A DAY IN SYDNEY.
“To Mr. O’Malley in foreign parts.”
Once a month Martha Tomlinson had a day’s holiday. She generally chose
Wednesdays, because, she used to say, if there was any luck flying
about in a week, that was the day on which it fell to earth. She
certainly had illustrations for her theory that Poppet at least used
to think were wonderful. For instance, one Wednesday she had picked up
a sixpence with a horseshoe on the side the Queen’s head is generally
seen—the omen had struck her as almost good enough to be married on.
Another time the young man she “went walking with” had been within
an ace of buying a pee-wit hat that was cheap certainly, but was
moth-eaten in a place or two. If, now, she had gone on Thursday, it
would have been too late to prevent it, and Tuesday it would have been
too soon. It was a clear case of luck, there was no doubt.
One time, indeed, she had been tempted to take a Thursday instead, as
the weather looked threatening on the Wednesday; but after a little
deliberation, she thought it would be better to keep to her rule. And
on the Thursday she had almost gone there was a collision between the
river boat and one going to Balmain,—no one hurt certainly, but then,
as she very truly remarked, there might have been. There had never been
a collision in the memory of any of the family, for she questioned each
and all, on a Wednesday.
The man in corduroy trousers still came to see her, and they still
only talked of their marriage as the “far-off divine event” of their
lives; in all probability they would be talking of it just the same ten
years hence. They were not like the usual happy-go-lucky, improvident
Australians of their class, who married first, and wondered where the
bread and meat were coming from second.
Malcolm was a Scotchman, and was saving up to buy a house of his own—he
did not believe in lining landlords’ pockets with his earnings. It
would, with the strip of land he wanted, be four hundred odd pounds,
and he had already saved £75. Martha had £15 in the bank, but then
hers would have to go in furniture and clothing. Pip calculated
that Malcolm would be seventy-two, and Martha a gay young thing of
sixty-nine, by the time the house was built and furnished; but Martha
was more hopeful, and did not leave such a margin for the “strikes”
Malcolm seemed to revel in.
Now this particular Wednesday, Martha had asked, as a great favour,
that Poppet might go with her to town. The little girl was her
favourite among all the children, and her warm heart quite ached to see
the child moping as she had done since Bunty’s disappearance. Every
day, while the nursery tea-things were being washed up, Poppet used
to stand beside her, with big mournful eyes, wondering “if just this
minute Bunty was climbing a mast; if he was very tired of salt meat and
weevily biscuits; if his feet got very cold swilling the decks down;
if—if—if——”
Martha’s brother had been a sailor, so Martha knew more about life on
board ship than any one else in the house; hence her great attraction.
Esther, after a consultation with Meg, gave permission; the child was
fretting herself thin and pale, and any change did her good.
Of course when Poppet was dressed and standing on the verandah, engaged
in the vexatious task of pulling her gloves over her little brown
hands, Peter wanted to come too.
“You’re a thneak, Poppet, going and having pleathure, and me thtuck
here doing nothing,” he said. “I’m coming too.”
“In that dirty old suit, and mud on the end of your nose?” said Poppet,
with the virtuous tone a spotless white frock, whole stockings, and
clean boots made justifiable.
“Of courth I can wath my noth, and the thuit ithn’t dirty if you bruth
it.” He took out a crumpled ball of handkerchief, dipped one corner in
the gold-fish bowl inside the hall door, and polished his small nose
with great energy. “There, ith it off?”
Martha came out, resplendent in a green cashmere made in the very
latest style, a green hat with pink ostrich feathers, and a green
parasol.
Peter looked impressed, and said nothing more about accompanying
them; Poppet was nobody, of course, even though her new boots had
twelve buttons against his own six; but even his young soul felt the
impossibility of a sailor suit no longer new being seen within a yard
of that magnificent new costume of Martha’s.
He contented himself with looking after them enviously as they went
down the drive, and kicking the verandah post with his small strong
boots.
“Tthuck up thingth!” he muttered, turning away to look for means of
amusement. “I’ll thutht pay that Poppet out.”
