Читать книгу The Confessions of a Currency Girl - Carlton Dawe - Страница 7

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MEANWHILE Mr. Langton, whom I have most shamefully neglected all this time, walked on beside us, chatting in his genial, cheery way—he being very fond of us children—till we approached our house and he beheld father’s form in the distance. Then, shaking his horse up a bit, he trotted on ahead, and we watched him ride up to father, dismount, make his horse fast to a rail, and then go up on the verandah.

“Come over for a yarn,” said Will. “Strange that he should take the trouble to ride over for the express purpose of talking with the old man.” Will sometimes used this rather vulgar appellation in speaking of father; but as I knew he meant nothing disrespectful by such familiarity, I cannot say I ever resented it.

“Not so strange either,” I replied, “since they suit each other and have tastes in common.”

“A currency man, you know,” suggested he.

“But a gentleman, too, Will, and therefore the equal of Mr. Langton, and the superior of nine-tenths of the people hereabouts.” I am afraid the modesty of this speech is not too apparent, but when your case is not a particularly good one, a little braggadocio may be permissible.

“Yes,” said Will, not wishing, as I could see, to dispute the point.

And yet a child may surely be excused for extracting every ounce of consolation from the prestige of its parent? And father was a man who must have commanded respect even under the most disadvantageous of circumstances. I have often heard Mr. Langton declare that he was the only man in the district to whom it was a pleasure to speak, and that it was a lucky day for him when Hastings came to Granite Creek. And how they did talk, to be sure, upon every known subject it seemed to me, bandying the names of the great classic writers with a freedom which showed considerable familiarity with those worthies. Science, poetry, philosophy—there was no subject upon which they did not linger and upon which they did not disagree. This, of course, proved the very fuel of their argumentative fire, and if at times they piled on a little too much of it and the flames spouted up rather ominously, they always burnt low again with inconceivable rapidity. Both men had excellent tempers well under control, and understood that argument was applied to argument, not man to man. This is a thing over which many people blunder. They identify themselves with their argument, and in consequence look upon the destruction of one as the annihilation of the other. Such people live a life of tumult and die despised.

To Harold these conversations were school, college and university all in one. A training so unique no small boy ever had. For hours he would sit, curled up in his low chair, his eyes fixed intently upon the face of the speakers, his ears taking in every word. And Mr. Langton grew to like and admire the boy, and often, in the middle of his hottest arguments, he would turn from father to the attentive lad appealingly, “Now what is your opinion, Harold?” At which poor Harold, overwhelmed with confusion, would blush most painfully and confess his ignorance with a stammering tongue. But Mr. Langton was wont to declare that there was much more in the boy than the superficial glance took in. He knew of Harold’s hopes and ambitions, and did all within his power to foster his love of study. Books on every conceivable topic he sent over for the delectation of the rising poet, though volumes of verse, travel and biography were the boy’s especial delight.

“We shall make a poet of you, Harold, never fear,” the squatter one day said, after having duly perused one of the poor boy’s effusions. “I won’t say these verses are perfect. Candidly, my lad, they are not; your poet does not grow like a gooseberry. But you have form and style, and you are imitating good models. By-and-by you will not imitate at all; then you will be a real poet.”

“But is it not impossible not to imitate somebody,” asked the boy, “when the writing of poetry is confined to certain rules?”

“Only in the form of the verse,” was the reply, “though Whitman, the American poet, has even despised that. Thought and expression you may cultivate. Rhyme only is really arbitrary, but it, being mechanical, is easily conquered. Why, you don’t want even an ear for it. As for imitation,” he went on, “I should let that concern me little, for I hold that every man is original; that no two men write alike, that, moreover, to do so is an utter impossibility. So-and-so has a few pronounced characteristics which he employs, well knowing their value. They are mere pyrotechnic displays of intellect shot out to enthral the shallow; flash squibs of thought which startle you for the moment. They are but another form of Vanity, as the Preacher would say. You will find the wisdom they illumine as old as Solomon—a wise man notwithstanding certain erratic actions. He discovered, even in his day, that ‘the thing which has been it is that which shall be, and there is no new thing under the sun.’ So don’t trouble your head about so-called originality, Harold. Write as nature dictates, and when you have learnt to separate the wheat from the chaff, learned, in fact, to know what others have written and thus avoid it, you will find the wings of your innate originality quite strong enough to bear you through the clouds of ephemeral criticism.”

All of which Harold took to heart, that is, as much of it as he could understand, and went about his verse-making with new inspiration. Already he could see the golden dawn descending. Like the shower which enwrapt the wondering Danae fell the sweet hopes about his heart, and he would come to me and put his arms about my neck and tell me the thousand and one secrets which filled his breast. And I used to listen to his verses and duly praise them, and not untruthfully either, for they were good verses, giving promise of future excellence.

