The black pearl
“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.
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.