Laura forgave her the past two hours. "Yes, quite, thank you," she
answered.
They went down the asphalted path and through the garden-gate, and
turned to walk townwards. For the first time since her arrival Laura
was free again--a prisoner at large. Round them stretched the broad
white streets of East Melbourne; at their side was the thick, exotic
greenery of the Fitzroy Gardens; on the brow of the hill rose the
massive proportions of the Roman Catholic Cathedral.--Laura could have
danced, as she walked at Marina's side.
After a few queries, however, as to how she liked school and how she
was getting on with her lessons, Marina fell to contemplating a strip
of paper that she held in her hand. Laura gathered that her companion
had combined the task of calling for her with a morning's shopping, and
that she had only worked half through her list of commissions before
arriving at the College. At the next corner they got on to the outside
car of a cable-tramway, and were carried into town. Here Marina entered
a co-operative grocery store, where she was going to give an order for
a quarter's supplies. She was her mother's housekeeper, and had an
incredible knowledge of groceries, as well as a severely practical
mind: she stuck her finger-nail into butter, tasted cheeses off the
blade of a knife, ran her hands through currants, nibbled biscuits,
discussed brands of burgundy and desiccated soups--Laura meanwhile
looking on, from a high, uncomfortable chair, with a somewhat hungry
envy. When everything, down to pepper and salt, had been remembered,
Marina filled in a cheque, and was just about to turn away when she
recollected an affair of some empty cases, which she wished to send
back. Another ten minutes' parley ensued; she had to see the manager,
and was closeted with him in his office, so that by the time they
emerged into the street again a full hour had gone by.
"Getting hungry?" she inquired of Laura.
"A little. But I can wait," answered Laura politely.
"That's right," said Marina, off whose own appetite the edge had no
doubt been taken by her various nibblings. "Now there's only the
chemist."
They rode to another street, entered a druggist's, and the same thing
on a smaller scale was repeated, except that here Marina did no
tasting, but for a stray gelatine or jujube. By the time the shop door
closed behind them, Laura could almost have eaten liquorice powder. It
was two o'clock, and she was faint with hunger.
"We'll be home in plenty of time," said Marina, consulting a neat
watch. "Dinner's not till three today, because of father."
Again a tramway jerked them forward. Some half mile from their
destination, Marina rose.
"We'll get out here. I have to call at the butcher's."
At a quarter to three, it was a very white-faced, exhausted little girl
that followed her companion into the house.
"Well, I guess you'll have a fine healthy appetite for dinner," said
Marina, as she showed her where to hang up her hat and wash her hands.
Godmother was equally optimistic. From the sofa of the morning-room,
where she sat knitting, she said: "Well, YOU'VE had a fine morning's
gadding about I must say! How are you? And how's your dear mother?"
"Quite well, thank you."
Godmother scratched her head with a spare needle, and the attention she
had had for Laura evaporated. "I hope, Marina, you told Graves about
those empty jam-jars he didn't take back last time?"
Marina, without lifting her eyes from a letter she was reading,
returned: "Indeed I didn't. He made such a rumpus about the sugar-boxes
that I thought I'd try to sell them to Petersen instead."
Godmother grunted, but did not question Marina's decision. "And what
news have you from your dear mother?" she asked again, without looking
at Laura--just as she never looked at the stocking she held, but always
over the top of it.
Here, however, the dinner-bell rang, and Laura, spared the task of
giving more superfluous information, followed the two ladies to the
dining-room. The other members of the family were waiting at the table.
Godmother's husband--he was a lawyer--was a morose, black-bearded man
who, for the most part, kept his eyes fixed on his plate. Laura had
heard it said that he and Godmother did not get on well together; she
supposed this meant that they did not care to talk to each other, for
they never exchanged a direct word: if they had to communicate, it was
done by means of a third person. There was the elder daughter,
Georgina, dumpier and still brusquer than Marina, the eldest son, a
bank-clerk who was something of a dandy and did not waste civility on
little girls; and lastly there were two boys, slightly younger than
Laura, black-haired, pug-nosed, pugnacious little creatures, who stood
in awe of their father, and were all the wilder when not under his eye.
Godmother mumbled a blessing; and the soup was eaten in silence.
During the meat course, the bank-clerk complained in extreme
displeasure of the way the laundress had of late dressed his
collars--these were so high that, as Laura was not slow to notice, he
had to look straight down the two sides of his nose to see his
plate--and announced that he would not be home for tea, as he had an
appointment to meet some 'chappies' at five, and in the evening was
going to take a lady friend to Brock's Fireworks. These particulars
were received without comment. As the family plied its pudding-spoons,
Georgina in her turn made a statement.
"Joey's coming to take me driving at four."
It looked as if this remark, too, would founder on the general
indifference. Then Marina said warningly, as if recalling her parent's
thoughts: "Mother!"
Awakened, Godmother jerked out: "Indeed and I hope if you go you'll
take the boys with you!"
"Indeed and I don't see why we should!"
"Very well, then, you'll stop at home. If Joey doesn't choose to come
to the point-----"
"Now hold your tongue, mother!"
"I'll do nothing of the sort."
"Crikey!" said the younger boy, Erwin, in a low voice. "Joey's got to
take us riding."
"If you and Joey can't get yourselves properly engaged," snapped
Godmother, "then you shan't go driving without the boys, and that's the
end of it."
Like dogs barking at one another, thought Laura, listening to the
loveless bandying of words--she was unused to the snappishness of the
Irish manner, which sounds so much worse than it is meant to be: and
she was chilled anew by it when, over the telephone, she heard Georgy
holding a heated conversation with Joey.