Martha had ideas of her own as to the proper way a holiday should be
spent, and had determined Poppet should have a day she would long
remember. One thing only Poppet asked for, and that was that they
should walk about Circular Quay for a little time and look at the great
ships, and especially any that were bound for America.
In her pocket the little girl had a blotted note she had written some
days ago. On the envelope, in very bad, unsteady writing, there was
this strange address:—
“To Bunty in America.
“On the ship _Isabela_ plese will the capten give this to Bunty.”
There was a pencil mark through Bunty, and John Woolcot was written in
brackets.
Inside the envelope was much paper and many smudges made by the tears
that fell all the time the pen went slowly along the lines.
“Oh Bunty do come home, Bunty dere there is nothing to be fritened
of. Mr. Barnham doesn’t beleeve you took it and the boys chered you
like anything and Meg is going to be nice always the tortus is
very well and I give it beefstake every day I can get any you would
be serprised to see what it can eat. Oh Bunty do be quick home oh
you mite have told me you were going Bunty I’d have come with you
or anything do you have to go up the masts. I’m so fritened you’ll
fall overbord I’ve put 10 pense in here so you can buy things when
you’re on shore I wish I had more Martha says the biskits are full
of weevuls. Dere Bunty oh do come home quick quick oh Bunty if only
you’ll come I’ll always do things for you and never grumbil whatever
it is I know I used to be horid and grumbling before but just you
see do you have to swil the deks with no boots. Martha says so. Oh
dere Bunty DO come home. I’ve beleeved you all the time Bunty dere of
corse.
“Your loving sister,
“Poppet.
“P.S.—Be sure to come quick.”
For a long time the little girl could think of no possible way of
getting this letter to her brother. Meg had said the post-office would
be no use, for in all probability the boat bearing it would pass in mid
ocean the one bringing Bunty back.
But it had struck Poppet lately that if only she could give it to the
captain of some other boat going to America, he would know just where
the boat was and be able to send it on.
That was the hope that was making her eyes grow full of light as the
river boat got nearer and nearer to Sydney, and hundreds of tall
masts and interlacing yards stood against the blue of the sky or the
brown-grey of the great warehouses.
How beautiful the harbour looked to-day! There was a cool breeze
blowing, and it ruffled the waters into a million little broken waves
that leaped and danced in the clear morning sunshine.
Up near the Quay there was all the picturesque untidiness and bustle of
busy shipping; but out farther the sun and the waves and the drifting
clouds had it their own way, and made a hundred shifting pictures.
Sometimes a white sail glittered in the sun, then a brown one would
make a spot of warm colour. The great boats to Manly left long majestic
trails of white foam behind them, and little skiffs got into the wash
and rocked joyously.
On the North Shore the many buildings showed white and clean in the
sunlight; farther to the left the houses were fewer, and beautiful
gardens stretched down to the water’s edge. Still farther away,
across the white-tipped waves, were shores with backgrounds of
thickly-growing gums; and higher, the soft blue line of hills.
Poppet’s very heart was in her eyes as the boat stopped at the Erskine
Street Wharf and the gangway was put down. She pinched Martha’s arm
gently and whispered to her not to forget.
Martha spoke to a sailor who was sitting smoking on an inverted cask.
She “supposed the boats to America went from the Quay, didn’t they
now?—or was it from Wooloomooloo?”
But he “supposed there were boats _and_ boats to America. There was
sich as the _Mariposa_, which carried swells and was a fine boat; and
sich as the _Jenny Lind_, which took oil and was _not_ a fine boat!”
“Do you know the _Isabella_?” said Poppet’s little eager voice.
“Captain Brown?—well, I reckon I do, little miss,” he said, and chewed
a bit of tobacco thoughtfully. “Bloomin’ old tub! I was on her five
year.”
Poppet nearly fell upon him,—she could not wait while he said all he
knew about it in his slow roundabout way.
“Is he a cruel man? don’t they have vegetables to eat? do the little
boys have to go up the masts? are there weevils in the biscuits? oh!
and won’t he let them have their boots on when they swill the decks?”
