PART I.

I

At

Gwylata

Heureux qui comme Ulysse, a fait un beau voyage.

DU BELLAY.

A terrific noise makes me jump from my chair, a confused uproar of

grating wheels, horse-hoofs, the barking of dogs and the cracking of

whips.

“The coach, Jeanne, with your luggage,” says my uncle.

I run to the verandah to see this relic of bygone days.

A true _Diligence_ like those in the engravings of the 18th century,

painted in canary yellow and emerald green, picked out with black and

red.

This funny vehicle is bringing my boxes, containing all I possess

in the world, my favourite books and the presents of my Parisian

school-mates whom I left in tears at the idea of my departure for the

antipodes--“a country of kangaroos and savages, where I would surely be

eaten alive,” they sobbed.

“What a contrast to the ‘Brasier’ motor in which you drove me here

yesterday, uncle,” I exclaim.

“That is Australia, little one, the two extremes. Yesterday a motor,

to-day the old coach which carries letters to far-off bush homes, among

them probably some from the Old World by the Messageries Boat on which

you were a passenger.”

By what strange circumstance does a little Parisienne find herself in

the midst of the Australian bush?

For the very simple reason that my guardian, Mr. Deslandes, is

the happy owner of a big station, Gwylata, on the banks of Lake

Alexandrina, in South Australia. “L’oncle aux millions,” as my

school-mates used to call him, whose arrival in Paris was the signal

for a short but intoxicating whirl of pleasure when the head of the

little orphan was somewhat turned with boxes at the “Opera,” at the

“Comédie Française,” suppers in “chic restaurants,” visits to grands

couturiers, where I found myself the delighted possessor of frocks very

much too smart for a school girl, and one never-to-be-forgotten time--a

delirious fortnight at Cannes and Monte-Carlo.

“Come, come, little girl; breakfast will be quite cold,” calls my

uncle. I glance at my precious luggage, piled up on the verandah, as

the big lumbering vehicle starts noisily on its journey.

Unfortunately, in returning to my seat I indulge in a “pirouette,” to

the intense astonishment of an old servant, who nearly lets fall a tray

as she glares disapprovingly at me.

“Well, Meg, says my uncle; you have come for your mistress’ breakfast.

Has she an appetite this morning?”

Taking up the laden tray, the old woman throws me a spiteful glance,

and mutters between her teeth, “French dancing girl!”

Perhaps it is just as well that my uncle is a trifle deaf, the dear

man, and does not hear the remark.

“Now you have seen the real mistress of Gwylata, Jeannette, ‘Old Meg,’

who directs everything here and holds us in ‘the path of virtue’ with

an iron hand--Meg, your aunt’s faithful maid for thirty years, and

now the right hand of Molly, who has given the reins into her hands

completely.”

“She abuses the confidence”; I say it with conviction.

“Oh, no! Under a thorny exterior there beats a kind and devoted heart.

She would suffer martyrdom herself and sacrifice everybody for Molly,

and, above all, for Hector.”

The Reverend Hector Armstrong is the son of my aunt by a former

marriage, and inherits her religious feeling (for she is awfully pious,

my dear Aunt Molly, I have heard). In charge of the Murray mission, he

has established his headquarters at Gwylata and thrown himself into the

heroic task of saving the souls of the benighted settlers scattered

along the course of the great Australian waterway.

* * * * *

My eighteenth birthday! My aunt has just asked for me. I find her in

the little morning room, where, reclining on a lounge, she passes the

greater part of her days.

After some affectionate inquiries about my comfort, she says:

“I want to give you a black pearl which I have been keeping in trust.

It belonged to your mother, and will have a double interest for you

when you know its history. I have had it attached as a pendant to a

string of pearls of my own, which will look much better on your white

neck than in my casket.”

I open the box which she hands me, and cannot repress an exclamation

of wonder and admiration. In it lies a necklace composed of exquisite

pearls, some white and milky, others gleaming opalesquely in tints

merging from grey to rose.

But the gem of the collection is the pendant--a black pearl as large as

an olive, and perfect in form and lustre.

“Oh, aunt! It is fit for a queen!”

“My dear child,” she resumes with her delicate melancholy smile, “I

have no daughter to wear them. Pearls are feminine, it is said, and

want light, heat and the magnetism of soft, warm flesh, or they lose

their colour and die.”

“Then I’ll wear them every day,” I return, kissing her.

“This black pearl belonged to a Begum,” adds my uncle, who had entered

a few minutes before. “It belongs to you now by right as the descendant

of the Hindoo princess. It is the only souvenir which remained to your

mother of her great ancestress, the Begum Jeanne, wife of Dupleix,

from whom she was so proud to have descended. You are named after her,

Jeanne.”

I take the necklace into my own room, and gaze at it long, thinking of

the woman whose memory has been treasured so carefully in our family.

When quite a child I loved to hear my mother recount the exploits of

the famous Dupleix, his fighting in India, his disappointment and

despair when abandoned by all save the Begum, the intrepid companion,

whose confidence and devotion lightened his darkest hours.

Is this strain of Hindoo blood in my veins responsible for the

anomalies of my character, for the struggle which sometimes ensues

between totally dissimilar qualities of my being? The dreamy

disposition of the Oriental mingled with the vivacity of the

Frenchwoman; the love of light, flowers and perfumes; the desire of

being loved and caressed which made me spend whole hours in my mother’s

lap, the need of devoting myself to someone or something; the keen

suffering I experience when I find myself in a chilly atmosphere of

indifference. Is all this simply atavism, the Indian princess living

again in the Frenchwoman of the twentieth century?

It’s a little soon to express an opinion, but I believe I shall like

this Australian life, all liberty, sunshine and fresh air. How amusing

are its contrasts of primitive simplicity and old-world elegance,

superimposed upon a solid background of English custom! Wherever on

our planet two or three Englishmen have planted their flag, it becomes

immediately a little corner of Old England--the same customs, same

food, same dress despite the differences of climate. In the unconscious

pride underlying the belief that all customs are perfect because they

are English, there is betrayed a certain strength of character and will

which refuses to be influenced by environment. Sometimes it is pushed

to extremes and becomes exceedingly funny.

Last Monday, Daisy, the daughter of the intendant--manager, as he is

termed here--took me to Wellington in her dog-cart, a smart little

turnout which she drives in dashing style. (I shall certainly have to

learn to ride and drive.)

We had to make purchases at the “Store,” where everything is stocked,

from a morsel of cheese to a flamboyant hat.

On the road, I remarked a cottage where the wife was doing the family

washing, hanging the clothes on ropes suspended between gum trees,

which apparently serve many purposes. A little further on was another

cottage and another washing display. Arrived in the township we saw

every back yard decorated with sheets, shirts and various small things,

white, blue and red, waving gracefully at the will of the summer wind.

“What a coincidence!” I murmured, wonderingly, to Daisy.

“But,” said she, quite simply, “it’s Monday, isn’t it?”

“You don’t mean that Monday is dedicated to washing as Sunday to rest?”

“Certainly. There would be a fine to-do with the servants if a mistress

wanted them to wash on any other day. She would be regarded as

eccentric and suspected of all sorts of misdemeanours.”

I could not help laughing at the idea of all the clean linen of

Australia hanging on the line at the same hour of the same day

throughout the Continent.

“If the inhabitants of Mars could see us, Daisy, this sudden white

blossoming might well puzzle them. I am sure that a Martian savant

ere this has discovered the cause, and explained it as a ceremony

celebrated in honour of our satellite.”

Despite my laughter, there remained at the back of my consciousness a

certain admiration for the sentiment of order and voluntary submission

to established custom--the only domination these independent people

will acknowledge.

II

The

Reverend

Hector

Qu’on vante en lui la foi, l’honneur, la probité

Qu’on prise sa candeur et sa civilité

Qu’il soit doux, complaisant, officieux, sincère,

On le veut, j’y souscris....

BOILEAU.

Oh, dear! How well I understand the feelings of the Athenian who voted

for the banishment of Aristides. The poor man was so tired of hearing

him called “The Just” that he must have welcomed this means of getting

rid of him.

Not that I wish to exile the Reverend Hector.

For one thing, it would not be of any use. Absence does not stop the

everlasting pæan of praise, for as it is, he is scarcely ever at home.

He has not returned from the mission station since my arrival,

consequently I know him only by reputation.

But what a reputation!

From my aunt I can understand it.

She is his mother.

From Meg, too, who assumes a beatified expression when his name is

mentioned. She is his old nurse.

She actually _smiled_ this morning--I underline the word three

times--when Mrs. Deslandes told her to prepare her son’s room.

He is coming to spend Sunday here at the station.

But why should my uncle join in the daily litany of the Saint of

Gwylata? or Mac, the old boundary-rider, who is teaching me to ride,

and who, by way of encouragement I suppose, recounts the perilous

equestrian feats of “Master Hector.”

He has all the talents, it seems--this young man--secular, as well as

ecclesiastical.

The dining-room is decorated with trophies won at Oxford, either in

sport or scholarship. He is a clergyman of the new school of muscular

Christianity, and believes in developing the bodies of his parishioners

equally with their souls.

Twenty times a day I hear: “Hector says this--. Hector does that--.

Hector will teach you all about the English Poets, he is so well-read.”

