The black pearl
E. CARPENTES.
My uncle and I are spending two or three days at Strathalbyn, that
coquettish little township nestling among the hills. Once a year the
members of the Hunt Club meet here and Mr. Deslandes, an excellent
horseman in spite of his advanced years, never fails to be present at
this great sporting event.
I am still too much of a novice in the equestrian art to do other than
venture the mild excitement of following the hounds in a carriage.
Truth to tell, the ball interests me much more than the hunt. Sir
Arthur and Lady Fairfax of The Grange, are old friends of my uncle,
and welcome me cordially. He is tall, broad-shouldered, and vigorous;
a splendid type of the “gentilhomme-fermier,” or English Squire.
She is small, fair, fragile, whom a breath might break. Their two
daughters are a striking example of race evolution, tall, well-made,
and passionately fond of outdoor amusements, riding, golf and tennis.
Withal, they are charming, and devotedly attached to the delicate and
frail little mother, whom they “protect” most affectionately. Their
simple friendliness puts me at ease at once.
Immediately after dinner they conduct me to my room, adjoining theirs,
and as a lady’s maid is an almost unknown luxury in Australia, we
assist each other to dress. They are keenly interested in my toilette,
as their mother, in my aunt’s absence, is going to chaperon me.
I must confess to a certain thrill as I don my first ball-dress, a
“symphony” in pink, to the great consternation of my new friends, who
declare that according to all precedent it should be white.
However, who is to know that it is my first ball? The dress is
exquisite, a creation of Paquin, and the soft rosy hue of the silk will
enhance the beauty of my pearl necklace.
The ball is held in the Institute, where all the functions of the
township take place--balls, concerts, political and other meetings.
The huntsmen wear their red coats, which gleam vividly among the light
dresses of the women. Everybody knows my uncle, and we have no lack of
partners. The attraction of novelty draws them, I think.
My first ball! Is it necessary to say more? The conversation, however,
can scarcely be termed brilliant. Every partner asks me in turn how I
like Australia, and, as I have to confess complete ignorance of horses
and sport, the talk turns on Paris, of which almost all know something.
The voyage “home,” including a fortnight’s whirl through Paris or the
Riviera, is so simple nowadays that the wealthier class make it several
times. But their Paris is not mine. Mine is that of Art, Literature and
Learning; theirs, I am sadly afraid, is the gay city of the Boulevards,
the races, the “Petits Theatres.” However, we meet on common ground
over public edifices and monuments, which they know better than I.
Whirling around to the inspiriting music, I suddenly become conscious
of a man’s gaze fixed upon me steadily, insistently. There is something
strangely agitating in its intensity. Passionate, yet tender, evoking
a shadowy, dim remembrance of forgotten things, it allures even while
it repels me. Against my will I feel compelled to turn towards him.
My pleasure is almost spoilt, for each time we pass the silent figure
I experience the half-sweet, half-painful sensation produced by an
intoxicating and enervating perfume.
I have seen those eyes before; but where, where, where?
Pleading fatigue, I resume my seat beside Lady Fairfax. Talking to
her, I watch the groups of dancers. Daisy is as happy as a bird. Her
companions, with whom she has grown up, treat her as a young sister.
One of them, Dick Power, cashier in the bank, evinces, it seems to
me, a more than fraternal interest. He dances with her as often as
etiquette will allow, and when he cannot he is generally hovering
somewhere in her vicinity.
Amused by their little by-play, my uncle’s voice makes me start.
“Jeanne, let me introduce Mr. Allan Russell.”
The man with the mysterious eyes is standing before me. Mr. Russell
bows, and since I do not wish to dance, asks me to sit out with him. I
cannot refuse; it would betray the impression he has made upon me.
His voice is deep, mellow and sympathetic. The conversation turns upon
France, which he loves and knows well, for he goes there every year
for the Salon and the Grand Prix, staying two or three months. He has
met many of our artists and authors, and in discussing them, my first
impression is forgotten.
The minutes slip by. Dick, who is to take me to supper, comes hurrying
up. Promising my companion the first extra waltz, I take Dick’s arm.
Dick Power is just a big boy, with the soft, friendly eyes of a
Newfoundland dog. He will make Daisy happy, I am sure. There will be
nothing dramatic or morbid in the well-ordered course of their simple
love. He makes no attempt to conceal his feelings.
“Isn’t she a jolly girl?” he murmurs, as we cross the room to join
Daisy and her cavalier.
To the manifest content of two of our party of four, an immediate
change of partners is effected. My gaiety has returned. I cannot
repress my laughter at the jests and sallies of my companions. My
uncle, seated at the large table among the more staid guests, raises
his eyebrows at me occasionally when our merriment threatens to become
boisterous, but at heart the dear old man is delighted that I am
enjoying myself so well.
The tuning of the violins is the signal for our return to the
ball-room. Mr. Russell is waiting at the door and claims me for his
waltz.
I have danced much this evening, and with good dancers, but I realise
that up to this moment I have never known what a waltz could be. Our
feet move in perfect unison. One spirit animates our two bodies, which
sway in the same harmonious motion. I feel my partner’s gaze becoming
more and more insistent, his eyes plunge into mine, seeming to seek the
inmost depths of my being. An invincible languor seizes me, my head
begins to swim....
