Читать книгу The Confessions of a Currency Girl - Carlton Dawe - Страница 4

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AND now the first cloud was rapidly beginning to darken the horizon of our lives, and a gloomy cloud it was, through which our sun sought in vain to shine. I have, as I have said, noted that father never went anywhere, and that mother, with the exception of her friendship with Mrs. Wallace, lived her life shut up within herself; and I have likewise wondered why they should live so strangely when both were gentlefolks, well to do, and therefore most desirable acquaintances, especially in such a limited social circle as that of Wallan and its neighbourhood. But I was soon to learn the cause of this self-inflicted solitude, and then I ceased to wonder at it. A breath will wound the sensitive spirit, and they were both sensitive and vulnerable. Though the many would have received them with open arms, neither father nor mother would lay themselves open to the shafts of the brutal.

I was ten years old when I was first made aware of my heritage, though for a long time previously I had become conscious that wherever I went I was the object of considerable attention. Even the girls at school took to looking at me in a quizzing sort of way, whispering, and then leaving off their whispers as I approached; and upon several occasions I had seen old ladies put up their glasses, look me over curiously as though I were some strange animal, and then mutter, “Dear me,” “What a pity,” “And so pretty, poor thing,” and then turn away with a shake of their heads. I could never understand those curious glances, those ominous head-shakes, and used to think that there was something supremely grotesque in their exhibitions of pity; for I was young and strong, and not unhandsome either; at least, my modesty has every reason to believe that I was not, and morever, I had known no care—except one slight attack of measles—since the day I had first entered on this sublunary scene. There was plenty of that to come, unfortunately, but as yet my path had been a sunny one, and I gave no thought to the winter which was surely creeping onward.

The full significance of it all befell me one day in school. We were hard at our geography, and when the question time came round it so happened that I was asked what Botany Bay was famous for, and upon my immediately answering “Convicts,” all the girls about me gave such unmistakable signs of tittering that the teacher’s face flushed hotly, and I saw her regard me with a look of the most intense pity. Not understanding why she should thus honour me, though guessing intuitively that there was something wrong, I returned her look with one of wonder, and, maybe, one of appealing also, for she came over to me and said, “Never mind them, Florence dear. They are only ignorant country children. Pay no heed to them.” But when I told mother that night, she took me in her arms, sobbed over me, and called me her “poor unfortunate child;” and when father came in she told him, and I saw his face grow black as a thunder-cloud.

“They shall go near that school no more,” he said, addressing mother. “I will not have my children insulted.”

And I saw mother look up at him, oh, such a pitiful look, and his own hot eyes grew suddenly dim. He turned his face away and walked to the other end of the room.

“It is we who are to blame,” she said. “God forgive us.”

“Perhaps!” he exclaimed angrily. “But why should blame attach itself to these innocent children?”

Mother, instead of replying, for father was then in one of his combative moods, turned and caressed me more tenderly, while Harold, his big eyes full of wonder, put his arms round our necks, pressed his beautiful face in between our faces, and mingled his tears with ours. That night remains in my memory as one of the saddest I ever knew, and yet one of the sweetest too, for all the loving tenderness which we had hitherto experienced from our parents was eclipsed by their love of that night, and I well recollect that when I went to bed I wept myself, joyfully wept myself, to sleep.

But we went to that school no more, and father engaged a governess for us, who used to come over from Wallan three times a week; though, if the truth were told, most of our education was undertaken and completed by mother, who had once been a creditable scholar, and who remembered sufficient to take me through the world, though we intended that Will, and Harold too, if he were strong enough, should go off to Melbourne to finish his education.

And so the weeks sped by, and though I had not forgotten the cause of our leaving the school, and mother’s subsequent tears and father’s anger, I was yet too young to puzzle over what I could not possibly comprehend, and had it not been for the occasional glimpses of my old school-fellows, it is more than probable I should have forgotten it altogether. One day, however, the mystery was made clear once for all, and, young as I was, I knew that a shame had fallen on us from which we should not escape this side of the grave.

Will and I were returning one day from Wallan, where we had been to order in the week’s stores, both mounted on our ponies, and as full of life as two young people of ten and twelve can be. I know I was thinking how splendid it was to have a pony of one’s own, and to be able to scamper along the roads or across the paddocks without the slightest exertion—to oneself—when we came to the slip-rails which led into one of Mr. Langton’s large paddocks, which in its turn led, by a grassy road over which Will and I had had many a furious race, to our own home. Through this paddock we invariably went while going to or returning from Wallan, and through it we now proposed going. On reaching the rails, however, we were surprised, and not agreeably so, to see three of the town boys seated on the topmost rail eating sour apples.

“Hullo!” cried Will, imperceptibly drawing rein; “there’s that Patsy Dillon and his friends. They’ve been stealing our fruit again. I told Smith to keep his eyes skinned, but I don’t believe he’d take the trouble to chase anybody if he saw them.”

“But this is that awful Dillon boy,” I ventured.

“Of course it is,” was the reply. “But what of that?”