It certainly is a fact that I am woefully ignorant of English

literature. I really couldn’t say whether Chaucer and Shelley were

contemporaries or not. I have a vague idea of Tennyson and Longfellow

because we used to read them at the Lycee. I except Shakespeare; of

course _he_ is universal, like our Moliére.

To return to our paragon of perfection. Let me whisper the astounding

truth: The name of the Reverend Hector is getting on my nerves.

I long to go and shout this phrase to the reeds on the lake.... But it

is really too horrid to venture forth--108 degrees in the shade, _in

the shade, mind_. Imagine it, and tell me if the effort would not be

altogether too violent for the state of limpness and deliquescence to

which the temperature has reduced me.

As an alternative, I take my water-colours and begin a fancy sketch of

the much-lauded hero. I can’t get any help from the photograph in my

aunt’s bedroom, taken when he was five years old.

My colouring is a bit crude, especially in the hair, where the soft

Venetian red runs to the unmistakable hue of carrots.... Still, I

am not altogether unsatisfied with my maiden effort in the art of

portraiture.

I have never before felt the least inclination to devote my energies to

the “Arts d’Agréments,” as we call them in France--“agrément?” For whom

is the “pleasure?”

For the unhappy victim condemned to torture a long-suffering piano for

four solid hours a day, or spoil nice clean white paper and canvas?

“Oh’que c’est beau la toile blanche,” as one of our decadent poets

remarked when returning from the Salon. Perhaps the “pleasure” is for

those still greater unfortunates who have to admire the works of the

embryo artist, or listen to the exercises of the future Paderewski.

“Arts d’ Agréments” indeed! Truly language was given to man to conceal

his thoughts!

During these profound reflections the portrait is completed. The

long Roman nose indicates firmness of will (I have exaggerated the

length a little). The eyes, turned heavenward--only the whites are

visible--betray his angelic soul. The long legs clad in riding breeches

and gaiters suggest his equestrian prowess, and a tiny, tiny bishop’s

apron hints at the recompense due to his saintly and evangelical

virtues.

In one hand he waves triumphantly a Bible, in the other a tennis racket.

Only two hands! How unfortunate! I want several (like a Hindoo God) to

symbolise his many attributes.

Now let me add two little wings, and around his neck a chaplet of

hearts on which to inscribe the names of his admirers--just a wee one

to be left blank for mine.

While I contemplate this charming production of budding genius, Mr.

Deslandes enters my little sitting-room, to which he has admission at

all times.

I hand him my masterpiece without a word.

He laughs until the tears run down his cheeks, and wants to carry it

off to show his wife.

“No, no, uncle, I beseech you. She might take it seriously, forgetting

that it’s only a joke. I would not wound her feelings for the world; we

are beginning to get on so nicely together.”

* * * * *

I have found out a way of being useful.

When my aunt is racked with neuralgia, I go and sit with her for an

hour or two. My hand on her forehead soothes the pain.

How strange is that healing force which emanates unconsciously from

some people!

It tires me a little sometimes, but a good walk, or better still, a

ride accompanied by Mac, who won’t trust me alone on horseback yet,

restores me.

They used to tease me at school about what they called my “magnetism,”

which had a soothing effect on the sourest and most crabbed

disposition. A gift not always without drawbacks, for on how many

disagreeable missions was I not sent to placate a furious teacher--the

old Fraulein, especially, who, because she was German, was always on

the look out for slights, and distributed impositions right and left.

To me only did she unbend. Perhaps a fellow-feeling drew us together,

for was not the little orphan an exile from family life as she from

her country?

I have tried to exercise my “powers” on Meg, but so far without

success. The austere daughter of Scottish Puritans cannot stand my

French ways. Even my dresses offend her, so my aunt tells me laughingly.

She cannot understand how a well brought up “young leddy” can come

down to breakfast indecently clad in a “bed-goon,” as she designates

my pretty peignoir of soft surah, trimmed with Valenciennes, a chef

d’oeuvre of Laferrière.

Nevertheless, I am not going to lace myself stiffly all day in this

hot-house sort of temperature just to please her offended prejudice.

Besides, I love loose, flowing draperies, the soft swish of silken

materials, and their graceful billowy folds. (The little Hindoo

Princess peeping out, I suppose.)

But Meg’s antagonism worries me a little. I have as much need of

affection as of air. Dislike, even indifference, causes me real

physical suffering.

* * * * *

Every day I mount “Jenny,” a knowing old mare, who permits herself no

liberties with my inexperience.

My riding-master is old Mac--MacMahon--to give him his rightful

cognomen. Is he a distant cousin of the famous “Maréchal,” I wonder?

The bush conceals many family secrets in its bosom.

Mac was once a boundary-rider, as those men are termed who pass their

lives in the saddle, inspecting paddocks and runs, recovering strayed

stock, and keeping the station generally in order. Too enfeebled by

age--and whisky--to be of any great use now, my uncle, in the kindness

of his heart, keeps him on without any defined duties. He still rides

marvellously, and in lesson hours his bearing is most rigidly correct

towards his “Miss Mam’selle,” as he calls me. Mademoiselle quite alone

strikes him as too familiar.

It is one of my greatest delights to get him to talk during our rides.

He is a perfect mine of information on the early days of the colony,

the goldfields of Victoria, and the bush-rangers.

Under the seal of secrecy, he has actually confessed that he himself

belonged to the famous Kelly Gang; and he calmly relates the most

blood-curdling yarns of pillage of stations, banks held up, and furious

rides to escape capture.

Sometimes I rather suspect him of imposing on my credulity--“pulling

my leg,” as I heard one of the station hands say one day. Of course

that is “slang,” and I must not use such naughty expressions; but

Australian slang has for me a great fascination. There is always a

decided twinkle in Mac’s small, shrewd blue eyes as he piles horror on

horrors. It amuses us both, and I respond by marvellous stories of the

Old World, which he left when a child, and still dreams of seeing again.

Mac knows also many of the legends of the black tribes, and when he

has sufficiently scared me with the exploits of Captain Starlight, he

relates the legend of the Pleiades--Mea-Mei--in the aboriginal tongue,

and stories about the Bunyip, which are told to the picaninnies to make

them good.

III

The

Dream

Notre âme lorsque le corps dort ... reçoit participation insigne de sa

prime et divine origine et en contemplation de cette infinie sphère

à laquelle rien n’advient, rien ne passe, rien ne déchet, tous temps

sont présens, note non seulement les choses passées en mouvemens

inférieurs, mais aussi les futures.

RABELAIS (Pantagruel liv. ii. ch. xiii.).

I have had a strange dream wherein, by a sort of dual personality,

I beheld myself smaller and slimmer. My hands and feet were adorned

with heavy jewels. Rose-coloured silken draperies were wound round my

supple body. Precious gems gleamed on my brow and neck. Reclining upon

cushions in a room of white marble, I was gazing through a wide archway

which gave on to a colonnade. Tall palms bent their sombre tufted heads

and plantains waved their pale green leaves in the breeze. Birds of

brilliant plumage hovered over flowers of dazzling splendour. Ideas,

new to me, but which I felt were of remote antiquity, surged through

my brain, the mentality of which seemed extraordinarily increased. I

was expecting some one. The violence of my feelings frightened me.

Passionate and eager, my heart was yet full of anguish, even horror.

A man entered the room, clad in rich draperies of silk and velvet,

embroidered with gold, a turban fastened with a diamond aigrette

covered his black hair.

Dismissing the women around me with a slight gesture, he threw himself

at my feet.

His musical, softly-cadenced voice murmured words which only my other

self understood. I felt for him the fear mingled with the attraction

and admiration that one feels for a beautiful tiger, or for one of

those glittering jewelled snakes of India.

He drew from his bosom a necklace of black pearls and clasped it around

my neck. His eyes, with their pupils dilated, were fixed upon me like

those of a bird of prey.

Trembling and fascinated, I swayed towards him, when a man with

clear-cut, ascetic features stood between us. The loose sleeve of his

monk’s habit fell back as he raised a Crucifix menacingly towards us. I

made a brusque movement to separate the two men, and awoke.

My hand was clenched convulsively on the Begum’s black pearl, and the

unclasped necklace hung over the edge of the bed.

Next morning I recounted the dream to my uncle, who listened

attentively.

“It is really very curious, Jeanne, because that particular pearl

once belonged to the wife of a Rajah. Widowed early, and converted to

Christianity by one of our missionaries, she took refuge in a convent

at Madras, in order to escape the unwelcome attentions of her husband’s

successor. The story goes that she had not always been thus obdurate

to his advances, but yielding to the thought of the dishonour attached

to a wife faithless to her husband’s memory--there are no ‘Merry

Widows’ in India--she fled one day, taking her daughter with her.”

[Illustration: HECTOR “HORSEBREAKING.”]

“What did the new Rajah do?”

“Nothing. He dared not brave the religious prejudices of his people.”

“And what became of the child?”

“She remained with her mother at the convent, and was brought up in

the Christian faith. Later on she married a French doctor and became

the mother of Jeanne, who afterwards married our great Dupleix. Don’t

you remember how, profiting by her relationship with certain Hindoo

Princes, Jeanne procured some important alliances for her husband to

the benefit of French rule in India?”

“I remember. And didn’t she sell her jewels to help pay his army when

funds did not arrive from France?”

