Читать книгу The Record of Nicholas Freydon - A. J. Dawson - Страница 19

My first serious preoccupation regarding ways and means--the money question--began, I think, in the neighbourhood of my eleventh birthday, and has remained a more or less constant companion and bedfellow ever since.

Now, as I write, I am perhaps freer than ever before from this sordid preoccupation; not by reason of fortunate investments and a plethoric bank balance, but because my needs now are singularly few and inexpensive, and the future--that Damoclean sword of civilised life--no longer stretches out before me, a long and arid expanse demanding provision. This preoccupation began for me in the week of my eleventh birthday, when my father asked me one evening if I thought we could manage now without Ted's services.

'It's not that I pay him much,' said my father, stroking his chin between thumb and forefinger, as his manner was when pondering such a point; 'but the fact is we can by no manner of juggling pretend to be able to afford even that little. Then, again, you see, the poor chap must eat. The fish he brings us are a real help, and no wage-earner I ever met could take pot-luck more cheerfully than Ted. What's more, I like him, you like him, and he is, I know, a most useful fellow to have about. But, take it any way one can, he must represent fifty pounds a year in our rate of expenditure, and-- Well, you see, Nick, we simply haven't got it to spend.'

It was on the tip of my tongue, I remember, to ask my father why he did not send to the bank and ask for more money; and by that may be gauged the crudely unsophisticated stage of my development. But I must remember, too, that I bit back the question, and, ignorant of all detail though I was, felt intuitively sure, first, that the whole subject was a sore and difficult one for my father, and, secondly, that I must never ask for or expect anything calling for monetary expenditure. My vague feeling was that the World had somehow wronged my father by not providing him with more money. I felt instinctively that It never would give him any more; and that It had given him whatever he had, only as the result of personal sacrifices which should never have been demanded of him. I resented keenly what seemed to me the World's callous and unreasonable discourtesy to such a man as my father, whom, I thought, It should have delighted to honour.

As illustrating the World's coarse and brutal injustice, I thought, there was the case of a man like Nelly Fane's father, or, again, the storekeeper in Werrina. (Mr. Fane would hardly have thanked me for the conjunction.) Neither, it was clear, possessed a tithe of the brains, the distinction, the culture, or the charm of my father; yet it was equally obvious (in different ways) that both were a good deal more liberally endowed with this world's gear than we were. I felt that the whole matter ought to be properly explained and made clear to those powers, whoever they were, who controlled and ordered It. I distinctly remember the thought taking shape in my mind that Mr. Disraeli ought to know about it! Meantime, my concern was, as far as might be, to relieve my father of anxiety, and so minimise as much as possible the effects of a palpable miscarriage of justice.

The thing has a rather absurd and pompous effect as I set it down on paper; but I have stated it truly, none the less, however awkwardly.

The fact that I had known no mother, combined with the progressive weakening of my father's health and peace of mind during the previous year or so, may probably have influenced my attitude in all such matters, may have given a partly feminine quality to my affection for my father. I know it seemed to me unfitting that he should ever take any part in our domestic work on the Livorno, and very natural that I should attend to all such matters. Also I had felt, ever since the day in Richmond Park when, to some extent, he gave me his confidence regarding the severance of his connection with the London newspaper office, that my father needed 'looking after,' that it was desirable for him to be taken care of and spared as much as possible; and that, obviously, I was the person to see to it. Our departure from England had been rather a pleasure than otherwise for me, because it had seemed to place my father more completely in my hands. Such an attitude may or may not have been natural and desirable in so young a boy; I only know that it was mine at that time.

It follows therefore that I told my father we could perfectly well manage without Ted, though, as a fact, I viewed the prospect, not with misgiving so much as with very real regret. I had grown to like Ted very well in the few months he had spent with us, and to this day I am gratefully conscious of the practical use and value of many lessons learned from this simple teacher, who was so notably wanting, by the Werrina storekeeper's way of it, in 'Systum.' A more uniformly kindly fellow I do not think I have ever met. The world would probably pronounce him an idler, and it is certain he would never have accumulated money; but he was not really idle. On the contrary, he was full of activity, and of simple, kindly enthusiasms. Rut his chosen forms of activity rarely led him to the production of what is marketable, and he very quickly wearied of any set routine.

'Spare me days!' Ted cried, when my father, with some circumlocutionary hesitancy and great delicacy, conveyed his decision to our factotum. 'Don't let the bit o' money worry ye, Mr. Freydon. It's little I do, anyway. Give me an odd shilling or two for me 'baccy an' that, when I go into Werrina, an' I'll want no wages. What's the use o' wages to the likes o' me, anyhow?'

