, farther up the seat, who had been patronizing
New Year’s Day races in a portion of his electorate, bawled loudly to
his companion about “the doin’s of the ’Ouse”. In the perky youth I
discovered a professional jockey; and when he found that I was a
daughter of Dick Melvyn, the one-time great horse-breeder, he became
very friendly. He gave me a couple of apples out of his tin box under
the seat, from whence he also produced his whip for my inspection, and
was good enough to say:
“If you can’t stand the stink of that bloomin’ chow, miss, just change
seats with me. I’ve knocked about, so that I can easy stand some tough
smells without much inconvenience.”
I cautioned him to talk lower for fear of hurting the Chinaman’s
feelings: this amused him immensely. He laughed very much, and, leaning
over to the red-bearded man, repeated the joke:
“I say, this young lady is afraid I might hurt the chow’s feelin’s.
Golly! Fancy a bloomin’ chow havin’ any!”
The other man also thought it a great joke. I changed seats with the
jockey, which put me beside a young gentleman of a literary turn of
mind, with whom I had some conversation about books when the dust,
rumble of wheels, and turf talk of my other neighbour permitted. They
were all very kind to me—gave me fruit, procured me drinks of water,
and took turns in nursing a precious hat, for which, on account of the
crush, no safe place could be found among the other luggage.
Before we had gone half our journey the horses knocked up. All the men
were forced to walk up hills for miles and miles in the dust and heat,
which did not conduce to their amiability, and many and caustic were
the remarks and jokes made upon the driver. He wore out two whips upon
his team, until the labour and excessive heat sent the perspiration
rolling in rivulets down his face, leaving muddy tracks in the thick
coating of dust there. The jockey assisted with his loaded instrument
of trade, some of the passengers thrashed with sticks, and all swore
under their breath, while a passing bullock-driver used his whip with
such deadly effect, that the sweat which poured off the poor beasts was
mingled with blood.
“Why the deuce don’t you have proper horses?” demanded the red-bearded
passenger.
The man explained that a ministerial party had chartered his best team
to go on a tour of inspection to a mine; a brother coachman had been
“stuck up” for horses, and borrowed a couple from him, whereupon he was
forced to do with animals which had been turned out for a spell, and
the heat and overloading accounted for a good part of the contretemps.
However, we managed to catch our train, but had to rush for it without
waiting for refreshments. Nice articles we looked—our hair grey with
dust, and our faces grimy. The men took charge of me as carefully as
though I had been specially consigned to their care. One procured my
ticket, another secured me a seat, while a third took charge of my
luggage; and they were just as thoughtful when we had to change trains.
Off we went. Grannie had packed me quite a large box full of dainties.
I produced it, the men provided drinks, and we had quite a pleasant
picnic, with all the windows down to catch a little air.
I love the rush and roar of the train, and wished on this occasion that
it might go on and on for over, never giving me time to think or stop.
But, alas, at 1.20 we pulled up at Yarnung, where a man came inquiring
for a young lady named Melvyn. My fellow passengers collected my
belongings, and I got out.
“Good-bye, gentlemen; thank you very much for your kindness.”
“Good-bye, miss; you’re welcome. Some of us might meet again yet.
Ta-ta!”
A shriek, a jerk, and the great train rushed on into the night, leaving
me there on the insignificant little platform, feeling how lonely and
unhappy, no one knew or cared.
Mr M’Swat shouldered most of my luggage, I took the remainder, and we
trudged off in the dark without a word on either side. The publican had
given M’Swat the key, so that we might enter without disturbing the
household, and he escorted me to a bedroom, where I tumbled into bed
with expedition.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
To Life
It is indelibly imprinted on my memory in a manner which royal joy,
fame, pleasure, and excitement beyond the dream of poets could never
efface, not though I should be cursed with a life of five-score years.
I will paint it truthfully—letter for letter as it was.
It was twenty-six miles from Yarnung to Barney’s Gap, as M’Swat’s place
was named. He had brought a light wagonette and pair to convey me
thither.