“Yes. Louis XV. preferred to lavish money on his favourites rather

than pay the soldiers who fought for him. However, the Begum kept a

few pearls of the necklace so famous throughout India, and they were

divided between her descendants and kept as precious heirlooms.”

“Then, this black pearl of mine----”

“Is one of them. And the Hindoo Princess of the dream was probably your

ancestress.”

“No, uncle, not an ancestress; for she was really--I--I can’t explain.

It is too subtle, but I can feel it.”

My uncle laughs.

“The apostles of re-incarnation, that old doctrine, so much in vogue

just now, would say that the Princess of Mysore has re-incarnated in my

little Jeannette. That would explain,” placing his hand affectionately

on my shoulder, “the big velvety eyes and exotic grace of our dear

little girl.”

I kiss him to stop further utterance.

“But, dear uncle, who then----”

I stop short, blushing and finishing the sentence in my thoughts

only--“Who, then, is the Rajah?”

Happily, my uncle attributes my flushed cheeks to his compliment.

IV

Cousins

On s’approche, on sourit, la main touche la main.

MUSSET.

The Reverend Hector has arrived. Like Caesar (Caesar or Hector, it is

all one), he has conquered and attached me to his chariot.

How was the conquest made? Very simply! After dinner I went on the

verandah overlooking the lake to wait for the moonrise, and also to let

my aunt receive her son whom Mac has driven from Wellington.

I never tire of this Australian landscape by moonlight. Grey and

monotonous in the crude sunlight, it becomes, under the witchery of the

moon, poetic, even majestic. The gigantic trees, with their twisted

branches and gnarled trunks detached against the sombre background of

sapphire, recall the weird eerie effects of Gustave Doré.

A man’s voice, with musical tones in it, startles me from my dreamy

contemplation.

“I see,” says the Rev. Hector, for it is he, “that we share a common

taste--a love for our beautiful Australian nights.”

“Nature is closer to us here, and penetrates us more deeply with her

primitive forces.”

“That radiant moon rises on a world of youth and strength. Here

the conventions of the world seem paltry. Will you forget them,

Mademoiselle, and begin as we are sure to end? Since I am your aunt’s

son, will you treat me as a cousin?”

I accept the outstretched hand, and return his friendly clasp. I do not

know, if it is so with every one, but the hand, especially the manner

in which it gives and returns a clasp, is for me a sure index to the

personality of the owner.

My cousin’s grip is hearty, strong, and “sympatica,” as the Italians

say--a word which conveys many shades of meaning too subtle to express.

It inspires me with confidence, and imparts an assurance of devotion,

strength and unswerving loyalty.

“Little cousin,” he resumes, “permit me to say how glad I am to see

you at Gwylata. The house is quite transformed, my mother ten years

younger, and Mac almost a reformed character, thanks to the influence

of his ‘Miss Mam’selle.’”

“Oh, Mac and I are great friends.”

“He’s a grand old fellow, despite his weakness. We understand each

other, Mac and I. He forgives me when I rate him for yielding to his

besetting vice. I am sure the Divine Master will judge him leniently.”

This is the first note which betrays the clergyman; but he speaks very

simply, without a trace of cant.

My uncle’s cheery voice recalls us to the drawing-room, where a bridge

table is set.

“You play cards!” I exclaim, in amazement, turning to the young

minister.

“Yes, why not?” he replies, smilingly. “In the Anglican Church we don’t

look upon them as pictures of the Devil, like certain Pharisaical

sects. If the dangerous element, ‘gambling,’ is eliminated, why deprive

oneself of an innocent recreation?”

Under plea of having some work to finish--a sketch of red gum blossom,

which I want to send off by next mail--I give my place to Hector, and

move to a side table while the players begin their game.

To-night it is not by any means our usual bridge, serious, almost

sacramental in its portentous solemnity, with grave discussions on

every doubtful move.

The Reverend Hector plays a whimsical game, interrupting a “no-trump

hand” to relate a comical anecdote of one of his parishioners, or to

give his mother news of a family in whom she is interested.

Instead of calling him to order, as she would her husband or me, she

listens with indulgent interest.

Bridge is my aunt’s one weakness--the sole diversion which her impaired

health permits. She only leaves her bed for the easy chair which is

wheeled into the verandah or the drawing-room. By the way she thus

neglects her favourite amusement, one may judge of her affection for

her son.

Taking advantage of the renewal of the game, I study Hector at leisure.

Scarcely above the average height, he appears tall, owing to the

perfect symmetry and proportion of his limbs. His sun-tanned face

shows its Scottish fairness only by a line near the roots of the hair.

The firm lines of mouth and chin are apparent at a glance. The former

is rather large, virile and well chiselled, the latter square and

resolute, redeeming what some might consider a certain effeminacy in

the other features. Hector will do what he wants to do, and it will be

difficult to make him change an opinion.

His eyes are strangely attractive, and rivet attention at once--eyes of

child-like candour and trust set in a man’s face--grey, with luminous

blue shadows, “the colour of the Scottish lakes,” as his mother fondly

declares.

It is astonishing to meet in this Murray Missioner a gaze so limpid

and pure, which seems never to have looked upon anything but beauty

and virtue. For the first time I realise the truth of the poetic

inspiration of Catulle Mendes who, in his superb drama, depicts St.

Theresa passing unhurt through the most impious scenes and orgies

of the Witches’ Sabbath. An invincible purity surrounds her. She and

her companions move in an atmosphere which veils from them all unholy

visions.

The game finished, my uncle approaches under pretext of looking at my

gum blossom, and says mischievously: “Well, Jeanette, is your painting

as true to life as the one you did yesterday?”

“You wicked uncle! If you say another word I’ll never kiss you again.”

The threat is effective. He would sorely miss my morning and evening

kisses, given on both cheeks, in good old French fashion.

V

The

Anglican

Service

Quel que soit le peuple et le point de l’histoire, au sein du

paganisme, comme au sein d’Israël et dans les diverses parties du

patrimoine Chrétien, il sera permis à une élite de percevoir le soupir

de l’homme vers le Dieu inconnu et la réponse de ce Dieu.

L. WAGNER.

An eventful morning!

For the first time in my life I am present at an Anglican service. The

ball-room, unused since Mrs. Deslandes’ ill-health, has been improvised

into a chapel.

All the people of the station and the surrounding homesteads are

assembled. The men, for the most part tall, vigorous and sunburnt, look

one in the face as equals, free men in a free land. The women, with

their beautiful hair and eyes, their fresh dainty frocks, are very

sweet and attractive. Generally speaking, they possess more refinement

than the men. One feels that the majority, even the poorest among them,

read and reflect.

Mr. Brown, my uncle’s manager, is in the front row with his wife. Daisy

marshals in the children, looking after them with quite a maternal air.

Her glorious blue eyes flash me a smiling greeting.

The domestics place themselves behind Mrs. Deslandes, who has left her

room early in order to be present at the service conducted by her son.

As I take my place beside her mistress, Meg looks dumbfounded. Daisy

seats herself at the harmonium and the service begins. It is with the

greatest astonishment that I recognise almost all the ritual of the

Mass--the Vestments of the priest, the Crucifix, the flowers, and even

the candles burning on the altar. If it were not that the prayers are

recited in English instead of Latin, I might think myself in a Roman

Catholic Church like those to which I often used to go to hear the

beautiful music.

What would some of our French Protestants say to it all? Rabid

Calvinists, for example?

As for me, too indifferent, perhaps, to attach much importance to

forms, I concentrate my attention on the clergyman.

He is no longer the simple young man who chatted and jested with us

last night. He is a true priest, a hierophant even, accomplishing a

divine mystery. A mystic atmosphere envelops him; an ardent faith

illumines his face; his gestures are majestic. The sermon is scarcely

eloquent, perhaps, but permeated with absolute conviction. Some words

echo strangely in my modern ears, accustomed to the broad-minded

discourses of good “Pasteur Wagner,” the author of “The Simple Life,”

who used to welcome me every Sunday in Paris in his little Oratory.

They were addresses rather than sermons, on Charity, Love, Justice.

Hector speaks of Predestination, of Salvation reserved for the Elect,

the chosen Vessels of Grace. I look curiously at the congregation to

see the effect of this strange doctrine. Nobody seems restive.

My aunt follows with eyes and heart the utterances of the preacher,

whose face is animated with an expression almost fanatic in its

intensity. Meg listens with unction. It is quite clear she counts

herself among the chosen few. For the life of me I cannot help thinking

of Max O’Rell’s story of the woman taken to task for her intolerance.

“Do you think, my good woman, that only you and your husband will be

saved?”

“Nae, nae,” replied the old dame, shaking her head, “I’m na sae sure o’

John.”

Mr. and Mrs. Brown remain to dinner; on service days that has always

been the custom.

I love Daisy more and more. She is youth and freshness incarnate.

The sermon has not made much impression on her. The great problems

of Predestination and Grace glide over her head like water on the

proverbial duck’s back. Her thoughts are busy with the forthcoming ball

at Strathalbyn, when she is to “come out.” Soon we are talking gaily

of ball-dresses, partners and cotillions--things which after all are

natural to youth.

* * * * *

Miracle of miracles! Meg has brought me a cup of tea, that delightful

morning tea which puts one in a good temper for the rest of the day.

