Читать книгу The Confessions of a Currency Girl - Carlton Dawe - Страница 6

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THE next day Arthur and Ella Wallace rode over from Wallan, and though the society of my only friend should have proved most agreeable to me at that period, I was yet conscious of a certain restraint in her presence, which did not escape her prying eyes. She would insist upon my being ill, and as I had to prove to her that I was not, I recollect assuming an unusual gaiety and expressing a more than usual affection. The fact is, I was really nervous before her, for whenever she looked at me with those earnest eyes of hers, she seemed to read my heart, and that, in its present state, was precisely what I shrank from opening. Yet how I longed to do so, and would have done had not fear held me back, though I could not doubt the genuineness of her affection. We had grown up as sisters, having no other sister. If I was not staying at Wallan she was with us at Granite Creek, and we used to say that, like our mothers, we would be friends through life, and through death too, if such a thing were possible. She was a girl of my own age; we had similar likes and dislikes. I knew that she was devotedly attached to me, and I shrewdly suspected that she was not an indifferent admirer of Will. Whatever there was in the past I felt sure she would ignore, doubting not that she would still cling to me, though in my veins ran the criminal blood of all the world. A fig for your fairweather friend, say I! Give me the one who will stand by you in your darkest days, when evil tongues whisper, and eyes are upturned in righteous horror; who, knowing your virtues (for had you none he would never have loved you), tries to understand your vices; who puts himself in your place and strives to think what he would do under like conditions. This is the man you will never lose, if you have any good in you; for when he thinks, he sees and understands. Only the worst of it is so few people can think, or will take the trouble to learn.

Before the Wallaces left that afternoon Will approached me looking rather serious.

“I’ve been thinking it out, Flos,” he said, “and I have come to the conclusion that it is better to get it over.”

“Get it over,” I repeated, simulating ignorance of his meaning; “get what over?”

“You know well enough,” he replied almost fiercely; “this convict business. I’ve been skulking about the whole blessed day like a real criminal. I don’t know what Arthur ‘ll think of me, poor old chap. He’s a good, simple fellow, Flos. I hope you’ll make it up one day.”

“Don’t talk nonsense, Will.”

“Nonsense,” he echoed; “where is the nonsense?”

“I do not want to marry. I shall never marry.”

He laughed. “So all young girls say, but, you know, they have been known to change their minds.”

“I shall not change mine. Even if I had the wish, who is there that would marry me?”

“You!” he exclaimed, in a tone of astonishment. “Why, thousands, to be sure, and only glad of the chance.”

“A currency girl?” I added bitterly.

“The sweetest girl in the country,” he said tenderly, his defiant eyes growing wonderfully soft as he looked into my face. And then he put his arm about me and kissed me, and told me that he was only afraid there was no one in the country half good enough for me.

Dear old Will! I know it was your true love that proved my angel in the days that were to come.

“I am sure Arthur knows there is something up,” he went on, after he had finished singing my praises, “and I think, dear, that we had better make a clean breast of it—tell them all there is to be told. If Arthur is what I take him to be he will respect and like us all the better for our confidence. If it’s the other way about, well, let him go. It will be another illusion shattered, that’s all, and we shall not miss much in losing him.”

“I am sure you wrong him, Will. It would make no difference to him, nor Ella either, whatever we might be, or whatever father had done.”

“I am one with you there,” he replied, “but we shall see.”

Later on Will and I walked part of the way back with the Wallaces, he leading Ella’s horse and Arthur his own. We walked on very solemnly for a long time, till Arthur suddenly burst out laughing.

“Well, I’m hanged if we’re not as solemn as a funeral,” cried he. “What’s up with you, Will, old man?”

Will, being thus bluntly appealed to, looked at him earnestly, and then at Ella and me. I nodded encouragingly.

“Look here, old chap,” he said, and I thought his voice sounded very strange, “something is up. You’d look serious, too, if you were in my shoes. Not that I wish you were, Arthur—God forbid!”

“You have had a hard knock, old man?” said Arthur in a low voice.

“Yes,” said Will, “a clean knockdown, old fellow; but not, I hope, a knock-out.”

Then he told our secret exactly as father had told it to us.