“How do they sound?” he would whisper, his face aglow, his great eyes burning into mine; “do they sound like poetry?” And I would answer, “Beautiful”—I believe I would have said the same had they been the vilest doggrel ever written. “You will be the first great Australian poet, never fear. Every man in Australia will be proud of you. Perhaps, in time, the English will recognize you too, though I am afraid that much an Australian would appreciate would be meaningless to them. Still, Harold, if you can conquer England, you have the world at your feet. What do you think of that, my brother?”

“I cannot think of it,” he would answer excitedly, “I dare not. But it would be wonderful, wouldn’t it, Sis?”

Poor Harold! Wonderful indeed!

As Will and I approached the verandah, the conversation, whatever it had been, ceased, and Mr. Langton turned and surveyed us with a look of genuine admiration.

“And I’ll wager they don’t think any the worse of you for it,” I heard him say as we mounted the steps. “Ah,” he continued as we advanced towards them, “a bonnie pair, Hastings, a bonnie pair. You ought to be a proud and happy man.”

“And am I not?” asked father with a smile.

“Of course you are; how could you be otherwise? I would I were half as fortunate.”

“You!” exclaimed father amusedly. “What have I in comparison with you? If I am occasionally happy, you ought to be in a perpetual state of bliss.”

“On the assumption that as I can afford to pay for fifty dinners a day, I ought to be able to eat them. Not a bad proposition. Why should not a man be capable of eating fifty dinners if he can get them? Is there a more pleasurable sensation than that of eating good things?”

“I may think so,” said father, “but I will grant you that many do not.”

“Which means that like is made for like; but as we are like no one thing, but seem to be the affinity, the component part of everything that interests us, you will understand that we should quickly tire of even fifty dinners per diem. The beggar who has health and a hearty appetite yearns for the money bags of Crœsus; and poor old Crœsus, who hasn’t a sound tooth in his head, who cannot even digest a nightingale’s tongue, who is never, sleeping or waking, free from some pain, some annoyance, feels that he wouldn’t mind changing places with the beggar.”

“And to what does all this unfathomable talk tend?”

“That you are more to be envied than I, and that I was never so jealous of any man as I am of you.”

“You’re joking, surely?” said father.

“A sorry joke. You have that for which I, with all my flocks and herds, sigh in vain—a loving family. There was only one creature in this world who could have made my wealth a real blessing, and she, God rest her, passed away before success had fairly crowned my efforts.”

“Believe me,” said father, and I could see that he was thinking of his own dear helpmate, his eyes grew so wondrously soft, “I can imagine your loss, and sympathize with your sorrow. But there is a lot of happiness in life, even for the most despondent, if they will search diligently for it. Come now, reflect. Fate has been kinder to you than to the generality of her sons. Go down on your knees and thank her.”

“And yet to me my reward does not seem to exceed my deserts.”

“Nor would the purple of the world seem out of place on the shoulders of an emperor — to him, at least. What it would seem to the world is another matter. Not that I blame the human craving for more, more! It is that which has kept the world spinning all these centuries. It is that which has invented steamships, railways, telegraphs, telephones, and our whole catalogue of earthly wonders. The spirit of man is like the universe it inhabits—boundless, infinite; an animal one minute, a God the next. That it shall never cease craving for the unattainable is the price it pays for its greatness.”

“Then you think it would be wise if we were all to try and make the best of what we have?”

“There is no little reason in such philosophy.”

“Ah, my dear fellow,” said Mr. Langton, “it may be within the bounds of reason, but it is beyond the bounds of practicability. Give a man gold, and he strives for power; give him power, and he yearns for power unlimited; give a woman a necklace of stars, and she will sigh for the sun as a pendant to it. Satisfaction is an unknown word, or at least an unexperienced sensation.”

“And still I repeat, you ought to be satisfied.”

“Ought to be, and is—two different things, aren’t they? Not that I really have much cause to grumble, only I like to talk. Old men, like old women, were ever noted for their garrulity. Fred’s a bit of a bother to be sure, and seems to be rushing to the dogs with express speed. If the rascal wasn’t so like his mother, I’d disinherit him to-morrow. These young fellows little think, as they throw their gold about, what trouble it cost their fathers to gain it.”

“You know the saying in reference to putting old heads on young shoulders. The world was old before our young days, Langton. Yet, you see, I am here. The knowledge of my mistake may act as a slight deterrent to my son in some few things, but the broader paths of life he will have to walk for himself.”

“I suppose so, though it seems incredible that it should be so, considering how much we might teach them. But Will there looks strong enough to trudge any road—isn’t that so, William?”