As we drove along, I quite liked my master. Of course, we were of
calibre too totally unlike ever to be congenial companions, but I
appreciated his sound common sense in the little matters within his
range, and his bluntly straightforward, fairly good-natured, manner. He
was an utterly ignorant man, with small ideas according to the sphere
which he fitted, and which fitted him; but he was “a man for a’ that,
an’ a’ that”.
He and my father had been boys together. Years and years ago M’Swat’s
father had been blacksmith on my father’s station, and the little boys
had played together, and, in spite of their then difference in station,
had formed a friendship which lived and bore fruit at this hour. I
wished that their youthful relations had been inimical, not friendly.
We left the pub in Yarnung at nine, and arrived at our destination
somewhere about two o’clock in the afternoon.
I had waxed quite cheerful, and began to look upon the situation in a
sensible light. It was necessary that I should stand up to the guns of
life at one time or another, and why not now? M’Swat’s might not be so
bad after all. Even if they were dirty, they would surely be willing to
improve if I exercised tact in introducing a few measures. I was not
afraid of work, and would do many things. But all these ideas were
knocked on the head, like a dairyman’s surplus calves, when on entering
Barney’s Gap we descended a rough road to the house, which was built in
a narrow gully between two steep stony hills, which, destitute of
grass, rose like grim walls of rock, imparting a desolate and
prison-like aspect.
Six dogs, two pet lambs, two or three pigs, about twenty fowls, eight
children which seemed a dozen, and Mrs M’Swat bundled out through the
back door at our approach. Those children, not through poverty—M’Swat
made a boast of his substantial banking account—but on account of
ignorance and slatternliness, were the dirtiest urchins I have ever
seen, and were so ragged that those parts of them which should have
been covered were exposed to view. The majority of them had red hair
and wide hanging-open mouths. Mrs M’Swat was a great, fat, ignorant,
pleasant-looking woman, shockingly dirty and untidy. Her tremendous,
flabby, stockingless ankles bulged over her unlaced hobnailed boots;
her dress was torn and unbuttoned at the throat, displaying one of the
dirtiest necks I have seen. It did not seem to worry her that the
infant she hold under her arm like a roll of cloth howled killingly,
while the other little ones clung to her skirts, attempting to hide
their heads in its folds like so many emus. She greeted me with a
smacking kiss, consigned the baby to the charge of the eldest child, a
big girl of fourteen, and seizing upon my trunks as though they were
feather-weight, with heavy clodhopping step disappeared into the house
with them. Returning, she invited me to enter, and following in her
wake, I was followed by the children through the dirtiest passage into
the dirtiest room, to sit upon the dirtiest chair, to gaze upon the
other dirtiest furniture of which I have ever heard. One wild horrified
glance at the dirt, squalor, and total benightedness that met me on
every side, and I trembled in every limb with suppressed emotion and
the frantic longing to get back to Caddagat which possessed me. One
instant showed me that I could never, never live here.
“Have ye had yer dinner?” my future mistress inquired in a rough
uncultivated voice. I replied in the negative.
“Sure, ye’ll be dyin’ of hunger; but I’ll have it in a twinklin’.”
She threw a crumpled and disgustingly filthy cloth three-cornered ways
on to the dusty table and clapped thereon a couple of dirty knives and
forks, a pair of cracked plates, two poley cups and chipped saucers.
Next came a plate of salt meat, red with saltpetre, and another of
dark, dry, sodden bread. She then disappeared to the kitchen to make
the tea, and during her absence two of the little boys commenced to
fight. One clutched the tablecloth, and over went the whole display
with a bang—meat-dish broken, and meat on the dusty floor; while the
cats and fowls, ever on the alert for such occurrences, made the most
of their opportunities. Mrs M’Swat returned carrying the tea, which was
spilling by the way. She gave those boys each a clout on the head which
dispersed them roaring like the proverbial town bull, and alarmed me
for the safety of their ear-drums. I wondered if their mother was aware
of their having ear-drums. She grabbed the meat, and wiping it on her
greasy apron, carried it around in her hand until she found a plate for
it, and by that time the children had collected the other things. A cup
was broken, and another, also a poley, was put in its stead.
