The black pearl
penetrate the interior of the mountains, forming endless circuits
and detours. Even I don’t know them all (words fail to give adequate
expression to that pronoun), and I have been on the job forty years or
so.”
Jerry alternates his guide book English with a slangy colloquialism.
No, nor are we likely to see the “hairy man,” the monster whom he has
chased so many times, and whose footprints he has marked in almost
inaccessible places.
Is there really a mystery here, I wonder, or is it some freak of
Jerry’s vivid imagination?
He swears by all the gods that there is such a monster. Others have
seen him, fired at, and wounded him, too, which in no wise impeded the
remarkable agility with which he used to appear and disappear.
To finish, Jerry takes me to the top of the mountain. A rocky arch,
crowned with gum trees, dominating the valley at our feet, where the
towering Eucalypts, over hundreds of feet high, look no bigger than
small shrubs.
Their tops touch each other, interlace and form a carpet of sombre
velvet. Strangling trails of foliage hang from the rocks; tree ferns
wave their graceful fronds in the hollows, and orchids, with quaint
faces, nod in the crevices, slenderly detached against the abysmal
background of green and russet.
My eyes, unaccustomed to dizzy heights, become dazzled, my brain
reels, I feel faint, giddy.... I gladly leave these altitudes to the
Australian eagles, which, disturbed in their eyries, fly off, uttering
discordant shrieks as they wheel in the splendour of the unshadowed
blue.
XV
Alone
Support with patience thy lot, be it what it may, and never repine at
it.
(“The Golden Verses of Pythagoras.”)
“No, I cannot accept your sacrifice,” writes Hector. “I cannot allow
you to join me. You, here at Molokai! You, among the lepers! Think of
your youth, your beauty, which would become the prey of this unclean
evil.... Love only could sanction so great a renunciation. Do not be
hurt, dear Jeanne, my little sister, if I say that you mistake pity
for love. You do not love me; you have never loved me.... I am glad of
it now, dear. Your life will not be broken. I thank God for that every
day, and pray Him to send you the man who will make you happy, the man
whom you will really love.... In touch with so much suffering, I have
found the Real. Many illusions are swept away, many veils torn aside.
I recognise now, dear, that those dogmas which separated us are merely
forms clothing the Eternal Verities, roads leading to the Great Light.
Working with these men and women, priests and Catholic nuns, disciples
of Damien, American missionaries, doctors toiling for the love of
Science in the cause of humanity, all meeting here from far-off lands,
divided in creed, yet united by Charity, I have felt how illusionary
our differences really are. We are all children of God, walking in the
darkness towards the same goal, the same Divine end.... Do not weep for
me. Live your life; it is so full of promise.... For me, I am happy in
the task I have undertaken. What matter my sufferings, which afflict
you so much? They will only endure for a little while. What is that
compared with Eternity? One day, my little sister, we shall be uplifted
beyond the travail of human passions, reunited in the bosom of the God
of Infinite Goodness.”
* * * * *
Hector is right. I feel I should never be able to give him my whole
heart, devote to his work the life which in a moment’s exaltation I
have offered him. I could never bear it. The bare thought makes me
shudder with horror.
* * * * *
Something has happened which diverts my thoughts from Hector and myself.
Mrs. Clarke and the children are going to England.
The succession business is dragging slowly along and Mr. Clarke is
tired of being alone. Kate wants me to remain at the farm or go with
her. I cannot accept either proposition. What good would there be
in remaining here? On the other hand, why put her to the additional
expense of taking me? She can hardly afford it, I know.
I will accompany her as far as Melbourne, where she embarks. There, in
that large and wealthy city, surely I shall find something to do until
her return in six months, a year at the most.
* * * * *
We arrive in Melbourne just in time to catch the White Star liner in
which Mrs. Clarke has booked her passage.
The hurried train journey, the bustle of embarcation, and the farewells
to my dear friend and her children, who carry away a good part of my
heart, prevent me from dwelling too much on myself.
Only when the steamer turns, and a stretch of blue water broadens
between us do I begin to feel my desolation.
Utterly alone in a strange city, without a friend, and destitute of
resources except the small sum of money Mrs. Clarke has pressed upon
me as payment for lessons! Bah! I am young. Something is sure to
happen. My first disappointment comes when I find the boarding house
recommended by Kate quite full. It is race week, Melbourne’s great
carnival, and every hotel and lodging house is overflowing. I try
another, only to receive the same reply, “Not a room to let.” At last,
after several hours of fruitless research, dropping with fatigue,
and conscious of an insane feeling that I shall have to spend the
night at some street corner, seated on my valise, I come upon a very
third or fourth rate boarding house. The charges, however, are by no
means commensurate, and seem very large for my modest purse. To a
timid protest the landlady points to the door, and I hasten to pay a
fortnight in advance. Her hard, hatchet-like features relax a little at
sight of a few sovereigns in my purse. Helas! they constitute my whole
fortune. She precedes me to a tiny room at the back of the house.
And now to find pupils before my means are exhausted.