“So you see,” he added, “we are convicts—yes, convicts—why should I shirk the word? I won’t pretend to say that I’m not glad father was no criminal, neither shall I attempt to justify his actions. I only know that I would have done the same. So much for the man. As for this thing, this brand which Flos and Harold and I shall bear to our graves —this convict mark upon our foreheads— I tell you candidly, Arthur, I’m afraid of it. What matters it to the world that my father is incapable of crime, is he not, in its view, a criminal of the most atrocious nature—a denizen of Botany Bay? Why Botany Bay should be worse than Pentridge, or any other prison, I leave the wise ones to expound. To me there is no difference. But perhaps I own a bias. I know that it is so, however, and that I shall carry about with me a secret which will make my life one long torment. I shall shudder at the name of convict, and turn white at the sound of Botany Bay. I know that henceforth I shall be an outcast, and a coward on that account.”

“Never a coward, Will,” said Arthur, taking his hand, “and never an outcast either while I and mine have a roof above us.”

Poor old Will shook his friend’s hand without speaking. Then he said in a quivering voice, “That’s good of you, Arthur. I thought—forgive me, won’t you—that you too might turn on us when you knew what we were.”

“Could you think so badly of us?” said Ella, who had not spoken before.

“No,” said Will, “I could not, in my heart of hearts. I tried to be hard, that was all; to prepare myself for anything. It has been a great effort to tell you both, but now I’m glad you know.”

“My dear old Will,” cried Arthur, “we have known all about it this many a day. Long before you did, it seems. But there, there, it makes no difference to us. Let us hear no more of it. It is not an agreeable subject, so why shouldn’t we drop it, now and for ever? Any fellow who thinks the less of you for it is a cur and beneath your notice. Of one thing you may be sure—no one shall twice speak ill of you in my presence.”

“Thank you,” said Will, once more shaking his friend’s hand. “You are the same good fellow I always believed you to be. You give a chap new hope.”

“And you?” cried Arthur, looking hard at me.

“Oh, I shall exist at Granite Creek,” I answered. “Ella and I have made up our minds to live and die in single-blessedness.”

“Heaven forbid!” said he. “You would never be so selfish?”

“I can’t answer for Ella, of course. She may be weak enough to succumb to the attractions of some male charmer, but I, never.”

“I hope you will let me come and see you sometimes?”

“Well, if you pass your examinations successfully,” said I, alluding to his study of medicine—for it was intended that he should become a disciple of Æsculapius—“I’ll send over for you occasionally to come and doctor our sick cats—for of course we shall have lots of cats, like true old maids.”

“I shall feel honoured,” he replied gravely.

Why,” said I, “you have the professional tone already,” and I somewhat flippantly imitated him.

“I am practising,” he replied without a smile.

“Though not yet in practice?”

“Precisely.”

That was the worst of Arthur; he was always so grave, so very much in earnest. If he looked at you, there was a seriousness in his looks which, at times, was absolutely unpleasant. You could not be frivolous with such a man. Everything he said he meant, and being utterly devoid of commonplace tittle-tattle, he was oftener silent than otherwise. Now this may be an excellent trait in a man—for is it not Solomon himself who tells us that silence is golden?—especially in the company of men, whom we will suppose have a smattering of knowledge. But it is absolutely necessary, for his own advancement in our good opinion, that a young man of these days should be able to play the fool occasionally—no very great effort being required in most cases. Girls, as a rule, do not like a serious man, although they think they do. I half suspect they imagine him to be continually searching their inmost heart and analyzing their every motive. What a monster, to be sure! Conceive a man prying in behind this barrier of bone which shields that mystic matter which we call our brain, reading our every thought, and comprehending our unuttered desires! Or conceive him gloating like a demon over our captured heart as it writhes beneath his microscope, telling of the stains and waves of blood which go to make up the sum and passion of our life! Who is to be safe with men like this let loose? We know well that we are all better than our neighbours, and yet even we have some things by us which we would not care to show.

Woman, to whom custom has refused to grant that freedom of discourse so arbitrarily claimed by man, has consequently many more secrets to guard: she is, in fact, a storehouse of secrets, a cushion pricked all over with invisible pin points of hopes, and fears, and desires. Therefore, how necessary is it to preserve the outward gloss! But should you chance to tear aside that satin binding which looks so fair, you will see the centre, or heart, transfixed with innumerable impressions bubbling blood of many colours. Not all black, thank heaven, but just enough to make us wish to keep the cover on. Now, as we detest the microscope, so do we the prying eyes of the inquisitive. Humanity is an easier book to read than dullards imagine, but it is a perverse book and resents the magnifying glass personally, though it always makes use of it to look at a brother or sister. The worldling will let a woman think he believes her to be all that she pretends; he is wise. She too, is not without her cunning, and fools him to the top of his bent—a task of infantine ease. But what she cannot tolerate is your superior sort of person who looks at her with steady, earnest eyes, eyes which seem to look through hers and penetrate the secret chambers of her brain. There is something offensive in this person. He will not take her at her own valuation.