Mr M’Swat now appeared, and after taking a nip out of a rum bottle
which he produced from a cupboard in the corner, he invited me to sit
up to dinner.
There was no milk. M’Swat went in entirely for sheep, keeping only a
few cows for domestic purposes: these, on account of the drought, had
been dry for some months. Mrs M’Swat apologized for the lack of sugar,
stating she was quite out of it and had forgotten to send for a fresh
supply.
“You damned fool, to miss such a chance wen I was goin’ to town with
the wagonette! I mightn’t be groin’ in again for munce [months]. But
sugar don’t count much. Them as can’t do without a useless luxury like
that for a spell will never make much of a show at gettin’ on in the
wu-r-r-r-ld,” concluded Mr M’Swat, sententiously.
The children sat in a row and, with mouths open and interest in their
big wondering eyes, gazed at me unwinkingly till I felt I must rush
away somewhere and shriek to relieve the feeling of overstrained
hysteria which was overcoming me. I contained myself sufficiently,
however, to ask if this was all the family.
“All but Peter. Where’s Peter, Mary Ann?”
“He went to the Red Hill to look after some sheep, and won’t be back
till dark.”
“Peter’s growed up,” remarked one little boy, with evident pride in
this member of the family.
“Yes; Peter’s twenty-one, and hes a mustatche and shaves,” said the
eldest girl, in a manner indicating that she expected me to be struck
dumb with surprise.
“She’ll be surprised wen she sees Peter,” said a little girl in an
audible whisper.
Mrs M’Swat vouchsafed the information that three had died between Peter
and Lizer, and this was how the absent son came to be so much older
than his brothers and sisters.
“So you have had twelve children?” I said.
“Yes,” she replied, laughing fatly, as though it were a joke.
“The boys found a bees’ nest in a tree an’ have been robbin’ it the
smornin’,” continued Mrs M’Swat.
“Yes; we have ample exemplification of that,” I responded. It was honey
here and honey there and honey everywhere. It was one of the many
varieties of dirt on the horrible foul-smelling tablecloth. It was on
the floor, the door, the chairs, the children’s heads, and the cups.
Mrs M’Swat remarked contentedly that it always took a couple of days to
wear “off of” things.
After “dinner” I asked for a bottle of ink and some paper, and scrawled
a few lines to grannie and my mother, merely reporting my safe arrival
at my destination. I determined to take time to collect my thoughts
before petitioning for release from Barney’s Gap.
I requested my mistress to show me where I was to sleep, and she
conducted me to a fairly respectable little bedroom, of which I was to
be sole occupant, unless I felt lonely and would like Rose Jane to
sleep with me. I looked at pretty, soft-eyed, dirty little Rose Jane,
and assured her kind-hearted mother I would not be the least lonely, as
the sickening despairing loneliness which filled my heart was not of a
nature to be cured by having as a bedmate a frowzy wild child.
Upon being left alone I barred my door and threw myself on the bed to
cry—weep wild hot tears that scalded my cheeks, and sobs that shook my
whole frame and gave me a violent pain in the head.
Oh, how coarse and grating were the sounds to be heard around me! Lack,
nay, not lack, but utter freedom from the first instincts of
cultivation, was to be heard even in the great heavy footfalls and the
rasping sharp voices which fell on my ears. So different had I been
listening in a room at Caddagat to my grannie’s brisk pleasant voice,
or to my aunt Helen’s low refined accents; and I am such a one to see
and feel these differences.
However, I pulled together in a little while, and called myself a fool
for crying. I would write to grannie and mother explaining matters, and
I felt sure they would heed me, as they had no idea what the place was
like. I would have only a little while to wait patiently, then I would
be among all the pleasures of Caddagat again; and how I would revel in
them, more than ever, after a taste of a place like this, for it was
worse than I had imagined it could be, even in the nightmares which had
haunted me concerning it before leaving Caddagat.