The moment is not opportune, it seems.
“The year is too far gone to make new arrangements.” “Call again, or
wait and leave your address, and I will write,” is the invariable reply
to my inquiries.
It is easy to say “Wait,” but I cannot wait very long.
Somebody advises me to advertise. It is an additional expense, and I am
not much enamoured of the practice. I remember one day at Gwylata my
uncle showing me an advertisement for a tutor for two boys up country.
The requirements were: “English, Algebra, Latin, Elementary French, and
Music. A young man able to _milk cows_ preferred.”
Perhaps I might be asked to groom the horse or do the cooking.
But the cutting was from an old newspaper. Times have changed since
then.
So next morning a notice appears in _The Argus_ to the effect that a
young Parisienne is ready to impart instruction on reasonable terms.
After waiting anxiously a few days I receive two answers.
The first, written on paper highly perfumed with musk, doesn’t seem too
encouraging. The second is from a Mrs. Forrest, who lives at St. Kilda,
and will see me between five and six.
The first would certainly suit me better as far as distance is
concerned, for the address is East Melbourne. I could easily walk to
and fro and so save car fares. I decide to apply.
Arriving at the street mentioned, I ask a policeman to show me the
house. He does so, giving me a rather peculiar look. He seems on the
point of speaking further, but checks himself, muttering:
“It’s her business.”
Yes, it is my business, and badly am I equipped to meet it.
The door is opened by a small boy in buttons. He favours me with an
insolent stare, then precedes me up a neglected looking staircase. In
the corridor a door opens and two young girls thrust out their heads
inquisitively.
The boy points at me, grinning, “Another!”
The room into which I am shown is in disorder. The furniture is showy,
the colours glaring. The air is redolent with a mixed odour of heavy
perfumes, tobacco and spirits, and nearly chokes me.
I feel instinctively that this is no place for me, and I turn to go,
when the door opens, and a tall, stout woman bearing the remains of
past beauty, enters and begs me to be seated.
She speaks volubly. She is charmed to meet me. She wants someone to
give French lessons to herself and her two nieces (the two young girls
of the corridor, I presume). She questions me closely. Learning that I
am alone in Melbourne, she smiles and becomes quite friendly. Too much
so, it seems to me. Her affable “My dears” are positively nauseating.
She wants me to come and live with her. They lead a very gay life, go
frequently to the theatre, and have many “gentlemen friends.”
The more pressing she becomes, the more I shrink and hesitate.
“_Jeanne fait sa tortue_” my poor uncle used to say when I retreated
into my shell at the advances of anyone antipathetic.
The oily, persuasive voice grows insistent. The question of payment is
waved airily aside.
“Oh, that doesn’t matter. We’ll come to some satisfactory arrangement
after you’ve been here for a while.” She purposes sending immediately
for my luggage. I decline to allow her, saying that I should like a
little time to reflect before coming to a decision. I am beginning to
feel ensnared. Everything is repugnant to me--the coarse luxury, the
disorder, the smooth craftiness and much too ingratiating manners of
this woman, the atmosphere of the house itself....
I do not breathe freely until I regain the street, followed by the
protestations and regrets of the lady.
The policeman is still at hand. He accosts me.
“Are you going to return to that house, Miss?”
“No, certainly not.”
“That’s all right, then, Miss. It isn’t the place for a girl like you.
The old woman ain’t up to much. I don’t trust her, so I stayed about to
see if she’d keep you by force.”
I thank my new-found friend, the Protector of innocence whose presence
has saved me, perhaps from a dreadful fate, and I return to the
boarding house, trembling at the thought of the peril into which my
inexperience has led me.
Before seeking the second address, I take the precaution to make some
inquiries about Mrs. Forrest.
I am told that she is the wife of a retired shopkeeper, who has made a
lucky coup on the Stock Exchange.
She gives herself important airs, and strives to have her name
constantly at the head of fashionable bazaars, charity concerts, and
balls.
She loves to feel herself in the public eye.
That matters little to me. Her household is honourable, that is
sufficient. The outward aspect of the house is reassuring. A
well-appointed footman shows me into a small room where his mistress is
writing a letter.
She does not trouble to receive me, but continues her work.
After some minutes she deigns to turn.
“You are the young person who put an advertisement in the paper?” she
queries, loftily, without asking me to sit down.
I feel myself redden. “Ah, my poor Jeanne, it will take you some time
to get accustomed to the bread of dependence.”
Repressing my annoyance, I draw forward an easy chair, sit down, and
reply with calm politeness.
Mrs. Forrest looks at me in astonishment. However, possessing a fair
share of astuteness, she takes in the situation and for the rest of
the time assumes better manners. I am to come every day to teach her
two little girls, and talk French with her. The salary she offers is
sufficient to pay for my board and lodging and tram fares. Later on I
hope to find employment for the afternoons.
The months will pass quickly. My dear Kate and the children will soon
be back.
XVI
The
Boarding
House
“His years were young, but his experience old.”
SHAKESPEARE.
What a strange world in miniature a boarding house presents!