Not that poor old Arthur was such a dreadful creature as this. It is true he was always very earnest, and, for a young man, singularly reticent, but more open, honest eyes, I do not think I ever saw. The only fault about them was their almost inhuman steadiness, a fault, I grant you, which some people of our acquaintance would give much to own. In short, he was not fool enough ever to be popular. He would have been irresistible to ladies over thirty. Such a man was first cousin to the Sphinx. Your purse, honour, life itself would have been safe in his keeping. But to girls who are “green in judgment” such men are extremely trying. I liked Arthur well enough, I always thoroughly believed in him; to me he seemed quite different from the generality of boys, but at the same time there is no denying that I did think him just a little slow. Was he not also as ignorant of the world as I, and could I possibly look up to anyone whose knowledge was no greater than my own? Then again, though always respectful, and, when I come to think over it, even courteous at times, the poor fellow was sadly lacking in the glorious attribute of style. This is an essential for woman-worship, and I’m afraid our embryo doctor was at a sad disadvantage in consequence. Will called it “side,” but I knew better. Moreover, a vain girl cannot be expected to recognize her hero in one whom she heard described as the “clumsiest owl in Wallan.” It rather takes the pride out of her, even though she has only a sneaking regard for the said owl.

We walked with Arthur and Ella a good mile from the homestead, repeating over and over again solemn vows of eternal friendship. For good or ill we swore allegiance; let what might ensue, nothing should ever come between us.

“There,” said Will, as the Wallaces mounted their horses and cantered off along the dusty road, “there go two of the best people in the world.”

“Yes,” I said, “two of the best people in the world.” He looked at me quickly, but seeing I was serious marched on in silence.

“What do you think of her?” he asked, when we had traversed some hundred yards or so.

“What have I always thought of her?”

“Of course,” he answered with an awkward laugh. “I should have asked you what you thought of him.”

“And I should have replied what business that is of yours.”

“Hoity-toity,” says he, “how we flare out, just as if there was something in it.”

Though I could see he only wanted to tease me, I yet grew mightily indignant, for there was more truth in his insinuations than I liked to own. Yet what brother ever cared for his sister’s indignation? Indeed, he does not seem to think that sisters have a right to grow indignant. It is a thing beyond him; equally as much so as the fact that his sister is like other women, no better, no worse. This seems a preposterous idea, and takes him a long while to grasp—if he ever does. I am not certain that there isn’t a shade of sacrilege in the thought. Will says there is, but then he was very fond of me, and in his fondness forgot my human frailties. It is a beautiful thing though, this reverence of the sister. Think of it, ye girls who have disagreeable brothers. How do you know but that in their heart of hearts they may think the best of men unworthy of you? And how do ye try to live up to their standard, O my sisters? When the temptation comes, do ye ever stay to consider that ye may cast an everlasting slur on one who loves like unto God Himself?

As we continued our journey through the paddock, the one before the rails of which Will had annihilated the power of that little monster, Patsy Dillon, we were overtaken by Mr. Langton, who, as was his wont, pulled up his horse and gave us the time of the day.

“Homeward bound, children?” he asked, after the usual salutations had passed.

“Yes, sir,” said Will, touching his hat, for everybody was extremely civil to Mr. Langton, not so much, I think, on account of his wealth, which was reputed boundless, as of himself; for he was a genuine man, a gentleman to his fingertips, as father used to say, though those tips might have broadened a little through hard work. For he had done his share of toil like the rest of us, and by his own skill and industry had built up Langton Station, one of the finest estates in that part of the country. It was of him father rented the five hundred odd acres known as Granite Creek, for he and dad had been schoolfellows, companions, in the Old Country, and he was not one to kick a man who was down.

“You did wrong, from a practical, sensible point of view,” said he, when father had finished his story, “but you did what nine out of every ten men would have done. I haven’t forgotten old times, Hastings, so you must throw in your lot with me.” And so father, who had some practical knowledge of farming, took up his selection on Granite Creek; and there he built our house, and round it planted the roses and the grape vines, and the beautiful English trees with their dense foliage, through which even the fiercest sun failed to pierce. In three years he transformed the sterile track through which the little creek ran into a miniature Eden, and then, having some money by him, he sent to England for mother, who had corresponded with him all the time.