I thought a lot of it, for this Patsy Dillon, a lad of about fourteen, was a terrible young scapegrace, whose reputation for impudence and wickedness was unequalled in the township. He was the acknowledged bully of the place, the terror of all respectable children, and the admiration of all the worthless members of that mixed community, who applauded each evil effort, and prophesied that he would prove to be one of the grandest bushrangers the country had ever turned out. And it must be confessed that Patsy strove hard to live up to the exalted opinion his friends held of him, and never by any chance did he miss an opportunity of doing wrong, or of injuring or insulting all who came within his category of “stuck-up.”

That we were classed among the stuck-up—that is, the respectable—we knew well, and Will and he had on more than one occasion bandied some words of an uncomplimentary nature; but Will, like the rest of the younger boys, had a sneaking respect for Patsy, fostered, no doubt, by fear, for Master Dillon was deemed a boy of uncommon pugilistic prowess.

As soon as I saw this ill-dressed, ferocious young monster perched perkily on the rail, eating our apples, too, with an attendant monster on each side of him, my heart failed me, and, pulling in my pony, I whispered to Will that it would be better for us to turn back into the main road and abandon our thought of a grassy gallop.

Will shook his head. “They’ve seen us, Flos. If we were to turn back now, they’d know I was afraid of them.”

“But aren’t you, Will?”

“No, I’m not,” says he defiantly, but all the same the poor old fellow looked very serious as he rode up to the rails.

There sat the three boys grinning like so many monkeys, but not one of them offered to move.

“Hullo, Hastins!” cried that dreadful Dillon boy, his horrid mouth full of our fruit, “ ’ave a apple?”

“No, thank you,” says Will, as dignified as a young lord, or, as I take it, a lord ought to be. “I should be very much obliged to you, though, if you wouldn’t mind getting down while we pass through.” And springing from his pony he handed me the reins.

“Git down,” echoed Patsy, with an impudent grin. “Well, I’m blowed!” The proposal almost took Master Dillon’s breath away.

“If you wouldn’t mind,” said Will.

“But I do mind,” said Patsy, with an evil look. “You just git up, young feller, and take yourself orf.”

“Very well,” replied Will, who entertained no thought of making the young scamp descend from his perch. “I shall not forget to let Mr. Mackenzie (Mr. Langton’s manager) know about this. He’s had his eye on you for a long time, Patsy Dillon.”

Patsy uttered some rude remark, but Will turned to remount his pony without replying.

“Bah!” cried the young ragamuffin, seeing Will was not inclined to quarrel, “who’d take any notice of what you say, you convict!”

Convict!

I looked at Will in wonder, my astonishment growing as I saw the blood rush furiously to his face. Then it passed away as suddenly as it came, leaving him as white as death.

“Convict,” repeated the Irish boy, with an evil leer. “You’re a nice one to give yourself airs, ain’t you? If my parents is poor,” continued the young monster, mockingly, “they’re honest, and that’s more than you can say, you lag!”

Will clutched his bridle nervously, so nervously that the bit jingled loudly. A dreadful look came into his face, a look that I never wish to see in a young boy’s face again. One moment he seemed to hesitate, then swinging suddenly round walked back to where the three boys sat. Looking up at his tormentor, who with his mouth full of fruit sat grinning as usual, though rather nervously now, he said savagely, “You’re a liar!” and seizing Master Dillon by the ankle, brought him ignominiously to earth.

In a moment there was a dreadful clatter and confusion. Master Dillon, bounding to his feet, cursing more horribly than a bullock-driver—trying, like all his class, to terrorize by the violence of his words—rushed at Will, and in a moment they were pounding away at each other like two young demons. I screamed loudly, and Will, thinking, as he said after, that something was the matter, left his adversary and rushed over to me. This move inspired the Irish boy with renewed courage, and he began to taunt and threaten us to such an alarming extent that I, growing extremely terrified, started to cry. I begged Will to come away, but he was as obstinate as an unbroken colt.

“There, there, don’t be frightened,” he said, trying to pacify me—dear old Will! “He called me a convict, Flos. He’s a liar, and I’ll make him eat his lies.”

“Come on, then,” said Patsy, throwing off his coat and turning up his dreadful shirt-sleeves, “and let’s see what sort of stuff you’re made of. Come and tell me how you was lagged.”

“Don’t, don’t, Will!” I cried, for I knew of the evil reputation of that horrible little monster, and I fully expected to see him pulverize poor Will. But Will, once his blood was up, was his father in miniature, and as such was not very easily daunted.

“Look here,” he said, his face quite hard and old-looking, “I’ll fight him if he kills me.” And with that he pulled off his coat, handed it to me with an excited sort of smile, and deliberately rolled his sleeves above his elbows.

As long as I live I shall never forget that fight. Even now my blood warms at the recollection of it. I live my young days over again; I see that evil little monster, Dillon, and Will, face to face; their hands fly like lightning through the air; they roll from side to side and come with a crash to the earth; again they uprise and once more fall foul of each other; and all the while my heart is beating as though it would burst, the blood rushes so tumultuously through my brain that I almost fall from the saddle, and the tears which rush to my eyes dim my vision. But at last I hear the sound of a dreadful blow, and the next moment Master Dillon is wriggling on the grass with Will standing over him with clenched hands: and he makes the young vagabond eat his words as he said he would.

