The black pearl
Hector, who can thus keep watch on the child’s welfare.
Meamei, the victim, or perhaps the culprit, in a _crime passionel_--the
silence of the bush holds the secret of many such--was one day brought
with her newly-born infant to my uncle’s station in Queensland.
Wounded, and almost dead with hunger, she had dragged herself along
many weary miles. Knowing only a few words of English, she either could
not, or would not, give any information about herself. She seemed to
live in dread of her life.
Some suspicious-looking blacks having been seen loitering near the
station, my uncle had Meamei removed to Gwylata in order to escape the
danger she feared.
Here, she quickly regained her vivacity and light-heartedness. She
learned to gabble English, and soon found a new admirer in the person
of Byanee, a native from the Point McLeay Station.
They were married very soon, the question of Bahloo’s father, alive or
dead, being a moral subtlety not particularly necessary to dwell upon
when dealing with the blacks.
Meamei had been dead several months, and as Bahloo’s stepfather was
inclined to express his paternal obligations more by cuffs than care,
my aunt had taken charge of the little one.
The whole family was interested in the picaninny, and when he fell sick
Mrs. Deslandes wanted to bring him into the house at once. Hector,
however, fearing possible infection, had him taken to MacMahon’s
cottage.
“Mac will make an excellent nurse. When he has a trust reposed in him,
he would die of thirst rather than touch a drop of whisky.”
“Yes,” said my uncle, “and once the responsibility ceases?”...
“Then it will be our turn to look after him.”
“I am thinking, though, what is to become of your riding lessons,
little cousin, if I take away your instructor, unless,” bowing
profoundly, “you will allow me to take his place and ride with you
to-morrow.”
“Certainly, Hector, if you will let me help look after Bahloo.”
“I don’t think you ought to. The symptoms are grave. I am afraid it is
typhoid.”
Then, after a moment’s hesitation, he added, smiling,
“It is scarcely right for me, a clergyman, to dissuade you from doing
a good deed. If you will take proper precautions....”
“Oh! I will be prudence itself. I adore nursing. My dearest dream was
to become a doctor, until uncle vetoed it. You shuddered with horror,
godfather, didn’t you, at the mere thought of having a niece an M.D.?”
He is a little old-fashioned in his notions, the dear man, but I love
him with all my heart, in spite of, perhaps because of, the difference
in our opinions.
This morning, immediately after breakfast, Hector and I go to see
Bahloo.
Mac is waiting for us at the door of his cottage, which consists of one
large room, a small kitchen, and a wide, shady verandah, where one can
lounge luxuriously.
My uncle has housed him very comfortably, that he may have less reason
for yielding to his weakness.
The baby is in Mac’s bed. He himself sleeps on a mattress on the floor.
Little Bahloo is all but unconscious. His black skin looks dull and
lifeless. Only his eyes are large and brilliant with fever.
Poor little pariah! What has he done to be sent into the world?
His tiny body still bears the marks of Byanee’s hand. Hector
understands medicine. In the bush, where doctors are rare, the parson
has often to look after the bodies as well as the souls of his
parishioners.
Does he not thereby follow humbly in the footsteps of the Great Pastor,
who journeyed through Judea healing the afflicted, as he preached the
new Gospel of love and hope?
After arranging the hours when I should relieve Mac in his new duties,
we return to the house.
The horses have been brought round to the verandah, ready for our ride.
In place of my old Jenny, the groom holds my cousin’s horse, Said,
a beautiful animal, the pick of the stable, the best mount in the
country, as Mac has proudly asserted on several occasions.
“Look, Hector, they have made a mistake with the saddles.”
“Said is yours now, Jeanne--that is, if you will accept him. I have
really no time for riding,” he adds, to remove any scruple I may have,
“and it would be a crime not to use such a noble animal, wouldn’t it?”
Said, quite conscious that we are speaking of him, lays his velvety
nose on Hector’s shoulder and whinnies caressingly out of sheer joy.
We begin our ride.
Said is a perfect treasure. When his ardour is too great for my
inexperience, a word from my companion renders him docile and obedient.
My new instructor is much more difficult to please than Mac. Nothing
misses his keen eyes. He has evidently determined to make me a good
horsewoman.
* * * * *
Our little patient is getting better. The attack is a mild one. He is
sleeping now, and to pass the time, I take one of my uncle’s books from
Mac’s shelf. It is the “Life of Father Damien,” by Clifford.
I read the first pages with keenly awakened interest, and when Mac
comes in to relieve me, I carry off the volume.
Comfortably stretched on my cane lounge, I continue its perusal. It is
as fascinating as a romance, this life of the hero of the lepers, so
splendid in its devotion and simplicity.
Hector, whose approach is unheeded, so great is my absorption, bends
over to read the title of the book.
Suddenly he draws himself up, his mobile features contracting.
“Ah! you are reading about Father Damien. I envy him as much as I
admire him.”
“But, Hector, leprosy! That frightful disease of which he died!”
His face grows sombre.
“I would give everything,” dropping his voice, “to become a real
missionary and go to Molokai.”
“It would kill your mother, Hector.”
“After all,” he continues, musingly, “there is a moral leprosy also,
that of indifference and impiety. I can find plenty of opportunities to
fight that.”