After fidgetting about for some minutes she says:

“Well, Miss Joan (it is thus she gives my name a Scottish flavour) I

was surprised to see ye at the sairvice yester morn. Then it’s nae true

ye’re a Papist?”

“Certainly not, Meg. What put that notion into your head?”

“For sure, Miss, I thocht that all Frenchies were Papists.”

“What about my uncle, then?”

“Indeed, for all the religion the maister has, he micht be a pagan.”

It is true, my dear uncle is much more interested in his sheep than in

church services. But never mind, “le Bon Dieu” will keep a place for

him in His Paradise.

Meg continues: “Hoo is it, then, Miss Joan, that you belong to the true

Church?”

I cannot suppress a smile. Whatever one’s particular creed may be, it

is always that of the only true Church.

I explain that there are many Protestants in France, Calvinists

especially.

Meg can scarcely credit her ears, and despite all my protestations,

will not believe that _John_ Calvin, as she calls him, was a Frenchman.

That is quite beyond her.

[Illustration: THE HUNT.]

Only out of deference does she finally submit, inwardly sure that if

he _did happen_ to be born at Noyon, in France, it was only through an

evil chance. He ought to have been a SCOT at any rate.

She leaves the room muttering: “John Calvin a Frenchy! It’s nae

posseeble.”

VI

The

Hunt

Club

Ball

And I knew the old, old vision--

Him with the sorrowful eyes

(pain, unrelenting pain),

With the distant piercing unapproachable eyes.

I knew.

E. CARPENTES.

My uncle and I are spending two or three days at Strathalbyn, that

coquettish little township nestling among the hills. Once a year the

members of the Hunt Club meet here and Mr. Deslandes, an excellent

horseman in spite of his advanced years, never fails to be present at

this great sporting event.

I am still too much of a novice in the equestrian art to do other than

venture the mild excitement of following the hounds in a carriage.

Truth to tell, the ball interests me much more than the hunt. Sir

Arthur and Lady Fairfax of The Grange, are old friends of my uncle,

and welcome me cordially. He is tall, broad-shouldered, and vigorous;

a splendid type of the “gentilhomme-fermier,” or English Squire.

She is small, fair, fragile, whom a breath might break. Their two

daughters are a striking example of race evolution, tall, well-made,

and passionately fond of outdoor amusements, riding, golf and tennis.

Withal, they are charming, and devotedly attached to the delicate and

frail little mother, whom they “protect” most affectionately. Their

simple friendliness puts me at ease at once.

Immediately after dinner they conduct me to my room, adjoining theirs,

and as a lady’s maid is an almost unknown luxury in Australia, we

assist each other to dress. They are keenly interested in my toilette,

as their mother, in my aunt’s absence, is going to chaperon me.

I must confess to a certain thrill as I don my first ball-dress, a

“symphony” in pink, to the great consternation of my new friends, who

declare that according to all precedent it should be white.

However, who is to know that it is my first ball? The dress is

exquisite, a creation of Paquin, and the soft rosy hue of the silk will

enhance the beauty of my pearl necklace.

The ball is held in the Institute, where all the functions of the

township take place--balls, concerts, political and other meetings.

The huntsmen wear their red coats, which gleam vividly among the light

dresses of the women. Everybody knows my uncle, and we have no lack of

partners. The attraction of novelty draws them, I think.

My first ball! Is it necessary to say more? The conversation, however,

can scarcely be termed brilliant. Every partner asks me in turn how I

like Australia, and, as I have to confess complete ignorance of horses

and sport, the talk turns on Paris, of which almost all know something.

The voyage “home,” including a fortnight’s whirl through Paris or the

Riviera, is so simple nowadays that the wealthier class make it several

times. But their Paris is not mine. Mine is that of Art, Literature and

Learning; theirs, I am sadly afraid, is the gay city of the Boulevards,

the races, the “Petits Theatres.” However, we meet on common ground

over public edifices and monuments, which they know better than I.

Whirling around to the inspiriting music, I suddenly become conscious

of a man’s gaze fixed upon me steadily, insistently. There is something

strangely agitating in its intensity. Passionate, yet tender, evoking

a shadowy, dim remembrance of forgotten things, it allures even while

it repels me. Against my will I feel compelled to turn towards him.

My pleasure is almost spoilt, for each time we pass the silent figure

I experience the half-sweet, half-painful sensation produced by an

intoxicating and enervating perfume.

I have seen those eyes before; but where, where, where?

Pleading fatigue, I resume my seat beside Lady Fairfax. Talking to

her, I watch the groups of dancers. Daisy is as happy as a bird. Her

companions, with whom she has grown up, treat her as a young sister.

One of them, Dick Power, cashier in the bank, evinces, it seems to

me, a more than fraternal interest. He dances with her as often as

etiquette will allow, and when he cannot he is generally hovering

somewhere in her vicinity.

Amused by their little by-play, my uncle’s voice makes me start.

“Jeanne, let me introduce Mr. Allan Russell.”

The man with the mysterious eyes is standing before me. Mr. Russell

bows, and since I do not wish to dance, asks me to sit out with him. I

cannot refuse; it would betray the impression he has made upon me.

His voice is deep, mellow and sympathetic. The conversation turns upon

France, which he loves and knows well, for he goes there every year

for the Salon and the Grand Prix, staying two or three months. He has

met many of our artists and authors, and in discussing them, my first

impression is forgotten.

The minutes slip by. Dick, who is to take me to supper, comes hurrying

up. Promising my companion the first extra waltz, I take Dick’s arm.

Dick Power is just a big boy, with the soft, friendly eyes of a

Newfoundland dog. He will make Daisy happy, I am sure. There will be

nothing dramatic or morbid in the well-ordered course of their simple

love. He makes no attempt to conceal his feelings.

“Isn’t she a jolly girl?” he murmurs, as we cross the room to join

Daisy and her cavalier.

To the manifest content of two of our party of four, an immediate

change of partners is effected. My gaiety has returned. I cannot

repress my laughter at the jests and sallies of my companions. My

uncle, seated at the large table among the more staid guests, raises

his eyebrows at me occasionally when our merriment threatens to become

boisterous, but at heart the dear old man is delighted that I am

enjoying myself so well.

The tuning of the violins is the signal for our return to the

ball-room. Mr. Russell is waiting at the door and claims me for his

waltz.

I have danced much this evening, and with good dancers, but I realise

that up to this moment I have never known what a waltz could be. Our

feet move in perfect unison. One spirit animates our two bodies, which

sway in the same harmonious motion. I feel my partner’s gaze becoming

more and more insistent, his eyes plunge into mine, seeming to seek the

inmost depths of my being. An invincible languor seizes me, my head

begins to swim....

By an immense effort of will I pull myself together.... I have only the

strength to murmur, “Please stop, the heat oppresses me.”

Conducting me to a little seat concealed by trailing festoons of

foliage, he leaves me a moment to get the glass of water I ask for.

His short absence enables me to regain mastery over my feelings, and to

analyse the bewildering sensations I have just experienced.

“Who is this man, an utter stranger an hour ago, whose gaze stirs my

pulses, rousing latent forces and strangely elusive memories? Ah! my

dream! I remember the eyes now. They are those of the Rajah. Have I

been foolish enough to be influenced by a chance resemblance to a

phantom of sleep?”

When Mr. Russell returns I am sufficiently composed to thank him and

speak lightly of my giddiness, which I attribute to the heat and the

scent of the flowers, by now rather pervasive.

Happily the guests are beginning to leave. My uncle is looking for me,

and Mr. Russell accompanies us to the motor, which is to take us back

to The Grange. The touch of his hand at parting sends the blood racing

swiftly through my veins.

About ten next morning the huntsmen assemble at The Grange for the

take-off. With them are four or five well-mounted ladies, including the

daughters of our host, and all the young men from the outlying farms

and country side on their best steeds. Few Australians are too poor not

to possess an animal that can _go_ or jump.

The signal given, the hounds are unleashed and the hunt begins. Lady

Fairfax and I are driving with some of the other guests. I am far too

ignorant of sport to understand much of the procedure, and ply my

companions with questions.

“The fox? Oh, the ‘fox’ is a bit of rag dipped in some evil-smelling

fluid, and dragged over the course previously to furnish the scent.”

“Why don’t you import foxes? Surely it would make the hunt more

interesting?”

“Unfortunately, we did, to our cost. They have become a scourge as bad

as the rabbits. You see, they attack the sheep and destroy thousands of

young lambs, eating only their tongues.”

“What gourmets!”

“Quite so. This delicate taste on the part of Mr. Reynard has ruined

several squatters. Sometimes a fox kills thirty or forty lambs in a

single night. And then they multiply at such an alarming rate.”

“They are more prolific than the gondolas of Mr. X.,” laughed a lady.

“The gondolas!” I exclaim, opening my eyes in amazement.

“Oh! haven’t you heard that story yet? It is generally aired for the

benefit of ‘new chums.’ It dates back from the time when the municipal

affairs of a great gold-mining centre were transacted by rough miners

more remarkable for their energy than their culture.”

“You make me curious.”

“Well, one of them, you see, had travelled a little and developed a

romantic turn of mind. He proposed to import a dozen gondolas for the

lake in course of construction.”