Will said he was not afraid to face the great conundrum of the future.

“I should think not,” said Mr. Langton. “You’re all right, Will, while you keep those brawny arms and that straight back of yours. And Flossie there, she too has her hopes, I can see. Come, come, don’t blush, child. You shall be pretty enough for him, never fear, But where’s my dreamer, my young poet, all this time?”

“His back is bad,” I said. “He is in bed.”

“Poor poet. He is a great sufferer?”

“Great, sir.”

“May I see him?”

“Oh, yes.”

So the good squatter, extracting a book from his pocket, for he never forgot to bring Harold some sort of present, rose from his seat and went into the house with father.

As soon as they were gone, Will looked at me and began to grin.

“He’s a queer old chap, isn’t he?”

“He’s a dear old man,” said I somewhat indignantly.

“Yes, of course,” says Master Will, still grinning furiously, “but don’t you think?—” Here he stopped and tapped his forehead significantly.

“How dare you! You ought to be ashamed of yourself!”

“Well, you know, Flos, he can’t be too securely tiled. Did you ever hear such talk, such a lot of arrant nonsense out of Bedlam?”

“I was never in Bedlam,” I answered rather airily, “so cannot say.” And I bowed to him, thereby implying a compliment of a dubious nature.

“Bedlam or no Bedlam,” he replied, “if that’s the sort of rubbish they’ve been shooting into little Harry, I don’t wonder the poor boy has taken to poetry.”

“I’m afraid I shall never be able to pity you for a similar falling away.”

“Don’t you be sarcastic, miss. I like poor little Harry as much as any of you, and no one would feel prouder than I of his success; but if Mr. Langton is the fountain from which he draws his inspiration, I begin to tremble.”

“You are a very foolish fellow, Will, and don’t in the least understand human nature. Do you for one moment suppose that Harold is going to swallow everything that comes along? And don’t you know that man is a talking animal; also, that he is not without some touch of the peacock? Do you follow me?”

“Of course I do; but I’m hanged if you don’t beat about the bush as much as he does. Why don’t you out with a thing when you have it to say?”

“When a sensible person has a thing to say he, or she, makes the most of it.”

“To show off his cleverness?”

“Will, you are too precipitous; the possessor of too much bone and muscle.” But at the same time I could not help admiring his huge limbs, limbs which would be bigger yet and stronger too.

“And not enough brain, eh, Impudence?”

“You are as God made you,” I said sympathetically.

“And not badly made either—at least so I’ve been told,” he added with a sly look. And stretching out his two big arms, he caught me round the waist and held me out as though I were a baby.

“Peacock!” I cried, struggling to free myself. “That girl is making a fool of you.”

“Girl?” said he, assuming a look of wonder.

“Yes, Mr. Innocent. I know all about it, and everyone else knows that Polly Lane is the biggest flirt in Wallan.”

“She’s pretty, though,” says he, the big idiot!

“Not half as pretty as Ella Wallace,” I replied.

“Ah, but Ella’s mother doesn’t keep a pub,” he answered nonchalantly. “You’ve no idea what a jolly place a pub is.”

“No, I have not,” I replied with some asperity.

“A cosy chair,” he continued, unheeding my remark, “a pipe, a glass and a pretty girl. What more can the heart of man desire?”

“Much, I should think.”

“But you are not a man.”

“If I were, I should be ashamed to own that my aspirations rose no higher than the bubbles on a pint pot.”

“You are forgetting the pipe and the girl. But that reminds me, Flos. I heard over there,” nodding towards Wallan, and meaning, of course, the “Shearer’s Rest,” over whose beer-taps the siren Polly Lane presided, “that Captain Fred had lost heavily on the Cup. I suppose it was that to which Mr. Langton referred just now?”

“Probably.”

“He must be an awfully wild fellow, Flos. Keeps a racing stable and the Lord knows what not. They say he dropped ten thousand to Bo Johnson over that one race. Lucky beggar!”

“Lucky! Why, the man must be a born idiot.”

“Ah, you women don’t understand,” said he sapiently.

“I should think not.”

“I mean, he’s lucky to be able to lose ten thousand.”

“Anybody could lose it, if they had it, and wanted to.”

“Oh, you’re hopeless. But here come the old people. I’m off.” And with a knowing smile he darted from my side and disappeared round the corner of the house. Poor old Will had had enough philosophy for one day.

