The black pearl
Dick and she are engaged. They are too poor to get married yet, but
so soon as he is promoted to the management of a country bank their
parents will help them to start housekeeping.
Naturally, Dick is delighted to see us. With the freedom of this happy
land from rigid conventionality, he takes complete charge of us. We
lunch at the hotel, where the merry repartees of my companions make me
forget the reason of my presence.
Lunch over, we go to the river for a row. The two lovers ply their
oars in unison, exchanging candid glances of love and tenderness as
they discuss their future plans. They consider me as their friend and
confidante. I wonder if one day I also shall come across a man who
will love me simply and purely with a calm, untroubled affection like
theirs, without ecstasy perhaps, but also without shame.
I considerately turn my attention to the river banks, umbrageous with
willows, which the early settlers, the pioneers of the district,
planted there. They have grown to dimensions quite unknown in more
temperate climes. I amuse myself following the friskings and gambols of
quite an aquatic fauna at the water’s edge, wild duck, teal, gracefully
poised cranes, shags, and huge pelicans. Cockatoos, black and white,
fly from tree to tree, uttering their harsh dissonant cries. The clear,
flute-like notes of the magpie pierce the summer air.
“This is a sportsman’s paradise,” remarks Dick, who is nothing if not
practical.
We return to Gwylata by moonlight. Mr. Russell, as I expected, is no
longer there.
“He was very disappointed not to have seen you,” said my aunt. “He
wanted to say good-bye before leaving for Europe, where he intends
spending several months.”
So complex are my feelings that it is half with regret and half with
relief that I learn of his departure, which will put half the globe
between us.
* * * * *
Bahloo has evinced a great fondness for Meg’s society. She is quite
proud of it, and her face relaxes its severity when the funny little
chap strokes her wrinkled cheeks with his tiny hands. This afternoon
she has dressed him for his first outing since his illness. With what
an air of importance she carries him in her arms! Mac follows, holding
a parasol to shield them from the sun, which even thus early in the
season is very warm in the middle of the day.
Mrs. Deslandes, watching the trio from the verandah, cannot understand
the _entente cordiale_ between these queerly assorted individuals.
But I let her into the secret of my matchmaking scheme. At first she
laughs. Then, growing serious, says,
“It is really a capital idea, Jeanne. What would have become of the
poor old soul when I am gone? She will, at any rate, have a companion
and an interest in life.”
VIII
Shearing
Time
On la tond,
On la tond,
La laine du mouton.
RONDE ENFANTINE.
For some days we have scarcely seen anything of Mr. Deslandes. It is
the busiest time of the year on the station, and his attention is given
wholly to the shearing.
All the outbuildings have been opened up--the sheds, the packing rooms
where the wool is compressed into bales, and the quarters for the
shearers, who have arrived in a body.
Despite my uncle’s protests, I am going to watch the sheep being shorn.
* * * * *
It is a weird sight! Once is sufficient; I do not wish to repeat the
experience. There is something so savage and bestial in the scene.
Half-naked men rushing wildly about, waving their arms and shouting
like demons in the midst of bleating, terrified sheep; the atmosphere
of steaming humanity, of pungent animal odours, of blood even, for now
and then a poor beast is wounded by the shears. It mounts to one’s
brain, intoxicating and revolting at the same time.
I could not look on for more than a few minutes, and not until I have
had a long gallop on Said, inhaling great draughts of the saline air
which blows across the lake from the Southern Ocean, do I feel clean
and fresh again.
Hector never fails to be home at this time. He organises concerts and
other amusements in the large common room set apart for the shearers.
Some of the men have fine voices, untrained but clear and resonant,
developed in sunshine and liberty. Sometimes lantern pictures are
thrown on the wall, and it is always a marvel to me to see these big
children of the bush so interested in Old World pictures. Snow scenes
especially arouse their wonder and admiration, and a thoughtful face
here and there indicates that memory is back among the half-effaced
scenes of childhood. The phonograph is brought into requisition, and a
dance generally winds up the evening’s fun--a dance with men only, like
those on board a man-of-war.
What a strange nomadic people are these shearers! Journeying from
station to station, traversing Australia from north to south, according
to the seasons, rough, uncouth and violent, with quick passions,
counting on the need of their services to make their own terms with
the squatters! Poor people! I can scarcely blame them; their lives are
hard, their work strenuous.
Many have no greater ambition or hope than to “knock down” the cheque
so laboriously earned, in the nearest bar, which, thanks to the
machinations of the publican and the seductions of the barmaid, they
only leave when their last penny is gone.... I heard of the wife of
a wealthy hotel-keeper who actually sat down and cried with vexation
because a shearer left the hotel with thirty shillings still in his
pocket.
Then the journey to the next station is resumed, and the same pitiful
comedy, I might almost say tragedy, is re-enacted.
Comparatively few return to the cities. The shearing season over,
the majority still tramp from station to station, arriving generally
about sunset, and asking a meal and a night’s lodging which are rarely
refused. Hence the expressive name given to them--_Sundowners_.