Dear, brave old Will! How my heart went out to him as he stepped up to me, a smile on his poor bruised face. I did not ask him if he were hurt; I knew that his wounds were honourable. I could only say, “Oh, Will, Will!” and cry again for joy.

To slip on his coat and mount his pony, which I had been holding, was the work of a moment; then turning to Dillon, who presented a deplorable front, and his two companions, who did not yet seem to fully comprehend the downfall of their hero, he commanded them to let down the rails, an order which they reluctantly obeyed, and into the paddock we passed.

We rode on for some time in silence, I glancing alternately at Will and he looking nervously about him as though he were ashamed to meet my eyes. Poor boy, as though the shame were his. Rather was he a hero of whom I was decidedly proud. He would be a man some day, and stand up for me always, fearing nothing, afraid of nobody, secure in the knowledge of his own strength. Oh, what a grand thing it must be to be a strong man!

And as I thought of all these things, and wondered and admired his prowess the more I thought, I was at a loss to understand why he, who was usually so amiable and easy-going, should have flared up so excitedly and fought so desperately over a word.

“What did it mean, Will?” I asked.

He turned to me, a strange look in his flushed eyes.

“Mean?” he echoed. “What do you mean?”

“Why did he call you a convict?”

I saw his hot face turn very pale, but he answered with a palpable effort of indifference, “He wanted to insult me, I suppose.”

“He won’t do it again, Will?” I said with a laugh.

“Not to my face anyway.” And digging his heels into his pony, away he darted, I following hard in his tracks.

As we approached our house—a roomy one-storied building of alternate brick and granite, with a large verandah in the front of it over which was twined creepers and roses and grape-vines—we beheld father and mother sitting in the verandah, and before Will could stop me I had galloped towards them, flung myself from the saddle, and rushed up the steps crying out that Will had just beaten Patsy Dillon in a fight. Poor mother rose from her chair with a look of intense alarm on her face, and when Will, all bruised and dirty and stained with blood, approached in a shame-faced way with his head hung down, she sprang towards him and embracing him passionately began to sob. And then poor old Will sobbed too, and Harold, his big eyes starting out of his head, limped up on his crutches, and learning the cause of the tears, began to whimper in unison. As for myself, I could have cried till further orders.

At last father spoke.

“So you have been fighting Patsy Dillon,” he said, “and your sister tells me you have beaten him?”

Will muttered something about it not being his fault, but that father’s statement was substantially correct. I thought that for a moment father’s eyes glistened with pride, though I believe I also doubted if that look betokened a softer feeling. I understand it better now.

“Have you forgotten,” went on father rather sternly, “that I have more than once warned you to avoid such boys as Patsy Dillon?”

“No, sir,” said Will, looking up through his tears, and a fine, honest, manly boy he looked as he spoke, “but he insulted me, and—and, I had an old debt to settle with him, and I settled it.”

“And him too,” I said, laughing and crying at the same time.

Mother pressed him fondly to her, and turning to father, said, “Surely, Frank, you are not angry with the boy?”

“Not yet,” said father with a strange smile, “for though I do not approve of his fighting every ragamuffin in the town, I would not have him forget to always stand up for his rights like a man. Hard knocks he’ll get in plenty, and I should like my son to be able to give as well as take. But I must know more of this insult of which he speaks. What was it?”

A painful flush passed over Will’s bruised face, and he held his head down without speaking; but I answered quickly enough, “He called Will a convict.”

In a moment father’s whole demeanour underwent a curious change; his eyes blazed ominously, and he looked from one to the other with a look of terror and fury, like an entrapped lion might. Then he turned suddenly away and strode to the far end of the verandah. Poor mother pressed the warrior closer to her, though her excited eyes were riveted on her husband.

But presently father returned to us, and though he again had command of himself, his face was still changed and very terrible. Haggard, almost ghastly, he was, and his eyes shone with so much rage and pain, that I had only courage enough to take a momentary glance at them.

“Is this,” he said, and I could not help noticing how his voice quivered—“is this the first time you have been called that name?”

“No, sir.”

“You have never mentioned it to me.”

“No, sir, because I knew it was all lies.”

I saw mother and father exchange a deep look, the meaning of which I could not then fathom.

“Of course, of course,” he answered hurriedly. “For the future you must keep to yourself, and have nothing to do with these people. Such persons, evil themselves, are always trying to drag someone down to their own level. Now run away and tidy yourself. Children,” turning to Harold and me, “you will find the tea already laid within.”

But as I went into mother’s room—the windows of which opened on to the verandah—to lay aside my hat, I heard her and father, who were still outside, speaking in a low, earnest voice. What they said I could not quite catch, and I did not dare stay and listen; but as I was leaving the room I heard him say, “And for this, dear, we have brought those poor children into the world.”

“God’s will be done,” she answered in a choking voice.

I took a hasty glance through the window, impelled to this action by something greater than curiosity. Mother’s face was hidden on father’s breast, and her body was shaking with sobs. His arms were about her, and he was kissing her hair.

What could it mean?