“They would liven up the landscape,” he urged. Another alderman rose,

and after some words expressive of his love for the town and his desire

to spare nothing that would enable it to rival the great European

cities he added:

“Why this unnecessary expense? Wouldn’t it be sufficient to import a

couple or two. In our prolific climate we should soon have the dozen

which my honourable colleague desires.”

I laugh merrily at the anecdote.

The huntsmen are coming towards us at full gallop, clearing the fences

in gallant style. The interest of this exciting steeple-chase is

centred in the manner in which rider and horse negotiate each obstacle,

generally in a dual capacity, but sometimes quite independently.

Lady Fairfax covers her eyes as her daughters rise to the fence like

two little amazons. How comes it that this sweet, gentle dove is the

mother of these fearless eaglets?

Mr. Russell is mounted on a magnificent black. Rider and horse are

one like a centaur. In the excitement of the chase, he passes without

seeing me, and I feel, I don’t know why, a little hurt.

“Look at Allan Russell,” remarks a lady. “Doesn’t he look splendid on

horseback!”

“Yes; he sits like an Englishman, more correctly than our young people.”

“It would be much better if the ‘correctness’ were in his conduct

rather than in his riding,” retorts the first lady, resenting even this

slight criticism of her countrymen.

“Why? Is there anything amiss with it?”

“Much. In the first place, he seems to care far too little for his own

wife whom one never sees, and far too much for the wives of others.”

So, he is married, then! I am surprised and vaguely troubled.

Certainly it is not love I feel for this man. It is rather a kind of

obsession, a response to the appeal in his eyes which awakens something

obscure, half forgotten.

Well, I am warned now, at any rate. He has a wife. And his eloquent

glances mean only a passing flirtation.

After the hunt-luncheon, at which the women only appear for the

speeches and toasts, my uncle and I start for Gwylata, taking with us

Daisy, who can scarcely tear herself from her beloved Dick.

With a detached air, well-assumed I hope, I listen to Allan Russell’s

parting words:

“This is not to be good-bye, Mademoiselle. Mr. Deslandes has kindly

asked me to spend a day at Gwylata; so in a little while, I hope to

meet you again.”

VII

Bahloo

I see the stalwart aborigines straying naked through the primal

woods, light-footed amid the grass. I hear their powerful cries and

calls to each other, resounding from cliffs and gullies.

E. CARPENTES.

Bahloo is the little black boy of whom my aunt has taken charge

since the death of his mother, Meamei. He is being brought up at the

aboriginal mission house, which is under the spiritual direction of

Hector, who can thus keep watch on the child’s welfare.

Meamei, the victim, or perhaps the culprit, in a _crime passionel_--the

silence of the bush holds the secret of many such--was one day brought

with her newly-born infant to my uncle’s station in Queensland.

Wounded, and almost dead with hunger, she had dragged herself along

many weary miles. Knowing only a few words of English, she either could

not, or would not, give any information about herself. She seemed to

live in dread of her life.

Some suspicious-looking blacks having been seen loitering near the

station, my uncle had Meamei removed to Gwylata in order to escape the

danger she feared.

Here, she quickly regained her vivacity and light-heartedness. She

learned to gabble English, and soon found a new admirer in the person

of Byanee, a native from the Point McLeay Station.

They were married very soon, the question of Bahloo’s father, alive or

dead, being a moral subtlety not particularly necessary to dwell upon

when dealing with the blacks.

Meamei had been dead several months, and as Bahloo’s stepfather was

inclined to express his paternal obligations more by cuffs than care,

my aunt had taken charge of the little one.

The whole family was interested in the picaninny, and when he fell sick

Mrs. Deslandes wanted to bring him into the house at once. Hector,

however, fearing possible infection, had him taken to MacMahon’s

cottage.

“Mac will make an excellent nurse. When he has a trust reposed in him,

he would die of thirst rather than touch a drop of whisky.”

“Yes,” said my uncle, “and once the responsibility ceases?”...

“Then it will be our turn to look after him.”

“I am thinking, though, what is to become of your riding lessons,

little cousin, if I take away your instructor, unless,” bowing

profoundly, “you will allow me to take his place and ride with you

to-morrow.”

“Certainly, Hector, if you will let me help look after Bahloo.”

“I don’t think you ought to. The symptoms are grave. I am afraid it is

typhoid.”

Then, after a moment’s hesitation, he added, smiling,

“It is scarcely right for me, a clergyman, to dissuade you from doing

a good deed. If you will take proper precautions....”

“Oh! I will be prudence itself. I adore nursing. My dearest dream was

to become a doctor, until uncle vetoed it. You shuddered with horror,

godfather, didn’t you, at the mere thought of having a niece an M.D.?”

He is a little old-fashioned in his notions, the dear man, but I love

him with all my heart, in spite of, perhaps because of, the difference

in our opinions.

This morning, immediately after breakfast, Hector and I go to see

Bahloo.

Mac is waiting for us at the door of his cottage, which consists of one

large room, a small kitchen, and a wide, shady verandah, where one can

lounge luxuriously.

My uncle has housed him very comfortably, that he may have less reason

for yielding to his weakness.

The baby is in Mac’s bed. He himself sleeps on a mattress on the floor.

Little Bahloo is all but unconscious. His black skin looks dull and

lifeless. Only his eyes are large and brilliant with fever.

Poor little pariah! What has he done to be sent into the world?

His tiny body still bears the marks of Byanee’s hand. Hector

understands medicine. In the bush, where doctors are rare, the parson

has often to look after the bodies as well as the souls of his

parishioners.

Does he not thereby follow humbly in the footsteps of the Great Pastor,

who journeyed through Judea healing the afflicted, as he preached the

new Gospel of love and hope?

After arranging the hours when I should relieve Mac in his new duties,

we return to the house.

The horses have been brought round to the verandah, ready for our ride.

In place of my old Jenny, the groom holds my cousin’s horse, Said,

a beautiful animal, the pick of the stable, the best mount in the

country, as Mac has proudly asserted on several occasions.

“Look, Hector, they have made a mistake with the saddles.”

“Said is yours now, Jeanne--that is, if you will accept him. I have

really no time for riding,” he adds, to remove any scruple I may have,

“and it would be a crime not to use such a noble animal, wouldn’t it?”

Said, quite conscious that we are speaking of him, lays his velvety

nose on Hector’s shoulder and whinnies caressingly out of sheer joy.

We begin our ride.

Said is a perfect treasure. When his ardour is too great for my

inexperience, a word from my companion renders him docile and obedient.

My new instructor is much more difficult to please than Mac. Nothing

misses his keen eyes. He has evidently determined to make me a good

horsewoman.

* * * * *

Our little patient is getting better. The attack is a mild one. He is

sleeping now, and to pass the time, I take one of my uncle’s books from

Mac’s shelf. It is the “Life of Father Damien,” by Clifford.

I read the first pages with keenly awakened interest, and when Mac

comes in to relieve me, I carry off the volume.

Comfortably stretched on my cane lounge, I continue its perusal. It is

as fascinating as a romance, this life of the hero of the lepers, so

splendid in its devotion and simplicity.

Hector, whose approach is unheeded, so great is my absorption, bends

over to read the title of the book.

Suddenly he draws himself up, his mobile features contracting.

“Ah! you are reading about Father Damien. I envy him as much as I

admire him.”

“But, Hector, leprosy! That frightful disease of which he died!”

His face grows sombre.

“I would give everything,” dropping his voice, “to become a real

missionary and go to Molokai.”

“It would kill your mother, Hector.”

“After all,” he continues, musingly, “there is a moral leprosy also,

that of indifference and impiety. I can find plenty of opportunities to

fight that.”

I remain silent. I don’t like these burning religious questions.

Feeling that we may clash, the wisest course is to avoid them.

* * * * *

It is an odd thing that Hector, so good to the rough bushmen,

interesting himself in the petty details of their lives, so sweet

and tender to his mother, whom he surrounds with a protecting love,

so considerate towards me, whom he treats as a little sister, should

become cold and stern directly a question of dogma is broached. Is it

an atavistic survival of Puritan times and teaching?

Perhaps it is due to the narrowness of his education. Strange, indeed,

that he, so clear and wide-visioned, so eclectic in all literary

matters, should have read nothing of those great religious writings

outside the pale of orthodoxy!

To-day we have had our first quarrel. It was over Renan’s “Life of

Jesus.” He is greatly astonished that I have been permitted to read it.

“It is a dangerous book, Jeanne, an evil book.”

“How do you know, if you have not read it?” I cannot refrain from

answering, rather hotly.

* * * * *

Since Hector’s departure on mission duty, Meg helps me to look after

our little picaninny. She has installed herself as head nurse, and

it is amusing to see how she marshals MacMahon and myself. In the

twinkling of an eye, she has turned the cottage inside out. It is

so spick and span now that it must feel quite lonely. A huge stack

appeared suddenly in the back yard, composed of the treasured

accumulations of years. Ancient letters, old ragged garments, littered

on the floor or stowed away in cupboards, old broken pipes, odds and

ends of all kinds, were submissively carried out by Mac himself.

At Meg’s stern order he set fire to the pile with his own hands and

stood ruefully watching his treasures disappear in smoke.

I was afraid that such drastic proceedings would offend him. But, no!

To my sympathetic condolences, he replies with a complacent shake of

his head.

“Begorra!” This is his favourite swear word--the only one he permits

himself in my presence. “But she’s a masterful woman, a woman with a

head on her shoulders.”