The house was of slabs, unlimed, and with very low iron roof, and
having no sign of a tree near it, the heat was unendurable. It was
reflected from the rocks on either side, and concentrated in this spot
like an oven, being 122 degrees in the veranda now. I wondered why
M’Swat had built in such a hole, but it appears it was the nearness of
the point to water which recommended it to his judgment.
With the comforting idea that I would not have long to bear this, I
bathed my eyes, and walked away from the house to try and find a cooler
spot. The children saw me depart but not return, to judge from a
discussion of myself which I heard in the dining-room, which adjoined
my bed-chamber.
Peter came home, and the children clustered around to tell the news.
“Did she come?”
“Yes.”
“Wot’s she like?”
“Oh, a rale little bit of a thing, not as big as Lizer!
“And, Peter, she hes teeny little hands, as wite as snow, like that
woman in the picter ma got off of the tea.”
“Yes, Peter,” chimed in another voice; “and her feet are that little
that she don’t make no nise wen she walks.”
“It ain’t only becos her feet are little, but cos she’s got them
beautiful shoes like wot’s in picters,” said another.
“Her hair is tied with two great junks of ribbing, one up on her head
an’ another near the bottom; better than that bit er red ribbing wot
Lizer keeps in the box agin the time she might go to town some day.”
“Yes,” said the voice of Mrs M’Swat, “her hair is near to her knees,
and a plait as thick as yer arm; and wen she writ a couple of letters
in a minute, you could scarce see her hand move it was that wonderful
quick; and she uses them big words wot you couldn’t understand without
bein’ eddicated.”
“She has tree brooches, and a necktie better than your best one wots
you keeps to go seeing Susie Duffy in,” and Lizer giggled slyly.
“You shut up about Susie Duffy, or I’ll whack yuz up aside of the ear,”
said Peter angrily.
“She ain’t like ma. She’s fat up here, and goes in like she’d break in
the middle, Peter.”
“Great scissors! she must be a flyer,” said Peter. “I’ll bet she’ll
make you sit up, Jimmy.”
“I’ll make her sit up,” retorted Jimmy, who came next to Lizer.—“She
thinks she’s a toff, but she’s only old Melvyn’s darter, that pa has to
give money to.”
“Peter,” said another, “her face ain’t got them freckles on like yours,
and it ain’t dark like Lizer’s. It’s reel wite, and pinky round here.”
“I bet she won’t make me knuckle down to her, no matter wot colour she
is,” returned Peter, in a surly tone.
No doubt it was this idea which later in the afternoon induced him to
swagger forward to shake hands with me with a flash insolent leer on
his face. I took pains to be especially nice to him, treating him with
deference, and making remarks upon the extreme heat of the weather with
such pleasantness that he was nonplussed, and looked relieved when able
to escape. I smiled to myself, and apprehended no further trouble from
Peter.
The table for tea was set exactly as it had been before, and was
lighted by a couple of tallow candles made from bad fat, and their
odour was such as my jockey travelling companion of the day before
would have described as a tough smell.
“Give us a toon on the peeany,” said Mrs M’Swat after the meal, when
the dishes had been cleared away by Lizer and Rose Jane. The tea and
scraps, of which there was any amount, remained on the floor, to be
picked up by the fowls in the morning.
The children lay on the old sofa and on the chairs, where they always
slept at night until their parents retired, when there was an all-round
bawl as they were wakened and bundled into bed, dirty as they were, and
very often with their clothes on.
I acceded to Mrs M’Swat’s request with alacrity, thinking that while
forced to remain there I would have one comfort, and would spend all my
spare time at the piano. I opened the instrument, brushed a little of
the dust from the keys with my pocket-handkerchief, and struck the
opening chords of Kowalski’s “Marche Hongroise”.
I have heard of pianos sounding like a tin dish, but this was not as
Pleasant as a tin dish by long chalks. Every note that I struck stayed
down not to rise, and when I got them up the jarring, clanging,
discordant clatter they produced beggars description. There was not the
slightest possibility of distinguishing any tune on the thing.
Worthless to begin with, it had stood in the dust, heat, and wind so
long that every sign that it had once made music had deserted it.