[Plate Illustration: “‘Do you know the _Isabella_?’ said Poppet’s
little eager voice.”]
But it turned out that the _Isabella_ he was on was a schooner plying
between Melbourne and the South Sea Islands. He rather fancied there
was a brig of the same name that went to San Francisco or Boston, or
“one of those places.”
Poppet’s face had fallen again.
“Do you know of _any_ boats that go to America?” she said in a forlorn
tone. “Oh, do please try and think if you know of _any_.”
Martha explained rapidly, _sotto voce_: “The young lady’s brother had
run away, and was on that boat; she was fretting her little heart out
to get a letter to him; couldn’t he pacify her some way? she herself
knew it was impossible.”
The sailor looked kindly at the little sweet face under its
broad-brimmed hat.
“I have a mate on the _Jenny Lind_, little miss,—how’d it be if I gave
him the letter? He’s a good-hearted chap, and would try his best; he’d
be sure to know where the _Isabella_ is, and could easy send it.”
“That would be best, Miss Poppet dear,” said Martha; “give it to this
nice kind man and he’ll send it.”
“Is he going to America soon? Do you _think_ he would see the
_Isabella_?” the little sad voice said.
And the sailor’s answer was certainly very reassuring: the _Jenny
Lind_ sailed in two days, and was sure to meet the _Isabella_, in which
case the letter would be delivered into Bunty’s hands.
Poppet handed over her letter with a sigh of relief; she had hardly
dared to hope a boat would leave so soon.
Martha thanked the man, opened her green parasol, and walked on. Poppet
lingered half a minute.
“If _you_ should happen to meet him anywhere,” she said hurriedly,—“you
might, you know, as you’re a sailor too: he’s a tallish little boy,
with brown eyes, and his hair’s rather rough,—you won’t forget, will
you?”
“Not I,” he said warmly; shaking the small hand she held out,—“a
tallish little boy with brown eyes,—oh! I’d easy know him.”
Then she caught up Martha, who was beckoning impatiently, and felt a
load was off her mind.
Such a morning they had! They went to the waxworks in George Street
first, and saw bushrangers, an aboriginal murderer, and other pleasing
characters, with life-like eyelashes and surprisingly beautiful
complexions. Then they climbed all the way to the top of the Town
Hall—Martha knew the caretaker—and had the pleasure of seeing the city
in miniature far below. The Cathedral being next door came in for a
turn, but seemed rather flat after the waxworks. After that they went
through the five arcades systematically, flattening their noses at each
interesting window, and telling each other what they would buy if they
had the money.
[Illustration: “THEY WENT TO THE WAXWORKS IN GEORGE STREET FIRST.”]
It was twelve o’clock when they had finished with the Strand, and they
were to meet Malcolm, who was going to take them somewhere to lunch, at
half-past one.
“There’s just time for the Botanicking Gardens,” said Martha, wiping
her heated face and setting her splendid hat straight at one of the
narrow slits of mirror in the arcade.
So away they posted, up King Street, down Macquarie Street, and away
down the broad, beautiful, shady walk in the Domain.
There was not time to “do” the Gardens thoroughly, so they only walked
rapidly up some of the paths, paused for a moment to look at the blue
harbour beyond the low sea wall, and then walked three times solemnly
and backwards around the wishing-tree near the entrance gates.
“What did you wish, Martha?” Poppet said, as they walked up again
towards the statue of Captain Cook, where they were to meet Malcolm. “I
hope you wished about Bunty.”
But Martha had been selfish enough to desire fervently that Malcolm
should never go on strike again.
“Oh, you never get your wish if you tell what it is,” she said
evasively.
“Don’t you?” said Poppet anxiously. “Oh dear, and I was nearly telling
mine. You can’t guess in the slightest, Martha, can you? You have no
idea, have you, Martha?”
“Not the slightest,” said Martha of the warm heart,—“not the least
little bit, Miss Poppet.”
“And you always get your wish, Martha?”
“Oh, of course.”
Years after, Poppet’s faith in that wonderful wishing-tree was unshaken.