Oh! what an idea!

Meg and Mac. The two extremes.

But extremes meet, they say. Why not make a match between the two? A

little diplomacy and success will crown my efforts. I will sow the

grain and leave it to time to germinate.

“Meg,” I begin, as she brings me a cup of tea next morning, a duty she

has taken upon herself to show her penitence for having suspected me

of the crime of being a Papist, “Meg, you must have had a good many

sweethearts in your time.”

“What an idea, Miss Joan! Why do you say that?”

“Well, you see, you have an admirer now, Meg.”

“An admirer, Miss! What silly nonsense! Saving your presence, Miss.”

“It’s quite true, Meg, I assure you. He has eyes only for you. But you

are making the poor man desperate by your indifference.”

“This is one of your French jokes, isn’t it, Miss?”

“No, Meg; really, it’s very serious, you know. Do you mean to say that

you have never noticed the effect you have on Mac? Why, the poor man

can scarcely pluck up courage to look you in the face, but when your

back is turned, his eyes follow you everywhere.”

“That good-for-nothing of a Mac! Sure, it’s better for him to look at

me than at his whisky bottle.”

“Cruel Meg! Your disdain will drive him to despair.”

The old dame went off, muttering something about the silly heads that

think of nothing but love and lovers.

In reality, she is not at all displeased. What woman is, even if she be

a septuagenarian, at the thought of having a lover?

“Jeanette, Jeanette!”

My uncle is calling me.

“I have just received a letter from Russell. He will lunch with us

to-morrow, and.... Oh, he sends his compliments and regards to you.

Take care, girlie! Don’t let your heart be touched by this Byronic

hero,” he added, smilingly.

My dear uncle doesn’t know how serious the case is already. In the

privacy of my room, I question myself anxiously.

“What shall I do? Remain and receive Mr. Russell? Fall again under the

charm of his personality? At the bare thought my heart beats quickly.

His sombre eyes seem again to fix mine, compelling me to explore

unknown depths of joy and suffering.”

Unknown? I wonder.

No, no! I will absent myself on some pretext or other. To fly from

danger is sometimes a proof of true courage. Hastily I send off a note

to Daisy, asking her to meet me to-morrow morning. She shall drive me

to Wellington in her dog-cart. When we return late at night all danger

of a meeting will be passed.

Daisy is punctually at the rendezvous.

She is delighted at the chance of going to the township, where Dick’s

Bank is. He will find someone to take his duties for a time so that he

may be our cavalier.

My uncle is surprised and a trifle displeased at our departure. Soon,

however, he regains his good temper. Is he cognizant of Mr. Russell’s

reputation?

At any rate, he doesn’t insist on my remaining, and I leave to him the

task of explaining my absence. Meg will look after Bahloo. It is one of

my aunt’s good days, and she will be able to preside over the luncheon

table. I can go with a clear conscience, and give myself almost without

regret to the pleasure of chatting with Daisy, who is too good a whip

to mind the dual occupation.

What a charming girl Daisy is! Healthy in mind and body, frank,

ingenuous, and bright, she is a true type of Australian girlhood.

Her nature has developed like a beautiful wayside plant in the wide

sunny spaces of Australia.

One must not exact from her artistic or abstract ideals. Born in a

country without a history, she possesses no feeling for the past, no

veneration for the great heroes of the world. But she vibrates to all

the pristine forces of a simple and natural life.

During the drive she opens her heart to me.

Dick and she are engaged. They are too poor to get married yet, but

so soon as he is promoted to the management of a country bank their

parents will help them to start housekeeping.

Naturally, Dick is delighted to see us. With the freedom of this happy

land from rigid conventionality, he takes complete charge of us. We

lunch at the hotel, where the merry repartees of my companions make me

forget the reason of my presence.

Lunch over, we go to the river for a row. The two lovers ply their

oars in unison, exchanging candid glances of love and tenderness as

they discuss their future plans. They consider me as their friend and

confidante. I wonder if one day I also shall come across a man who

will love me simply and purely with a calm, untroubled affection like

theirs, without ecstasy perhaps, but also without shame.

I considerately turn my attention to the river banks, umbrageous with

willows, which the early settlers, the pioneers of the district,

planted there. They have grown to dimensions quite unknown in more

temperate climes. I amuse myself following the friskings and gambols of

quite an aquatic fauna at the water’s edge, wild duck, teal, gracefully

poised cranes, shags, and huge pelicans. Cockatoos, black and white,

fly from tree to tree, uttering their harsh dissonant cries. The clear,

flute-like notes of the magpie pierce the summer air.

“This is a sportsman’s paradise,” remarks Dick, who is nothing if not

practical.

We return to Gwylata by moonlight. Mr. Russell, as I expected, is no

longer there.

“He was very disappointed not to have seen you,” said my aunt. “He

wanted to say good-bye before leaving for Europe, where he intends

spending several months.”

So complex are my feelings that it is half with regret and half with

relief that I learn of his departure, which will put half the globe

between us.

* * * * *

Bahloo has evinced a great fondness for Meg’s society. She is quite

proud of it, and her face relaxes its severity when the funny little

chap strokes her wrinkled cheeks with his tiny hands. This afternoon

she has dressed him for his first outing since his illness. With what

an air of importance she carries him in her arms! Mac follows, holding

a parasol to shield them from the sun, which even thus early in the

season is very warm in the middle of the day.

Mrs. Deslandes, watching the trio from the verandah, cannot understand

the _entente cordiale_ between these queerly assorted individuals.

But I let her into the secret of my matchmaking scheme. At first she

laughs. Then, growing serious, says,

“It is really a capital idea, Jeanne. What would have become of the

poor old soul when I am gone? She will, at any rate, have a companion

and an interest in life.”

VIII

Shearing

Time

On la tond,

On la tond,

La laine du mouton.

RONDE ENFANTINE.

For some days we have scarcely seen anything of Mr. Deslandes. It is

the busiest time of the year on the station, and his attention is given

wholly to the shearing.

All the outbuildings have been opened up--the sheds, the packing rooms

where the wool is compressed into bales, and the quarters for the

shearers, who have arrived in a body.

Despite my uncle’s protests, I am going to watch the sheep being shorn.

* * * * *

It is a weird sight! Once is sufficient; I do not wish to repeat the

experience. There is something so savage and bestial in the scene.

Half-naked men rushing wildly about, waving their arms and shouting

like demons in the midst of bleating, terrified sheep; the atmosphere

of steaming humanity, of pungent animal odours, of blood even, for now

and then a poor beast is wounded by the shears. It mounts to one’s

brain, intoxicating and revolting at the same time.

I could not look on for more than a few minutes, and not until I have

had a long gallop on Said, inhaling great draughts of the saline air

which blows across the lake from the Southern Ocean, do I feel clean

and fresh again.

Hector never fails to be home at this time. He organises concerts and

other amusements in the large common room set apart for the shearers.

Some of the men have fine voices, untrained but clear and resonant,

developed in sunshine and liberty. Sometimes lantern pictures are

thrown on the wall, and it is always a marvel to me to see these big

children of the bush so interested in Old World pictures. Snow scenes

especially arouse their wonder and admiration, and a thoughtful face

here and there indicates that memory is back among the half-effaced

scenes of childhood. The phonograph is brought into requisition, and a

dance generally winds up the evening’s fun--a dance with men only, like

those on board a man-of-war.

What a strange nomadic people are these shearers! Journeying from

station to station, traversing Australia from north to south, according

to the seasons, rough, uncouth and violent, with quick passions,

counting on the need of their services to make their own terms with

the squatters! Poor people! I can scarcely blame them; their lives are

hard, their work strenuous.

Many have no greater ambition or hope than to “knock down” the cheque

so laboriously earned, in the nearest bar, which, thanks to the

machinations of the publican and the seductions of the barmaid, they

only leave when their last penny is gone.... I heard of the wife of

a wealthy hotel-keeper who actually sat down and cried with vexation

because a shearer left the hotel with thirty shillings still in his

pocket.

Then the journey to the next station is resumed, and the same pitiful

comedy, I might almost say tragedy, is re-enacted.

Comparatively few return to the cities. The shearing season over,

the majority still tramp from station to station, arriving generally

about sunset, and asking a meal and a night’s lodging which are rarely

refused. Hence the expressive name given to them--_Sundowners_.

What is the secret spell which this silent and mysterious land of far

distances weaves around these Bohemians of the Bush who prefer to cook

their simple meals and boil their “billy” on the track, sleeping at

night under a stately gum, through whose pendant leaves filters the

soft light of the Southern Cross?

Few abandon the life--they may go to the capital occasionally for a

“jolly spree,” as they call it, but the Spirit of the Bush calls with

insistent voice; an unseen presence is on the trail, and they must fain

follow.

The need of affection drives them to seek companionship with another

“mate,” that expressive word which indicates a community of interest,

affection and fidelity.

One meets them thus in couples, helping each other through difficult

moments, sharing alike good and bad fortune, tending each other in

illness until, perhaps, the summons of the Dread Spectre calls for the

last service which faithful hands can give. The Bush has its silent,

secret language, known only to its initiates. A cross, rudely cut in

a tree above an initial, may be passed quite unsuspectingly by an

outsider, but the bushman knows that it marks the last resting-place of

an unknown comrade, and his hat is reverently raised as he passes on.