I closed it with a feeling of such keen disappointment that I had
difficulty in suppressing tears.
“Won’t it play?” inquired Mr M’Swat.
“No; the keys stay down.”
“Then, Rose Jane, go ye an’ pick ’em up while she tries again.”
I tried again, Rose Jane fishing up the keys as I went along. I
perceived instantly that not one had the least ear for music or idea
what it was; so I beat on the demented piano with both hands, and often
with all fingers at once, and the bigger row I made the better they
liked it.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
To Life—continued
Mr M’Swat very kindly told me I need not begin my duties until Monday
morning, and could rest during Saturday and Sunday. Saturday, which was
sickeningly hot and sultry, and which seemed like an eternity, I spent
in arranging my belongings, brushing the dust from my travelling dress,
and in mending a few articles. Next morning rain started to fall, which
was a great God-send, being the first which had fallen for months, and
the only rain I saw during my residence at Barney’s Gap.
That was a hideous Sabbath. Without a word of remonstrance from their
parents, the children entertained themselves by pushing each other into
the rain, the smaller ones getting the worst of it, until their
clothing was saturated with water. This made them very cold, so they
sat upon the floor and yelled outrageously.
It was the custom of Peter to spend his Sundays in riding about, but
today, being deterred by the rain, he slept some of the time, and made
a muzzle for one of his dogs, between whiles.
From breakfast to the midday meal I shut myself in my bedroom and wrote
letters to my mother and grandmother. I did not rant, rave, or say
anything which I ought not to have said to my elders. I wrote those
letters very coolly and carefully, explaining things just as they were,
and asked grannie to take me back to Caddagat, as I could never endure
life at Barney’s Gap. I told my mother I had written thus, and asked
her if she would not let grannie take me again, would she get me some
other situation? What I did not care, so long as it brought
emancipation from the M’Swat’s. I stamped and addressed these missives,
and put them by till a chance of posting should arise.
Mr M’Swat could read a little by spelling the long words and blundering
over the shorter ones, and he spent the morning and all the afternoon
in perusal of the local paper—the only literature with which Barney’s
Gap was acquainted. There was a long list of the prices of stock and
farm produce in this edition, which perfectly fascinated its reader.
The ecstasy of a man of fine, artistic, mental calibre, when dipping
for the first time into the work of some congenial poet, would be
completely wiped out in comparison to the utter soul-satisfaction of
M’Swat when drinking in the items of that list.
“By damn, pigs was up last Toosday! Thames the things to make prawfit
on,” he would excitedly exclaim; or—“Wheat’s rose a shillun a bushel!
By dad, I must double my crops this year.” When he had plodded to the
end, he started at the beginning again.
His wife sat the whole afternoon in the one place, saying and doing
nothing. I looked for something to read, but the only books in the
house were a Bible, which was never opened, and a diary kept most
religiously by M’Swat. I got permission to read this, and opening it,
saw:
“September
1st. Fine. Wint to boggie creak for a cow.
2nd. Fine. Got the chestnut mair shode.
3rd. Fine. On the jury.
4th. Fine. Tail the lams 60 yeos 52 wethers.
5th. Cloudy. Wint to Duffys.
6th. Fine. Dave Duffy called.
7th. Fine. Roped the red filly.
8th. Showery. Sold the gray mair’s fole.
9th. Fine. Wint to the Red hill after a horse.
10th. Fine, Found tree sheap ded in sqre padick.”
I closed the book and put it up with a sigh. The little record was a
perfect picture of the dull narrow life of its writer. Week after week
that diary went on the same—drearily monotonous account of a drearily
monotonous existence. I felt I would go mad if forced to live such a
life for long.
“Pa has lots of diaries. Would I like to read them?”
They were brought and put before me. I inquired of Mr M’Swat which was
the liveliest time of the year, and being told it was shearing and
threshing, I opened one first in November:
“November 1896
1st. Fine. Started to muster sheap.
2nd. Fine. Counten sheap very dusty 20 short.
3rd. Fine. Started shering. Joe Harris cut his hand bad and wint hoam.