He was a fat young man, with hanging cheeks, small eyes, and a lazy,
lopsided walk.
"Hello--here's a little girl! What's HER name?--Say, this kiddy can
come along too."
As it had leaked out that Marina's afternoon would be spent between the
shelves of her storeroom, preparing for the incoming goods, Laura
gratefully accepted the offer.
They drove to Marlborough Tower. With their backs to the horse sat the
two boys, mercilessly alert for any display of fondness on the part of
the lovers; sat Laura, with her straight, inquisitive black eyes. Hence
Joey and Georgy were silent, since, except to declare their feelings,
they had nothing to say to each other.
The Tower reached, the mare was hitched up and the ascent of the light
wooden erection began. It was a blowy day.
"Boys first!" commanded Joey. "Cos o' the petticuts."--His speech was
as lazy as his walk.
He himself led the way, followed by Erwin and Marmaduke, and Laura, at
Georgy's bidding, went next. She clasped her bits of skirts anxiously
to her knees, for she was just as averse to the frills and flounces
that lay beneath being seen by Georgy, as by any of the male members of
the party. Georgy came last, and, though no one was below her, so
tightly wound about was she that she could hardly advance her legs from
one step to another. Joey looked approval; but the boys sniggered, and
kept it up till Georgy, having gained the platform, threatened them
with a "clout on the head".
On the return journey a dispute arose between the lovers: it related to
the shortest road home, waxed hot, and was rapidly taking on the
dimensions of a quarrel, when the piebald mare shied at a
traction-engine and tried to bolt. Joey gripped the reins, and passed
his free arm round Georgy's waist.
"Don't be frightened, darling."
Though the low chaise rocked from side to side and there seemed a
likelihood of it capsizing, the two boys squirmed with laughter, and
dealt out sundry nudges, kicks and pokes, all of which were received by
Laura, sitting between them. She herself turned red--with
embarrassment. At the same time she wondered why Joey should believe
George was afraid; there was no sign of it in Georgy's manner; she sat
stolid and unmoved. Besides she, Laura, was only a little girl, and
felt no fear.--She also asked herself why Joey should suddenly grow
concerned about Georgy, when, a moment before, they had been so rude to
each other.--These were interesting speculations, and, the chaise
having ceased to sway, Laura grew meditative.
In the evening Godmother had a visitor, and Laura sat in a low chair,
listening to the ladies' talk. It was dull work: for, much as she liked
to consider herself "almost grown up", she yet detested the
conversation of "real grown-ups" with a child's heartiness. She was
glad when nine o'clock struck and Marina, lighting a candle, told her
to go to bed.
The next day was Sunday. Between breakfast and church-time yawned two
long hours. Georgy went to a Bible-class; Marina was busy with orders
for the dinner.
It was a bookless house--like most Australian houses of its kind: in
Marina's bedroom alone stood a small bookcase containing school and
Sunday school prizes. Laura was very fond of reading, and as she
dressed that morning had cast longing looks at these volumes, had
evenly shyly fingered the glass doors. But they were locked. Breakfast
over, she approached Marina on the subject. The latter produced the
key, but only after some haggling, for her idea of books was to keep
the gilt on their covers untarnished.
"Well, at any rate it must be a Sunday book," she said ungraciously.
She drew out THE GIANT CITIES OF BASHAN AND SYRIA'S HOLY PLACES, and
with this Laura retired to the drawing-room, where Godmother was
already settled for the day, with a suitable magazine. When the bells
began to clang the young people, primly hatted, their prayer-books in
their hands, walked to the neighbouring church. There Laura sat once
more between the boys, Marina and Georgy stationed like sentinels at
the ends of the pew, ready to pounce down on their brothers if
necessary, to confiscate animals and eatables, or to rap impish
knuckles with a Bible. It was a spacious church; the pew was in a side
aisle; one could see neither reading-desk nor pulpit; and the words of
the sermon seemed to come from a great way off.
After dinner, Laura and the boys were dispatched to the garden, to
stroll about in Sunday fashion. Here no elder person being present, the
natural feelings of the trio came out: the distaste of a quiet little
girl for rough boys and their pranks; the resentful indignation of the
boys at having their steps dogged by a sneak and a tell-tale. As soon
as they had rounded the tennis-court and were out of sight of the
house, Erwin and Marmaduke clambered over the palings and dropped into
the street, vowing a mysterious vengeance on Laura if she went indoors
without them. The child sat down on the edge of the lawn under a
mulberry tree and propped her chin on her hands. She was too timid to
return to the house and brave things out; she was also afraid of some
one coming into the garden and finding her alone, and of her then being
forced to "tell"; for most of all she feared the boys, and their vague,
rude threats. So she sat and waited ... and waited. The shadows on the
grass changed their shapes before her eyes; distant chapel-bells
tinkled their quarter of an hour and were still again; the blighting
torpor of a Sunday afternoon lay over the world. Would to-morrow ever
come? She counted on her fingers the hours that had still to crawl by
before she could get back to school--counted twice over to be sure of
them--and all but yawned her head off, with ennui. But time passed, and
passed, and nothing happened. She was on the verge of tears, when two
black heads bobbed up above the fence, the boys scrambled over, red and
breathless, and hurried her into tea.
She wakened next morning at daybreak, so eager was she to set out. But
Marina had a hundred and one odd jobs to do before she was ready to
start, and it struck half-past nine as the two of them neared the
College. Child-like, Laura felt no special gratitude for the heavy pot
of mulberry jam Marina bore on her arm; but at sight of the stern,
grey, stone building she could have danced with joy; and on the front
door swinging to behind her, she drew a deep sigh of relief.