So, too, may he sleep in the deep stillness.

* * * * *

I am never tired of listening to Hector.

Full of sympathy himself, he possesses the rare gift of evoking it in

others. His interest in the material welfare of the men on the station

is as keen as his desire to awaken the religious instinct in their

hearts.

In the daytime when every one is busy we resume our rides. My aunt,

whom I am afraid of neglecting, is the first to find a pretext for

sending us off together. Placing her pretty hand on my shoulder, she

said to me this morning:

“I am so happy that my two children get on so well together; that is

right, enjoy your youth.”

Sometimes Hector takes me for a row on the lake.

Neither lofty mountains nor far vistas move me so deeply as a little

rocky inlet by the seashore, a turn of the river bordered with poplars,

or a tiny stream babbling under willows.

Is it the magnetism of the water, its fluidity, its incessant movement,

the latent life which is imprisoned? Or is it simply the interchanging

play of light and shadow which gives it a new aspect every moment?

Our corner of the lake is fringed with weeping willows, whose tender

green tassels contrast vividly with the dull-toned gum trees.

Mooring our boat to the trunk of a tree, we pass long hours on the

unruffled water.

Hector is initiating me into the beauties of Burns, Keats and Shelley,

the obscurities of Browning, whom he admires above all; the lofty

socialism of Ruskin, which strongly appeals to me.

We discuss the perennial disputes between England and France, and

compare Shakespeare and Victor Hugo.

Naturally, the national poet of each is exalted in turn.

“Shakespeare!” exclaims Hector, rhetorically; “the myriad-minded, the

Seer of the Ages, whose intellect resolved the secrets of Humanity,

whose sympathy softened them into music. His soul is the garner-house

of immemorial experiences.”

To which I reply:

“Victor Hugo, ‘the Poet of the Soul.’ His heart is a lyre which

resounds to all vibrations. He loves, he fights, he suffers with all

humanity.”

IX

Engaged

Ce que le flot dit aux rivages,

Ce que le vent dit aux vieux monts,

Ce que l’astre dit aux nuages,

C’est le mot ineffable. Aimons.

VICTOR HUGO.

A snake crossing the road, a sudden shy on the part of Said, and the

whole world is transfigured!

Hector and I start for a ride immediately after breakfast in order to

escape the heat. We have not gone far when an unexpected swerve nearly

unseats me. Said, startled by a snake darting in front of him, rears

and then bolts.

Hector’s voice is powerless to stop him. I lose all control; the reins

drop from my nerveless fingers, a sudden shock....

Words of tenderness and love recall me to consciousness. Hector’s face,

drawn with emotion, is bending over me. I close my eyes quickly, but

a tell-tale rush of blood to my cheeks betrays that I have heard. He

assists me to rise. Beyond a little giddiness I am not hurt.

We remain a moment facing each other in a silence fraught with intense

feeling, broken by Hector’s grave voice.

“I did not wish to speak so soon, dear, but seeing you lying there

unconscious, perhaps dead, the words leapt from my heart. You know it

now, Jeanne, I love you.”

All that is good and noble in my nature responds to his words. I place

my hands in his. A kiss soft as a sigh brushes my trembling lips.

Then, standing back a little the better to read in my eyes the answer

for which he is longing, he says:

“The wife of a minister, dear! It is a serious life for a gay little

Parisienne. You are sure that you will regret nothing?”

“Quite sure,” I murmur. And a feeling of infinite calm, of inward rest

and contentment pervades me. In the pure atmosphere in which he lives,

my little weaknesses and feminine vanities will disappear. I shall

become the woman I want to be--a woman worthy of him.

The sun high above the horizon recalls us to the flight of time and to

the fact that the Gwylata folk will be getting anxious at our prolonged

absence. Hector is unwilling that I should remount Said, who, after his

escapade, has come back and is browsing quietly near Sultan.

Throwing the bridles over our arms, we walk slowly home, discussing the

plans for our future.

My aunt, evidently uneasy, is watching for us from the verandah. She is

quick to divine the news in our altered glances, and calls her husband

to share her delight. Both beam with joy. Their greatest desire is

realised.

“I am not at all surprised,” says my uncle, teasingly; “since the day

I saw a certain portrait wherein Jeanne depicted her ideal, I expected

it would end thus.” My menacing frown prevents further disclosures....

Mr. Deslandes, in the exuberance of his joy, is quite unable to keep

the secret. Soon the whole station shares it.

I am overwhelmed with congratulations, for Hector is loved by all these

honest souls who have known him from childhood.

Mac comes last, and draws me aside in a mysterious manner. Since I am

now an important personage, he gives me his confidence.

“Sure, our parson is very lucky to find such a pretty colleen,” he

says, sighing dolorously.

“Well, Mac, why don’t you follow his example and look for one too?”

“There is no need to look far, Miss Mam’selle, you know who it is. Ah!

if she would only take me as you are taking Master Hector, it would be

better for everybody.”

“Including little Bahloo?”

“Yes; Bahloo, too. Though I should set him a shocking example

sometimes, I know,” shaking his head with a naive complaisance towards

his pet delinquency.

“Well, Mac, you had better go and speak to her at once.”

“I dare not, Miss Mam’selle, she intimidates me just awful.”

I laugh at the picture of my old bushman, six feet high and

proportionately broad, trembling with emotion before Meg’s dour face.

But love has opened my eyes, and awakened depths of feelings which I

did not suspect. So placing my hand affectionately on my old friend’s

arm, I say, “Come, Mac, courage. If you succeed--and I hope you

will--we will give you a fine wedding.”

And the big-hearted old man, so weak against himself, squeezes my hand

with such vigour that I nearly cry out.

* * * * *

I cannot sleep to-night.

Seated at my open window, I murmur my happiness to the stars which gaze

down upon me from their radiant heights.

Hector loves me. Joy, sweet, calm and profound pervades my whole being.

This, then, is love--real love!

There is nothing in it of the wild agitation and excitement I felt

under Allan Russell’s strange gaze. When Hector presses my hand my

blood keeps its wonted flow. When he kissed me this evening I remained

as cool as though it had been a paternal embrace from my guardian.

Nevertheless, I love him. I am sure of it. The thought of passing my

life with him is sweet. All my aspirations towards the Good, the

Beautiful and the Infinite attract and draw me closer to him. I am

happy at the idea of confiding my future to his care. He will be an

ideal husband--the friend and brother of my soul.

How glad I am to be able to pay the debt of gratitude which I owe these

generous friends who have taken me to their hearts so warmly.

There will be no more danger of seeing the enthusiast start forth on a

foolish mission of self immolation. I recall my uncle’s words:

“You have clipped his wings, little girl; he is bound to the old home

now, and our two children will remain near us always.”

X

The

Spirit

and

the

Letter

Une seule chose est nécessaire, d’après l’Évangile. La voici:

L’homme pécheur et misérable est aimé de Dieu pour le temps et pour

l’Éternité.

C. WAGNER (Justice).

[Illustration: MEG.]

Hector has returned to the Murray after some halcyon days, spent

together. Golden hours, whose minutes are counted by the emotions,

sweet confidences wherein soul communes with soul, and words are but

the gross envelope of feelings which they reveal.

The separation is hard, so soon after our _fiançailles_. But he will

write every day, and I have promised to consider myself an Australian

“fiancee,” and write in return.

He must not expect poetic effusions. Words of love lose their fragrance

when written. The sound of the beloved voice, the magnetism of the

living presence are necessary to give them their true value. My letters

will consist only of prosaic details of the station life and of my

studies ... for I have a great project in view of which I have not yet

said a word.

I am going to study THEOLOGY!

The wife of a minister ought to share the religious beliefs of her

husband, I suppose. This is a point I have never dared discuss with

Hector for fear that we should clash; but now I long to know something

of those dogmas which mould his inner life. My own religion, one of

sentiment only, has never been troubled with any vexed doctrinal

questions. Protestant in name, it is true, but educated in a State

_Lycée_ with Catholics and even Jewesses, where the teaching imparted

was moral and altruistic, I conformed to an ideal of life lofty enough,

but absolutely outside all creeds and dogmas.

I am quite prepared to share a life of self-denial with Hector. Before

he left he asked me if I would consent to devote a part of his income

to certain good works which he has in view, necessitating a very simple

life for ourselves.

“To lead the ‘Simple Life’ of my dear Pasteur Wagner has always been my

dream,” I replied, smiling. “It will be scarcely necessary, will it? My

guardian is rich, and he will help us.”

“You must not count on uncle’s wealth, Jeanne; the station is not

prospering, in spite of appearances. Moreover, he speculates, and with

his sanguine temperament and ignorance of mining affairs generally, I

am afraid, very much afraid....”

“He ought to reduce his expenditure, discharge some of the hands, sell

the motor....”

“I have thought of it often, and spoken to him, but without result.

Fortunately, I have my father’s small fortune, and whatever happens he

and my mother are secure of a home with US,” pressing my arm lovingly.

* * * * *

This very day I am going to begin my theological education. Comfortably

ensconced in a corner of the verandah shut off by a huge screen so as

not to be disturbed, my little table piled with frowning tomes taken

from Hector’s private library, I attack the bull by the horns.

The Thirty-nine Articles of the Anglican Faith.

After several hours’ steady perusal, I let the book fall.