“First and foremost,” wrote he, “I must let you know what you have to expect should you determine to join me. I am a convict, never forget that. The crime I committed is one for which I do not grieve, but it has brought a punishment you can little imagine. I will not say that I am altogether an outcast, but even here, in this free country, where so many of my class are at large, the antipathy against us is so overwhelming that I and mine must ever be subjected to unceasing humiliation. On the other hand, dear,” and here mother has often told me the paper was so blotted with tears that she could scarcely decipher the writing, “if you are brave enough to risk all this, if you think that you can find contentment with me, and happiness in seeing me happy, come, and if a life’s devotion can recompense you——”

Well, well, it’s a sad romance, isn’t it? Who would think that that grave-eyed man who bends unceasingly at his toil from morning to night, content to see his wife and children about him, repining not for the lost days, wishing no other life, had suffered so much, so much? Or who would imagine that that tender, grey-haired woman, with her pale, sweet face, had ever possessed sufficient courage to face the dreadful, shameful life in the new land? Ah, me, the days of martyrs and heroes are not yet passed.

Quiet, and yet so courageous; going about with her sweet sad smile and her soft words—what a woman was here! I know she keenly felt her position, and I understand now why she preferred the peace and solitude of her own home to the rush of the outside world. But her face was sad, oh, so dreadfully sad, and when she smiled she was saddest of all. Yet there was with all her quiet dignity a force of character which told of a courage equal to her love. That might, perhaps, be taken for granted, considering all that she had done. Yet I remember one dark winter’s night when she proved herself possessed of the courage of a hero as well as the devotion of a saint. Father was away from home that week with some cattle which he had taken to the Boorta Show, and about twelve o’clock one night we were all awakened by the violent barking of the dogs. I remember how we all rushed to mother’s room, Harold and I clinging to her, Will standing by her side with a half-defiant, half-frightened look on his little pale face. We could distinctly hear the tramp of the robbers on the verandah. Now they were trying the door, now the windows; but they were evidently novices at the business, for they did not succeed in effecting an entrance. And all the while we clung to mother, moaning piteously, while she alternately took us in her arms or patted our heads, telling us in a low trembling voice not to be afraid, for that God was watching, and He would protect us.

At last the men began to knock at the door, and still we stirred not. Meanwhile the barking of the dogs grew louder and angrier. We heard one of the men utter a furious exclamation. Then a shot followed and poor old Ponto went off howling.

This seemed to waken mother from the lethargy into which she had fallen. We were in an isolated position—a mile at least from any other house. On ourselves must depend our salvation. Mother, kissing us, whispered us to remain quiet, and then silently quitted the room, followed by Will. The half minute of their absence seemed like an eternity, but when they returned I saw that she had been to the kitchen, for she now held father’s gun in her hand, a weapon which had always hung above the kitchen mantelpiece. Poor little Will was by her side, the kitchen poker grasped firmly in his little hand. The lion’s cub, you see, had something of the lion’s spirit.

By this time the knocking on the door grew louder, and mother, fearing they would ultimately break it in, called out, “Who’s there?”

“A friend,” was the reply.

“No friend would call as you have at such an hour as this,” answered mother.

“Friend or not, old woman,” said the voice, “you’d better open the door pretty quick, or I’ll break it in.” And as if to give us a foretaste of his intentions, the owner of the voice delivered sundry heavy kicks on the panels which made them creak.

“Frank,” cried mother, pretending father was in, “you are wanted outside.”

At this the two men laughed loudly.

“Very good, missis,” cried the voice derisively, “but we happen to know that the old bird’s at Boorta. So open the door and have done with this nonsense. It’ll be the worse for you if you don’t.”

“I will not open the door,” answered mother, and her voice had grown so hard that I scarcely recognized it; “and what’s more, I am armed, and I’ll shoot the first man who enters the house.”

Well, they didn’t attempt to enter. They growled and threatened much, and swore more, and when they were leaving fired several bullets through our windows; but beyond that they did no harm, and after waiting for quite half an hour to make sure that they were gone, we all knelt by mother’s bed and mingled our sobs with her prayers. I shall never forget that night. The brave, sweet woman, the sturdy little son; the wild night without, and the wilder men. She who would not, under ordinary circumstances, have raised her hand against the meanest of God’s creatures, would have fought that night, ay, and killed too, ere harm should befall her little ones. And Will, with the kitchen poker in his poor little hands—a very David, forsooth, an infant Titan! Whenever I think of that night I always murmur Campbell’s beautiful thought,—

“A noble mother must have bred

So brave a son.”