By an immense effort of will I pull myself together.... I have only the
strength to murmur, “Please stop, the heat oppresses me.”
Conducting me to a little seat concealed by trailing festoons of
foliage, he leaves me a moment to get the glass of water I ask for.
His short absence enables me to regain mastery over my feelings, and to
analyse the bewildering sensations I have just experienced.
“Who is this man, an utter stranger an hour ago, whose gaze stirs my
pulses, rousing latent forces and strangely elusive memories? Ah! my
dream! I remember the eyes now. They are those of the Rajah. Have I
been foolish enough to be influenced by a chance resemblance to a
phantom of sleep?”
When Mr. Russell returns I am sufficiently composed to thank him and
speak lightly of my giddiness, which I attribute to the heat and the
scent of the flowers, by now rather pervasive.
Happily the guests are beginning to leave. My uncle is looking for me,
and Mr. Russell accompanies us to the motor, which is to take us back
to The Grange. The touch of his hand at parting sends the blood racing
swiftly through my veins.
About ten next morning the huntsmen assemble at The Grange for the
take-off. With them are four or five well-mounted ladies, including the
daughters of our host, and all the young men from the outlying farms
and country side on their best steeds. Few Australians are too poor not
to possess an animal that can _go_ or jump.
The signal given, the hounds are unleashed and the hunt begins. Lady
Fairfax and I are driving with some of the other guests. I am far too
ignorant of sport to understand much of the procedure, and ply my
companions with questions.
“The fox? Oh, the ‘fox’ is a bit of rag dipped in some evil-smelling
fluid, and dragged over the course previously to furnish the scent.”
“Why don’t you import foxes? Surely it would make the hunt more
interesting?”
“Unfortunately, we did, to our cost. They have become a scourge as bad
as the rabbits. You see, they attack the sheep and destroy thousands of
young lambs, eating only their tongues.”
“What gourmets!”
“Quite so. This delicate taste on the part of Mr. Reynard has ruined
several squatters. Sometimes a fox kills thirty or forty lambs in a
single night. And then they multiply at such an alarming rate.”
“They are more prolific than the gondolas of Mr. X.,” laughed a lady.
“The gondolas!” I exclaim, opening my eyes in amazement.
“Oh! haven’t you heard that story yet? It is generally aired for the
benefit of ‘new chums.’ It dates back from the time when the municipal
affairs of a great gold-mining centre were transacted by rough miners
more remarkable for their energy than their culture.”
“You make me curious.”
“Well, one of them, you see, had travelled a little and developed a
romantic turn of mind. He proposed to import a dozen gondolas for the
lake in course of construction.”
“They would liven up the landscape,” he urged. Another alderman rose,
and after some words expressive of his love for the town and his desire
to spare nothing that would enable it to rival the great European
cities he added:
“Why this unnecessary expense? Wouldn’t it be sufficient to import a
couple or two. In our prolific climate we should soon have the dozen
which my honourable colleague desires.”
I laugh merrily at the anecdote.
The huntsmen are coming towards us at full gallop, clearing the fences
in gallant style. The interest of this exciting steeple-chase is
centred in the manner in which rider and horse negotiate each obstacle,
generally in a dual capacity, but sometimes quite independently.
Lady Fairfax covers her eyes as her daughters rise to the fence like
two little amazons. How comes it that this sweet, gentle dove is the
mother of these fearless eaglets?
Mr. Russell is mounted on a magnificent black. Rider and horse are
one like a centaur. In the excitement of the chase, he passes without
seeing me, and I feel, I don’t know why, a little hurt.
“Look at Allan Russell,” remarks a lady. “Doesn’t he look splendid on
horseback!”
“Yes; he sits like an Englishman, more correctly than our young people.”
“It would be much better if the ‘correctness’ were in his conduct
rather than in his riding,” retorts the first lady, resenting even this
slight criticism of her countrymen.
“Why? Is there anything amiss with it?”
“Much. In the first place, he seems to care far too little for his own
wife whom one never sees, and far too much for the wives of others.”
So, he is married, then! I am surprised and vaguely troubled.
Certainly it is not love I feel for this man. It is rather a kind of
obsession, a response to the appeal in his eyes which awakens something
obscure, half forgotten.
Well, I am warned now, at any rate. He has a wife. And his eloquent
glances mean only a passing flirtation.
After the hunt-luncheon, at which the women only appear for the
speeches and toasts, my uncle and I start for Gwylata, taking with us
Daisy, who can scarcely tear herself from her beloved Dick.
With a detached air, well-assumed I hope, I listen to Allan Russell’s
parting words:
“This is not to be good-bye, Mademoiselle. Mr. Deslandes has kindly
asked me to spend a day at Gwylata; so in a little while, I hope to
meet you again.”
VII
Bahloo
I see the stalwart aborigines straying naked through the primal
woods, light-footed amid the grass. I hear their powerful cries and
calls to each other, resounding from cliffs and gullies.
E. CARPENTES.
Bahloo is the little black boy of whom my aunt has taken charge
since the death of his mother, Meamei. He is being brought up at the
aboriginal mission house, which is under the spiritual direction of