This Captain Fred, of whom he had made mention, was Mr. Langton’s only son, and, if report erred not, would one day inherit his father’s vast wealth. We saw little of him at Wallan at any time, so that he was a sort of exaggerated myth to most of us, but rumours of his wild doings in Melbourne reached us at odd intervals, intensified, no doubt, by repetition and distance. I know we all regarded him as a very terrible sort of person, but then in Wallan we were a simple race of beings, and really knew nothing of the people who lived in the world of great cities. We had our race week once a year; a race ball usually wound up the festive proceedings; all the rest of our lives was flat, stale and unprofitable. I think such girls as Polly Lane had the best of it in townships like ours. True, she drew beer and had to countenance much choice bush dialogue; but, if rumour may be trusted, she had her moments of recompense. I know she was saucy enough to be happy, and I am likewise certain that she did her best to entice Will away from home, feeling sure that she only did it to pique me. Will thought my suspicions decidedly uncomplimentary to himself.

Captain Fred was an honorary captain of our local volunteers. He had a captain’s uniform, and very naturally called himself after it, but whether he knew anything of military matters, or whether he ever attended drill, I cannot say. I know it was his custom to appear in uniform at the annual treat he gave the corps at Langton Station, but there, I have every reason to believe, his soldiering began and ended. He clung to the title, however, and whenever we saw his name in the paper the “Captain” always preceded it. And how fond we Australians are of a title, and what won’t we do to gain one—from our tradesmen to our politicians, who are also tradesmen. Our athletes are “professors,” and each unskilled medico, who shames the title, writes “Doctor” in large letters all over his insignificant person. And what think you means all this frothy talk of imperialism and loyalty but the ulterior hope of gain? Loyalty to what, to whom? A man must be loyal to his own country before he prates of loyalty towards others. Pity it is that Australians do not govern Australia, though they too fall in adoration before the god of “honours.” I wonder what we would think of ourselves if we had a few lords, and why we should not have them I am at a loss to comprehend. It is extremely aggravating that the British Government does not humour us in this also. They had better look to it if they want to pass Imperial Federation, for no honest man could possibly think of pledging his country for a beggarly knighthood. We are quite English enough to worship the creation. So much, in fact, do we out-Herod Herod in this respect, that it has long been a considerable surprise to me why we do not manufacture a few batches of lords of our own—as they do in England, every year. Truly, our new creations might for a period pose as the butt of vulgar ridicule, but laughter is evanescent by nature, nor can people laugh for ever. In a year we should get used to them; in a generation they would be blue-blooded. No one would laugh then. Really it is too absurd for a growing country, and one which entertains hopes of an independent nationality, to subject itself to the whims of a monarch (who is only human), or a prime minister, who, alas! is only human too.

Not that I believe Captain Fred was any the worse for his little vanities. We love an honour, not for the thing itself, but because people honour us for it. And who can deny that Captain does not sound better than Mr.? I am quite prepared to admit that it should not; that one is really as empty or as full as the other, but we cannot disguise the fact that it is not so common, and a superfine world fails to see anything attractive in common things.

So Mr. Frederick Langton was Captain Langton, and if it pleased him to be so bedecked, I really don’t know that it did anyone else harm. We all called him Captain naturally enough, and I won’t say the title did not enhance his reputation. It certainly raised him a little out of the commonplace; threw a sort of halo round his half fabulous personality, added a charm, so to speak, to his vices and his virtues—if of the latter he ever had any. He certainly was a man to set an unsophisticated heart throbbing, for your scapegraces have a great charm for women, or rather girls, who are headless women. I had not seen Captain Fred above a dozen times, and had not seen him at all for the last two years; but I used to hear so much of him that I often caught myself wondering what manner of man he might be. There is something extremely fascinating in a rakish reputation, be it of man or woman. Like runs to like, I suppose. Still, the bad are never wholly bad; neither are the good too good. If, however, Captain Fred was anything like his reputation, or what was left of it, he was one to set a young girl by the ears. Handsome he was—he certainly looked well in his photograph—and I have a vivid recollection of a pair of impudent blue eyes, and a heavy, well-curled moustache, but beyond that I had little to go on, except his reputation, and that, alas, was in such a dilapidated condition that I dared not venture far upon it.

Of his sister Maud, for he had a sister some four or five years younger than himself, I knew a little more, for she and I had often played and ridden together before—before I knew that I had any cause to be ashamed of my father. But I recollect one day her governess putting the old question, “Was it true? etc.” From that moment Maud Langton and I were only on bowing terms; outwardly we remained good friends, but our friendship had little warmth or geniality in it. I was not slow in guessing the reason of her coldness, and having no little pride of my own we soon came to a tacit understanding. Then she went away to Melbourne, to school. Afterwards she lived with some relations in Toorak, and I knew by the number of times her name graced the fashionable intelligence of the newspapers that she was a star of the higher heavens. I won’t say I envied her, though, perhaps, that were a true definition of my feelings. Yet how could I help contrasting her lot with mine, though the action brought a thousand bitter thoughts to my heart, and the bitter tears to my eyes?