The black pearl
knees tremble at the sight of a name, the memory of a glance?
I must read it now. The affair is sordid. An indulgent husband,
deceived by a silly wife, not for love’s sake, for the co-respondents
are many, but through sheer idleness and vanity, the desire to be
considered “smart,” to wear extravagant toilets utterly beyond her
husband’s means. Allan Russell’s name appears among the admirers of the
frail beauty.
Mrs. Clarke enters and I pass her the paper, in silence.
Her face grows grave.
“Poor Allan! What a wasted life!”
“You pity him! It seems to me he has just what he deserves.”
“Alas, Jeanne, we all get what we deserve--which fact doesn’t make it a
whit easier to bear.”
I cannot refrain from pursuing the subject.
“You know Mr. Russell well, then?”
“Yes; and a more open and generous nature was never spoilt by a bad,
heartless woman.”
“Allan was the son of my mother’s best friend,” Mrs. Clarke continues.
“Our stations were not far from each other, and we grew up like brother
and sister. I believe,” she adds, smiling, “that our parents wouldn’t
have objected to see a more tender affection between us. But Allan
was at least a year my junior, and I always looked on him as a mere
boy. He confided to me the great passion which his mother’s companion
had inspired in him. This woman, ten years Allan’s senior, who had
a past as we discovered later on, used all her skill and experience
to infatuate the young man, alternately repelling and encouraging
his advances, until she had him wholly in her power. She played with
his feelings as a virtuoso does with a violin. A secret marriage was
arranged.”
“That is easy here, isn’t it? A visit to the Registrar and the affair
is settled,” I interpolated.
“Sometimes to one’s cost--certainly to my poor friend’s. Allan’s
parents refused to receive his wife, so, possessing ample means--a
fact of which the lady had carefully assured herself--he took her
to London. Then began a life which to Allan soon became martyrdom.
Vicious and utterly heartless, she dragged her husband with her into
the mire, deceiving him for the sake of lovers as depraved as herself.
The inevitable separation happened at the end of a few years, which had
warped Allan’s nature and turned him into a bitter and disillusioned
man, believing neither in woman’s virtue nor man’s honour.”
“Could he not have divorced her?”
“Allan was too proud then to let his name be dragged before the Court.
In a moment’s compassion--there is still a strain of chivalry in Allan,
despite his cynicism--he promised not to divorce her if she would
consent never to follow him. He made ample settlements on her which
suffice for her numerous gratifications--the wretched being has added
drunkenness to her other vices--but she has sense enough to abide by
the contract, and passes her time in England or on the Continent, that
is when she isn’t in an inebriate ‘retreat’.”
“So that is why Mr. Russell came back to Australia?”
“Yes, but fettered. Tired of the loneliness of the bush, and hopeless
of happiness, he threw himself into speculations with all the ardour
of his temperament. His ventures succeeded, and now he is one of the
richest men in the colonies, the leader of the ‘smart set.’ Poor Allan!
Two things might save him. A duty to accomplish, or a noble love which
would rescue him from this life of idleness and pleasure.”
Shall I tell Kate of the impression he has made upon me? His
resemblance to the Rajah of my dreams? With her peculiar beliefs, she
might be able to give me an explanation.... No! I dare not! She would
jeer at my susceptibility, perhaps ... and then he is married, and to
that creature! I can quite understand now why he left without trying
to see me a second time.
* * * * *
A letter from Hector brings the ever-dreaded news. He has fallen a
victim to the terrible scourge. It is only a question of time. He
states it quite simply. He is almost happy. He feels closer to the
unhappy beings around him. He can say to them, as Father Damien did:
“We lepers.”
Oh, my poor Hector! To what suffering are you not doomed.
I am writing, entreating to be allowed to join him, to share his work,
to tend him as a sister, as a wife if he wills it.
XIV
The
Jenolan
Caves
Oh! quelle étrange nuit sous l’univers sonore
* * * * *
Un trou s’offre lugubre. Il y plonge et, rampant
Dans un vide où l’effroi du tombeau se répand
Il voit sous lui de l’ombre et de l’horreur. Il entre
Il est dans je ne sais quel intérieur d’antre.
* * * * *
Les enchevêtrements de racines vivaces,
Les fuites d’eau mouillant de livides crevasses,
Il franchit tout; des reins, des coudes, des talons,
Il pousse devant lui l’abîme et dit: “Allons!”
VICTOR HUGO.
Jack and Lulu run boisterously into my room, shouting:
“We’re going to the Caves. We’re going to the Caves! Mother says so!”
Jenolan is the wonderland of the Blue Mountains. Its vast caves equal,
if they do not excel, the most famous ones of the world.
Mrs. Clarke has organised an excursion there of several days’ length.
“It will be good for Lulu,” says she, “and distract her attention from
her mysterious little visitant, who, you will see, won’t follow her.
These influences adhere as much to places as to people.”
I know my kind friend is actuated also by the desire to divert my
thoughts from myself and relieve my anxiety until Hector’s reply can
reach me.
I am only too delighted to have the chance of visiting these Caves, of
which I have heard so much. Formed long ages ago, in a limestone belt,
by the action of water, which, percolating gradually through the soft
stone, at length crashed down the barriers, and, boiling and seething,
carved out immense caverns, fantastic grottoes and recesses, they are
now adorned with glistening stalagmites and stalactites, transforming
them into an Aladdin’s Palace.