I remain silent. I don’t like these burning religious questions.
Feeling that we may clash, the wisest course is to avoid them.
* * * * *
It is an odd thing that Hector, so good to the rough bushmen,
interesting himself in the petty details of their lives, so sweet
and tender to his mother, whom he surrounds with a protecting love,
so considerate towards me, whom he treats as a little sister, should
become cold and stern directly a question of dogma is broached. Is it
an atavistic survival of Puritan times and teaching?
Perhaps it is due to the narrowness of his education. Strange, indeed,
that he, so clear and wide-visioned, so eclectic in all literary
matters, should have read nothing of those great religious writings
outside the pale of orthodoxy!
To-day we have had our first quarrel. It was over Renan’s “Life of
Jesus.” He is greatly astonished that I have been permitted to read it.
“It is a dangerous book, Jeanne, an evil book.”
“How do you know, if you have not read it?” I cannot refrain from
answering, rather hotly.
* * * * *
Since Hector’s departure on mission duty, Meg helps me to look after
our little picaninny. She has installed herself as head nurse, and
it is amusing to see how she marshals MacMahon and myself. In the
twinkling of an eye, she has turned the cottage inside out. It is
so spick and span now that it must feel quite lonely. A huge stack
appeared suddenly in the back yard, composed of the treasured
accumulations of years. Ancient letters, old ragged garments, littered
on the floor or stowed away in cupboards, old broken pipes, odds and
ends of all kinds, were submissively carried out by Mac himself.
At Meg’s stern order he set fire to the pile with his own hands and
stood ruefully watching his treasures disappear in smoke.
I was afraid that such drastic proceedings would offend him. But, no!
To my sympathetic condolences, he replies with a complacent shake of
his head.
“Begorra!” This is his favourite swear word--the only one he permits
himself in my presence. “But she’s a masterful woman, a woman with a
head on her shoulders.”
Oh! what an idea!
Meg and Mac. The two extremes.
But extremes meet, they say. Why not make a match between the two? A
little diplomacy and success will crown my efforts. I will sow the
grain and leave it to time to germinate.
“Meg,” I begin, as she brings me a cup of tea next morning, a duty she
has taken upon herself to show her penitence for having suspected me
of the crime of being a Papist, “Meg, you must have had a good many
sweethearts in your time.”
“What an idea, Miss Joan! Why do you say that?”
“Well, you see, you have an admirer now, Meg.”
“An admirer, Miss! What silly nonsense! Saving your presence, Miss.”
“It’s quite true, Meg, I assure you. He has eyes only for you. But you
are making the poor man desperate by your indifference.”
“This is one of your French jokes, isn’t it, Miss?”
“No, Meg; really, it’s very serious, you know. Do you mean to say that
you have never noticed the effect you have on Mac? Why, the poor man
can scarcely pluck up courage to look you in the face, but when your
back is turned, his eyes follow you everywhere.”
“That good-for-nothing of a Mac! Sure, it’s better for him to look at
me than at his whisky bottle.”
“Cruel Meg! Your disdain will drive him to despair.”
The old dame went off, muttering something about the silly heads that
think of nothing but love and lovers.
In reality, she is not at all displeased. What woman is, even if she be
a septuagenarian, at the thought of having a lover?
“Jeanette, Jeanette!”
My uncle is calling me.
“I have just received a letter from Russell. He will lunch with us
to-morrow, and.... Oh, he sends his compliments and regards to you.
Take care, girlie! Don’t let your heart be touched by this Byronic
hero,” he added, smilingly.
My dear uncle doesn’t know how serious the case is already. In the
privacy of my room, I question myself anxiously.
“What shall I do? Remain and receive Mr. Russell? Fall again under the
charm of his personality? At the bare thought my heart beats quickly.
His sombre eyes seem again to fix mine, compelling me to explore
unknown depths of joy and suffering.”
Unknown? I wonder.
No, no! I will absent myself on some pretext or other. To fly from
danger is sometimes a proof of true courage. Hastily I send off a note
to Daisy, asking her to meet me to-morrow morning. She shall drive me
to Wellington in her dog-cart. When we return late at night all danger
of a meeting will be passed.
Daisy is punctually at the rendezvous.
She is delighted at the chance of going to the township, where Dick’s
Bank is. He will find someone to take his duties for a time so that he
may be our cavalier.
My uncle is surprised and a trifle displeased at our departure. Soon,
however, he regains his good temper. Is he cognizant of Mr. Russell’s
reputation?
At any rate, he doesn’t insist on my remaining, and I leave to him the
task of explaining my absence. Meg will look after Bahloo. It is one of
my aunt’s good days, and she will be able to preside over the luncheon
table. I can go with a clear conscience, and give myself almost without
regret to the pleasure of chatting with Daisy, who is too good a whip
to mind the dual occupation.
What a charming girl Daisy is! Healthy in mind and body, frank,
ingenuous, and bright, she is a true type of Australian girlhood.
Her nature has developed like a beautiful wayside plant in the wide
sunny spaces of Australia.
One must not exact from her artistic or abstract ideals. Born in a
country without a history, she possesses no feeling for the past, no
veneration for the great heroes of the world. But she vibrates to all
the pristine forces of a simple and natural life.
During the drive she opens her heart to me.