Predestination. The Redemption of Sin by the blood of Jesus Christ.

Eternal Salvation obtained by Faith alone, irrespective of deeds.

Belief in an Eternal Hell!

Are these doctrines, which seem to me reminiscent of a long past day,

still really taught in the Anglican Church? Oh, Jesus, gentle Prophet

of Nazareth, You who journeyed through Judea, preaching to the lowly

your Gospel of Love, what has been made of your teaching?

I carry my difficulties to my uncle, but he pooh-poohs them.

“Why bother your head about it at all, little girl? Leave Theology to

others, and come for a walk with me.”

“But, uncle, I must try to understand. It can’t be possible that Hector

teaches....”

“Tut, tut! That won’t concern you. Your role will be to cut out little

frocks for the kiddies, distribute soup to the old people, and port

wine to the invalids--which reminds me to stock your cellar forthwith

for that purpose.”

I take refuge in silence. I will write to Hector. He will not find my

scruples childish. He will understand and explain matters to my full

satisfaction.

* * * * *

Meg and Mac have asked for a day’s leave.

They want to go to Strathalbyn to get married by the Presbyterian

Minister.

I wonder who put the fateful question!

Did Mac muster sufficient courage, or--did Meg take the initiative?

“Meg, why didn’t you wait a day or two? Mr. Hector would have been

back, and we could have had a fine wedding feast.”

“Nae, nae; Maister Hector is guid enow to preach on the Sabbath, Miss

Joan, but we maun hae a true minister to marry us. Maister Hector is

nae sound enow in doctrine.”

Not sound enough!

If Hector’s views are too liberal for her, surely there is hope for me!

Mr. Deslandes lends them the motor for the great event, and we witness

their departure in grand style.

Meg and Mac are truly superb!

But Bahloo!!!

Words fail to do justice to his elaborate splendour.

For he is going also. As best man, I suppose.

The dusky mite holds himself painfully rigid in the resplendent ruby

velveteen suit Meg has made for the occasion.

And how in the world has she procured here the sailor hat with “Nelson”

in gilt letters around it, which is perched jauntily on his mop of

frizzy hair? Would not the word “Cupid” suit better the circumstances?

In truth, has not our picaninny played the part of a little black “Deus

in Machina”?

Mrs. Deslandes is a little hurt that Meg should leave her _service

personnel_ without a word of regret. It has all been done so hurriedly

that we have had no time to replace her. But it will be a pleasure to

take Meg’s duties upon myself for a while.

After the usual Bridge, I accompany my aunt to her room to render her

the little services which her weakness necessitates.

But, behold the faithful handmaiden at her post as usual!

“Meg, you here?” exclaims her mistress.

“You surely didn’t think I was going to abandon you?” comes the calm

reply.

“But what will your husband say?” I question wonderingly, opening my

eyes at this startling development in honeymoon etiquette, “and who is

going to keep house for him and Bahloo?”

“Oh, I can easily manage that if the mistress will let me off for

an hour or two in the morning.... Noo, Miss Joan,” lapsing into the

vernacular, “gang to bed yer ain sel’. Ye can sleep quite peacefully,

the mistress will want for naught.”

I make my exit, leaving the two old friends--friends in sooth, despite

the difference of their station--to resume the even tenor of their

ways, which no incident so frivolous as Meg’s marriage could interrupt.

XI

The

Letter

Kills

D’où viennent l’intolérance, les haines religieuses, la polémique et

le fanatisme? Ils tiennent tous à une fausse conception de l’essence

et du but de la Religion.

C. WAGNER (Justice).

The inquisitor was sometimes conscientious when he racked and burned

his brother man for the glory of God and the salvation of the souls of

others who might be inclined to follow that heretical brother; he

acted with a clear conscience, honestly believing himself to be doing

service both to God and to man.

ANNIE BESANT.

* * * * *

His letter has arrived....

A cold chill has passed over my heart. Can it really be Hector who,

ignoring the spirit of the Gospel, has written these words, with their

sophistry and fanatical respect for the letter of the Jewish Bible?

“... If you deny Revelation everything crumbles under your feet.... It

is your duty to accept and believe the truth taught by the Church. Has

not the Saviour promised that He will always be with his Church even to

the end of the world, to guide it in the path of Truth?... The Bible is

the directly inspired word of God, and we must bow before its teaching

without presuming to judge it.... All Faith rests on the doctrine of

the Redemption, of Predestination, of the Day of Judgment.... Many

of our clergy themselves ignore these subjects. They are spiritual

heretics, freethinkers under the garb of the Church....”

Then follows an exhortation:

“Beloved, cease your doubts. Prostrate yourself before the Cross,

stained with the blood of Christ, that blood shed in order to efface

the sins of the world. Come, before the justice of an angry God bars

the way.”

He finishes with these words, which in his sincere but blind faith he

believes must touch me:

“Pray for the Light! Oh, my life, may our Saviour enlighten you with

his Grace!”

* * * * *

No, no, I cannot pray. I do not want this unjust Grace which would

single me out arbitrarily. Rather would I remain in doubt, in negation,

even, than admit this conception of a partial Creator who cannot be

appeased but by the abasement of Conscience and intelligence, the

greatest gifts bestowed by him.

* * * * *

Hector is here. For a week he has tried all means, arguments,

persuasion, tenderness, to break what he calls my intellectual pride.

He makes me read Pusey, Stanley, Weldon.... In vain he cites the great

minds, the lofty spirits who have accepted unmurmuringly the dogmas

which revolt me--above all, that of an eternal Hell. This is the one

upon which he is most inflexible.

“Then those you term pagans,” I argue, “you condemn them also to this

eternal punishment?”

“We have no right to judge God. In his immutable justice He separates

the sheep from the goats.”

“If He is cruel enough to condemn those who have no means of knowing

Him, I should prefer to be with them in Hell rather than in Heaven with

your God.”

These controversies, which leave me utterly broken and exhausted, only

increase the gulf between us.

* * * * *

Hector has adjured me by the regard I have for him, by the submission

I owe him as priest, by our love for each other, to make an act of

intellectual humility and come to the Communion Table to-morrow morning.

I could have done so once. In the little Paris oratory of Pasteur

Wagner I sometimes partook of the Communion. But he never preached

this God of Vengeance, this Father appeased only by the blood of his

own Son!... Now, this act of Communion would be sheer hypocrisy, a

blasphemy against my conscience. No, even though I lose Hector’s love,

sunder our lives, I must be honest with myself and him.

The evening has passed apparently as usual, dinner en famille, followed

by bridge, but the atmosphere is charged with suppressed emotion. My

aunt, sensitive like all nervous natures to external influences,

suspects that something is wrong. She is troubled and looks at us

anxiously. My guardian asks me to sing. I cannot. My throat is

constricted as though in a vice.

As I look up from the book I have taken I encounter Hector’s gaze.

His eyes are fixed upon me, seeking to impose his will on my soul.

Thought is really a force. I feel his beating against my brain, seeking

to break down my resistance, to absorb my personality, stupefying me as

with an anaesthetic....

* * * * *

The night has been one long struggle.

My tortured heart has striven to convince my reason.

I have retraced again and again all the old theological arguments, the

problems remain unsolved. I endeavour to pray; the words halt on my

lips. I see before me only a precipice, a void, ready to engulf me....

I have no courage to appear at breakfast. I even hesitate whether I

shall go to matins, but it looks too cowardly to stay away. Besides,

who knows? A flash of Faith, a spark from the Divine Light may descend

upon me and dissipate my doubts.

When I enter the little improvised chapel Hector is already at the

altar.

For one moment his eyes seek mine with devouring intensity. Then he

turns and gives himself wholly to his office.

His voice, more sonorous than usual, has deep notes in it which go

straight to my soul as he pronounces the words of the solemn ritual.

“I bid you in the name of God, I call you in Christ’s behalf, I exhort

you as ye love your own salvation, that ye will be partakers of this

holy Communion.” My whole being rushes towards him. I rise to follow

the communicants. A force greater still holds me back. The voice of my

conscience cries so loudly that I seem to actually hear it within my

heart. “You no longer believe, you no longer believe. It is a crime

towards him, towards God, to yield to a momentary emotion. Better to

separate than live a life of lies.”

* * * * *

My engagement is broken.

Hector has gone, never to come back.

Here is the letter which was brought to my room where, almost

unconscious, I returned after the service.

“Jeanne,--God has not granted my prayer and enlightened your heart.

There is only one means to propitiate Him--the sacrifice of my life,

the sacrifice of my love. I submit to His will. An atheist (my heart

bleeds in giving you that name) who denies Revelation, the authority

of the Divine Book, cannot be the wife of a minister of God. To

continue to see you, to feel the charm of your presence, would be

impossible.... I am only a man, a man who loves you with all his heart,

and soul and body.... From afar as near, O my loved one, my prayers

shall follow you, my supplications shall mount to the God of Justice

who is also the God of Mercy. He will break down the barrier of your

pride and lead you to His feet. I am writing to my mother to explain my

departure. Love her, my dear mother, who loves me so dearly; soften by

your affection the grief she will feel ... be to her the daughter she

hoped to find indeed in you.

“Adieu, Jeanne, my beloved. I confide you to His care.

“HECTOR.”

* * * * *

My poor Aunt Molly! Her heart will be broken!