I could see that this put my father in something of a quandary. A certain delicacy made it difficult for him to mention the matter of Ted's food--the good fellow had a royal appetite--and he did not want to appear unfriendly to a man who simply was not cognisant of any such things as social distinctions or obligations. Finally, and with less than his customary ease, my father did manage to make it plain that his decision, however much he might regret being forced to it, was final; and that he could not possibly permit Ted's proposed gratuitous sacrifice of his time and abilities.

'There's the future to be thought of, you know, Ted,' he added. (For how many years has that word 'future' stood for anxiety, gloom, depression, and worry?) 'Such a capable fellow as you are should be earning good pay, and, if you don't need it now, banking it against the day when you will want it.' (My father was on firmer ground now, and a characteristic smile began to lighten his eyes and voice, besides showing upon his expressive mouth. I am not sure that I ever heard him laugh outright; but his chuckle was a choice incentive to merriment, and he had a smile of exceptional sweetness.) 'There'll be a Mrs. Ted presently, you know, and how should I ever win her friendship, as I hope to, if she knew I had helped to prevent her lord and master from getting together the price of a home? No, no, Ted; we can't let you do that. But if anything I can say or write will help you to a place worth having, I'm very much at your service; and if you will come and pay us a visit whenever you feel like sparing a Sunday or holiday, we shall both take it kindly in you, and Nick here will bless you for it, won't you, Nick?'

I agreed in all sincerity, and so the matter was decided. But Ted positively insisted on being allowed to stay one further week with us, without pay, in order, he said, 'to finish my mate's eddication as a bushman.' 'My mate,' of course, was myself. In the Old World such freedom of speech would perhaps indicate disrespect, and would almost certainly be resented as such. But we had learned something of Australian ways by this time; and if my father's eyebrows may have risen ever so slightly at that word 'mate,' I was frankly pleased and flattered by it. Then, as now, I could appreciate as a compliment the inclination of such a good fellow to give me so friendly a title; and yet I fear me no genuine democrat would admit that I had any claim to be regarded as a disciple of his cult!

His mind deliberately bent on conveying instruction, Ted proved rather a poor teacher. In that rôle he was the least thing tiresome, and given to enlargement upon unessentials, while overlooking the things that matter. Unconsciously he had taught me much; in his teaching week he rather fretted me. But, all the same, I was sorry when the end of it arrived. We had arranged for him to drive with me to the point at which our track crossed a main road, where we should meet the storekeeper's cart. There would be stores for me to bring back, and Ted would finish his journey with the storekeeper's man. Ted insisted on making me a present of his own special axe, which he treated and regarded as some men will treat a pet razor. He had taught me to use and keep it fairly well. I gave him my big horn-handled knife, which was quite a tool-kit in itself; and my father gave him a hunting-crop to which he had taken a desperate fancy.

The storekeeper's man witnessed our parting, and that kept me on my dignity; but when the pair of them were out of sight, I felt I had lost a friend, and had many cares upon my shoulders. Driving back alone through the bush with our stores, I made some fine resolutions. I was now in my twelfth year, and very nearly a man, I told myself. It would be my business to keep our home in order, to take particularly good care of my father, and to see that he was as comfortable as I could make him. Certainly, I was a very serious-minded youngster; and it did not make me less serious to find when I got back to the Livorno that my father was lying in his bunk in some pain, and, as I knew at first glance, very much depressed. He had strained or hurt himself in some way in cutting firewood.

'You oughtn't to have done it, you know, father,' I remember saying, very much as a nurse or parent might have said it. 'We've plenty stacked in the main hatch, and you know the wood's my job.'

He smiled sadly. 'I'm not quite sure that there's any work here that doesn't seem to be your "job," old fellow,' he said. 'At least, if any of it's mine, it must be a kind that's sadly neglected.'

'Well, but, father, you have more important things; you have your writing. The little outside jobs are mine, of course. I've learned it all from Ted. You really must trust me for that, father.'

'Ah, well, you're a good lad, Nick; and we must see if I cannot set to seriously in the matter of doing some of this writing you talk of. It's high time; and it may be easier now we are alone. No, I don't think I'll get up to supper this evening, Nick. I'm not very well, to tell the truth, and a quiet night's rest here will be best for me.'

We had a few fowls then in a little bush run, and I presently had a new-laid egg beaten up for my patient. This he took to oblige me; but his 'quiet night's rest' did not amount to much, for each time I waked through the night I knew, either by the light burning beside him, or by some slight movement he made, that my father was awake.