Our guide, “Jerry,” is what they call here a “Character.” He considers
himself the territorial Lord of everything pertaining to the Caves.
Certainly he has discovered the greater part of them, and he does the
honours to tourists from all parts of the world.
Deaf as a post, he abuses his position by uttering whatever comes into
his head in highly coloured language of which I cannot hope to receive
the full savour. One can’t very well snub him. Yelling into a trumpet
would scarcely convey an impression of offended dignity.
In justice, I ought to say that his gruffness is only superficial. He
would risk his life to spare his tourist visitors a scratch.
Following his usual custom, Jerry gives each of us a sobriquet.
“Life is too short,” says he, “to learn the names of the people I shall
likely enough never see again.”
So Mrs. Clarke is “Mother,” I am “Brown Eyes,” nurse is “Sulky” (her
looks evidently have not pleased him), Lulu is “Little Fairy,” and Jack
“The Imp.”
A good judge of character is Jerry.
We are conducted into the largest of the Caves, which descends more
than a thousand feet, and is reached by a series of subterraneous
passages and vast halls. The Imperial Cave, the Cathedral, the
Exhibition Room, all lit by electricity, are full of the most
enchanting marvels, statues, pillars, marble columns, frozen cataracts,
glistening pendants from the vaulted roof, walls encrusted with
gleaming jewels reflecting all the colours of the prism. One might
imagine oneself in the palace of the Genii, where rubies, topazes and
diamonds rival each other in lambent fire. In one gallery, stalagmites,
shot with the chatoyant hues of an agate, fall in a frieze, some six
feet in thickness.
Other formations when struck give forth the deep harmonious roll of an
organ fitted for a race of Titans.
Jerry’s great pleasure is to seat us with a stern injunction not to
move, and then suddenly switch off the electric light.
The horror succeeding our vision of fairyland is inexpressible. The
darkness is corporeal, palpable. One actually feels the vast material
solidity separating us from the blue sky. The terror is heightened by
the resonance of the air. The slightest sounds are magnified. Jerry
throws some stones into the abysmal depths near us. A long, long time
after, we hear their impact with the stream which threads its tortuous
course below.
The children cling to us affrightedly, but our magician switches on the
current, and once more we are in the palace of the fairies.
A little incident marks the beginning of our excursion. At the entrance
of a cave our guide shows us the imprint of a snake on the wet sand in
the hollow of a rock. “You needn’t be afraid. They only come out at
night after the bats, which swarm here in myriads.”
The dimly lit gallery, where we sit down to rest after the fatigue
of reaching the upper cave, is closed by an iron gate. Jack, leaning
against it, utters a cry: “A snake! a snake!”
We all run, Jerry leading. Coiled round the iron points of the railing
is a huge serpent.
“A carpet snake, be jabers, I’d like to take him alive. Light your
candles!” orders our guide imperiously (it is advisable to carry
candles in case of any mishap). We form a luminous circle; there are
about fifteen of us, for some other tourists are being “personally
conducted.” Jerry loves to dominate a crowd.
The snake lies inert, simulating sleep.
“He has eaten too many bats and forgotten the danger of his
whereabouts, or else he has climbed up there to get them on the wing.”
Jerry, while speaking, has made a running knot in a piece of rope which
he fixes to the end of a stick.
Approaching cautiously, he endeavours to throw it over the snake’s
head. But his majesty, now alive to his danger, draws back each time.
The play (scarcely play to me or the reptile) lasts a long time. At
each sinuous movement we retreat warily. But Jerry is relentless.
“The lights, the lights!” he exclaims, and, willy-nilly, we reform the
magic circle. Finally a less swift movement of the victim results in
the cord being drawn taut. He hisses, slowly uncoils, and is dragged
off in triumph.
“A windfall for me,” remarks our guide; “they’ll give me ten bob for
him at the Zoo.”
It is a young carpet snake, five feet long, beautifully marked on top
and silvery underneath.
There is something artlessly artful about Jerry.
Among our number is a young man with a retreating facial angle and a
weak chin. Jerry, in the coolest manner possible, calmly hands him
the snake-wound stick to carry. He takes it gingerly, with inward
trepidation, but afraid to show the white feather too openly.
Jerry strides on in front with an unconcerned air, belied by a
suspicious glint in the corner of his eye.
The timid young man, with his living “caduceus,” is left to bring
up the rear, a position to which he is speedily relegated by the
shrinking of his companions when he approaches too closely. Apparently
no thought of resisting Jerry’s masterful action occurs to him.
* * * * *
In the evening the heat is stifling. We have carried our chairs to the
verandah to enjoy the slight breeze wafted from the mountains. The
children, tired out with the day’s pleasures, are lying on cushions at
our feet. The sky is covered with threatening clouds. Suddenly, one by
one appear little twinkling lights. They are fire-flies, flitting from
tree to tree, honouring our visit by a fairy illumination.
The following days bring new excitements, new marvels, subterranean
rivers, ascensions on rope ladders, and spiral staircases, which lead
from cave to cave.
“We shan’t see them all,” says Jerry, “for 30 miles or so they