4th. Showery. Shering stoped on account of rane.”
Then I skipped to December:
“December 1896
1st. Fine and hot. Stripped the weet 60 bages.
2nd. Fine. Killed a snake very hot day.
3rd. Fine. Very hot alle had a boagy in the river.
4th. Fine. Got returns of woll 7 1/2 fleece 5 1/4 bellies.
5th. Fine. Awful hot got a serkeler from Tatersal by the poast.
6th. Fine. Saw Joe Harris at Duffys.”
There was no entertainment to be had from the diaries, so I attempted a
conversation with Mrs M’Swat.
“A penny for your thoughts.”
“I wuz jist watchin’ the rain and thinkin’ it would put a couple a bob
a head more on sheep if it keeps on.”
What was I to do to pass the day? I was ever very restless, even in the
midst of full occupation. Uncle Jay-Jay used to accuse me of being in
six places at once, and of being incapable of sitting still for five
minutes consecutively; so it was simply endurance to live that long,
long day—nothing to read, no piano on which to play hymns, too wet to
walk, none with whom to converse, no possibility of sleeping, as in an
endeavour to kill a little of the time I had gone to bed early and got
up late. There was nothing but to sit still, tormented by maddening
regret. I pictured what would be transpiring at Caddagat now; what we
had done this time last week, and so on, till the thing became an agony
to me.
Among my duties before school I was to set the table, make all the
beds, dust and sweep, and “do” the girls’ hair. After school I had to
mend clothes, sew, set the table again, take a turn at nursing the
baby, and on washing-day iron. This sounds a lot, but in reality was
nothing, and did not half occupy my time. Setting the table was a mere
sinecure, as there was nothing much to put on it; and the only ironing
was a few articles outside my own, as Mr M’Swat and Peter did not wear
white shirts, and patronised paper collars. Mrs M’Swat did the washing
and a little scrubbing, also boiled the beef and baked the bread, which
formed our unvaried menu week in and week out. Most peasant mothers
with a family of nine have no time for idleness, but Mrs M’Swat managed
things so that she spent most of the day rolling on her frowsy bed
playing with her dirty infant, which was as fat and good-tempered as
herself.
On Monday morning I marshalled my five scholars (Lizer, aged fourteen;
Jimmy, twelve; Tommy, Sarah, and Rose Jane, younger) in a little back
skillion, which was set apart as a schoolroom and store for flour and
rock-salt. Like all the house, it was built of slabs, which, erected
while green, and on account Of the heat, had shrunk until many of the
cracks were sufficiently wide to insert one’s arm. On Monday—after the
rain—the wind, which disturbed us through them, was piercingly cold,
but as the week advanced summer and drought regained their pitiless
sway, and we were often sunburnt by the rough gusts which filled the
room with such clouds of dust and grit that we were forced to cover our
heads until it passed.
A policeman came on Tuesday to take some returns, and to him I
entrusted the posting of my letters, and then eagerly waited for the
reply which was to give me glorious release.
The nearest post-office was eight miles distant, and thither Jimmy was
dispatched on horseback twice a week. With trembling expectancy every
mail-day I watched for the boy’s return down the tortuous track to the
house, but it was always, “No letters for the school-missus.”
A week, a fortnight, dragged away. Oh, the slow horror of those
never-ending days! At the end of three weeks Mr M’Swat went to the post
unknown to me, and surprised me with a couple of letters. They bore the
handwriting of my mother and grandmother—what I had been wildly waiting
for,—and now that they had come at last I had not the nerve to open
them while any one was observing me. All day I carried them in my bosom
till my work was done, when I shut myself in my room and tore the
envelopes open to read first my grannie’s letter, which contained two:
My dear child,
I have been a long time answering your letter on account of waiting to
consult your mother. I was willing to take you back, but your mother is
not agreeable, so I cannot interfere between you. I enclose your
mother’s letter, so you can see how I stand in the matter. Try and do
good where you are. We cannot get what we would like in this world, and
must bow to God’s will. He will always, &c.