The black pearl
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THE BLACK PEARL.
Comme le fil de soie qui relie les perles d’un collier, l’Ego, à
travers les Ages, passe en des vies successives, heureuses ou tristes,
criminelles ou vertueuses dans son long Pélérinage vers la Perfection.
With grateful thanks to M-- W-- for having translated into English the
story of Jeanne and her struggle “Vers la Lumière.”
The Black Pearl
BY
NOEL AIMIR
George Robertson & Company
Propty. Ltd.,
Melbourne, Sydney, Adelaide and Brisbane.
1911
A
MADAME BARR SMITH,
Hommage respectueux de gratitude et d’affection.
CONTENTS.
PART I.
I. AT GWYLATA 9
II. THE REVEREND HECTOR 19
III. THE DREAM 29
IV. COUSINS 35
V. THE ANGLICAN SERVICE 43
VI. THE HUNT CLUB BALL 51
VII. BAHLOO 63
VIII. SHEARING TIME 79
IX. ENGAGED 87
X. THE SPIRIT AND THE LETTER 95
XI. THE LETTER KILLS 103
PART II.
XII. STORM SIGNALS 111
XIII. AT ANCHOR 121
XIV. THE JENOLAN CAVES 135
XV. ALONE 145
XVI. THE BOARDING HOUSE 157
XVII. LA DINETTE 171
XVIII. ALLAN RUSSELL 179
XIX. A “FEDORA” 195
XX. THE STORM BREAKS 203
XXI. ANNIE BESANT 213
XXII. TOWARDS THE LIGHT 225
XXIII. THE VISION 239
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.