What is the secret spell which this silent and mysterious land of far
distances weaves around these Bohemians of the Bush who prefer to cook
their simple meals and boil their “billy” on the track, sleeping at
night under a stately gum, through whose pendant leaves filters the
soft light of the Southern Cross?
Few abandon the life--they may go to the capital occasionally for a
“jolly spree,” as they call it, but the Spirit of the Bush calls with
insistent voice; an unseen presence is on the trail, and they must fain
follow.
The need of affection drives them to seek companionship with another
“mate,” that expressive word which indicates a community of interest,
affection and fidelity.
One meets them thus in couples, helping each other through difficult
moments, sharing alike good and bad fortune, tending each other in
illness until, perhaps, the summons of the Dread Spectre calls for the
last service which faithful hands can give. The Bush has its silent,
secret language, known only to its initiates. A cross, rudely cut in
a tree above an initial, may be passed quite unsuspectingly by an
outsider, but the bushman knows that it marks the last resting-place of
an unknown comrade, and his hat is reverently raised as he passes on.
So, too, may he sleep in the deep stillness.
* * * * *
I am never tired of listening to Hector.
Full of sympathy himself, he possesses the rare gift of evoking it in
others. His interest in the material welfare of the men on the station
is as keen as his desire to awaken the religious instinct in their
hearts.
In the daytime when every one is busy we resume our rides. My aunt,
whom I am afraid of neglecting, is the first to find a pretext for
sending us off together. Placing her pretty hand on my shoulder, she
said to me this morning:
“I am so happy that my two children get on so well together; that is
right, enjoy your youth.”
Sometimes Hector takes me for a row on the lake.
Neither lofty mountains nor far vistas move me so deeply as a little
rocky inlet by the seashore, a turn of the river bordered with poplars,
or a tiny stream babbling under willows.
Is it the magnetism of the water, its fluidity, its incessant movement,
the latent life which is imprisoned? Or is it simply the interchanging
play of light and shadow which gives it a new aspect every moment?
Our corner of the lake is fringed with weeping willows, whose tender
green tassels contrast vividly with the dull-toned gum trees.
Mooring our boat to the trunk of a tree, we pass long hours on the
unruffled water.
Hector is initiating me into the beauties of Burns, Keats and Shelley,
the obscurities of Browning, whom he admires above all; the lofty
socialism of Ruskin, which strongly appeals to me.
We discuss the perennial disputes between England and France, and
compare Shakespeare and Victor Hugo.
Naturally, the national poet of each is exalted in turn.
“Shakespeare!” exclaims Hector, rhetorically; “the myriad-minded, the
Seer of the Ages, whose intellect resolved the secrets of Humanity,
whose sympathy softened them into music. His soul is the garner-house
of immemorial experiences.”
To which I reply:
“Victor Hugo, ‘the Poet of the Soul.’ His heart is a lyre which
resounds to all vibrations. He loves, he fights, he suffers with all
humanity.”
IX
Engaged
Ce que le flot dit aux rivages,
Ce que le vent dit aux vieux monts,
Ce que l’astre dit aux nuages,
C’est le mot ineffable. Aimons.
VICTOR HUGO.
A snake crossing the road, a sudden shy on the part of Said, and the
whole world is transfigured!
Hector and I start for a ride immediately after breakfast in order to
escape the heat. We have not gone far when an unexpected swerve nearly
unseats me. Said, startled by a snake darting in front of him, rears
and then bolts.
Hector’s voice is powerless to stop him. I lose all control; the reins
drop from my nerveless fingers, a sudden shock....
Words of tenderness and love recall me to consciousness. Hector’s face,
drawn with emotion, is bending over me. I close my eyes quickly, but
a tell-tale rush of blood to my cheeks betrays that I have heard. He
assists me to rise. Beyond a little giddiness I am not hurt.
We remain a moment facing each other in a silence fraught with intense
feeling, broken by Hector’s grave voice.
“I did not wish to speak so soon, dear, but seeing you lying there
unconscious, perhaps dead, the words leapt from my heart. You know it
now, Jeanne, I love you.”
All that is good and noble in my nature responds to his words. I place
my hands in his. A kiss soft as a sigh brushes my trembling lips.
Then, standing back a little the better to read in my eyes the answer
for which he is longing, he says:
“The wife of a minister, dear! It is a serious life for a gay little
Parisienne. You are sure that you will regret nothing?”
“Quite sure,” I murmur. And a feeling of infinite calm, of inward rest
and contentment pervades me. In the pure atmosphere in which he lives,
my little weaknesses and feminine vanities will disappear. I shall
become the woman I want to be--a woman worthy of him.
The sun high above the horizon recalls us to the flight of time and to
the fact that the Gwylata folk will be getting anxious at our prolonged
absence. Hector is unwilling that I should remount Said, who, after his
escapade, has come back and is browsing quietly near Sultan.
Throwing the bridles over our arms, we walk slowly home, discussing the
plans for our future.
My aunt, evidently uneasy, is watching for us from the verandah. She is
quick to divine the news in our altered glances, and calls her husband
to share her delight. Both beam with joy. Their greatest desire is
realised.