Читать книгу A Tail of Gold - David Hennessey - Страница 7

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THERE had been a bond between the Moncktons, Smarts and Maguires, better understood by Australians of the olden days than by others. The late Harold Monckton, banker, Charley Maguire, squatter, and Boswell Smart, mine owner, had been shipmates; and in the days of long voyages to Australia by sailing vessel to have been shipmates was accounted by many to be akin to actual blood relationship. When a man told you that he and another were shipmates, you might usually conclude that they were something more than friends.

These three men came to Australia together on board the Great Britain, and in the absence of other relatives had been drawn to each other, so that they had been like brothers in the rough days of early Victorian gold mining. All three had prospered, all three were now deceased; but the feeling of kinship had continued with their posterity. The young people were on friendly visiting terms. And as for Will Monckton and Molly Maguire, they hardly knew themselves at this period of our story whether they were brother and sister, sweethearts, or only chums.

They had grown up next door to each other in adjoining Toorak mansions, known as The Firs and The Poplars, with only a three rail fence dividing the grounds; in which fence, by the way, was a white gate, with a well beaten path on either side of it, so worn as to suggest that the two houses were on very friendly terms.

Old Harold Monckton, who had built the mansion with the fir trees, was a life-long chum of Charley Maguire, who had erected the big house with the poplars, while Miss Monckton of The Firs, who was now quite an elderly lady, and the more youthful Mrs. Maguire, of The Poplars, had long been like sisters.

Not that the two families were much alike in their tastes and leanings. The Maguires were all for the Bush, and spent a good deal of their time on a station owned by them; while the Moncktons were for the town and society and the military. But for years it had been a settled thing that Christmas should be kept by both families, in good old-fashioned style, in Melbourne, and on alternate years they joined together in united festivities at The Firs and The Poplars. This year it was the turn of The Poplars, and invitations had been issued to a number of friends. But the Moncktons and Maguires were on a far more friendly footing with each other than with the Smarts.

For the information of some readers, it may be explained that Christmas in Australia is, in many respects, different to Christmas in older and colder lands. The gathering of kinsfolk and the coming home for Christmas are less noticeable, as holidays are more numerous, and sons and daughters better able to visit the paternal home at week ends. All this tends to make a family reunion on Christmas Day less common in the Sunny South. Then, too, the hot summer weather of December makes Christmas, of necessity, more of an out-door holiday. Picnics and sports are held where cool breezes blow from the ocean.

Probably too, as the Rev. Charles Payne pointed out in his sermon, Christmas is less of a religious festival in Australia. Santa Claus is still of interest to the children; but the dear old Saint has become shoppy in the Commonwealth. The big Christmas picture advertisements of the stores are plastered on every hoarding. There are no Christmas Clothing Clubs, and few, if any, starving mouths to feed; no cold to nip and perish the children of the poor. And the Child-Christ sentiment, which makes Christmas so essentially a religious festival in Europe and America, is largely wanting.

Both Miss Monckton and Mrs. Maguire agreed that it was beautiful to think of people in all Christian lands being possessed with a common sentiment, which made it easier to be good and generous, and easier to forgive.

'But,' interjected Will Monckton, who had travelled and seen something of the world, 'the fact remains, that although an Australian Christmas is, to the bulk of people, less domestic, it is less exclusive in regard to strangers and on the whole freer and more open-handed and neighbourly than elsewhere. In Europe, Christmas is kept with closed doors; we keep it here with doors wide open; and,' continued Will, looking across at Molly with a smile, for they were having mid-day dinner together, as on Sunday, 'it's the way we like it best.'

'Indeed we do,' said Molly, laughing, 'it's a fine dance we'll have to-night upon the grass, in the big marquee, beneath the trees.'

Molly Maguire had inherited from her mother a delicious spice of Irish brogue, which added no little to the attractiveness of her conversation.

Dinner over, Will went off to the stables, to smoke a cigar and have a look at the horses. He took Tommy, Molly's only brother, a boy of thirteen, with him, and the three ladies were left in the drawing-room, talking about the evening and their expected guests.

Molly, sitting at the piano, had been running her fingers lightly over the keys, possibly intending to express thereby the brightness of her glad young heart, when, jumping up with a mock curtsy to the piano, and two or three steps of a waltz, she glided lightly over toward where her mother sat beside Miss Monckton.

'Stand there, Molly!' called out Mrs. Maguire, 'and let us look at you. Do you know, child, that next month you'll be seventeen?'

Molly laughed, and bent her dainty little form to the two ladies, and, with a twinkle in her blue velvet eyes, stood up to be admired. She had intended to go off to the boys in the stable, and take a few lumps of sugar with her, for her pet pony; but she stood dutifully before her mother, while that lady discoursed to Miss Monckton.

'She gets more like her father every day; he had the fun of the world in the corners of his mouth, and lovely blue eyes like Molly's. Of course he was a great deal taller. They used to say it was wonderful how devoted he was to me, and to think that a little lass like Madge McCarthy could have absolutely bewitched a handsome man like Charley Maguire. He was much older than I was, but I loved him dearly.'

Her listeners were both smiling by this time at these Christmas reminiscences; but Mrs. Maguire went on without heeding them. She knew very well that they were interested, although they smiled.

'Molly has my hands and feet and ankles.' At this Molly drew up her dainty muslin dress, to display her shapely feet and ankles, then turned her proud little hands on several sides, and looked at them with comical approval.

'You're a vain girl Molly,' said her mother, laughing, 'I'm afraid we shall spoil you.'

'There's no fear, mother,' said Molly, crossing over and kissing her and then Miss Monckton, 'but you surely wouldn't have me plain looking, when you remember what a dear handsome father I had.'

'No,' said Mrs. Maguire dreamily, 'you're a daughter any one might be proud of, Molly. I love you just as you are, and it's pleasant to know that you are so much like your good father, only I'd be pleased to see you with a little more colour in your cheeks, and a little more careful with your clothes.'

Molly pouted her pretty lips, and replied: 'Don't scold, mother darling, it's Christmas. Sure, I'll be dressed to-night in white silk, like a bride; and when they woo me and flatter me, and dance me almost off my feet, I'll stop and say to myself: "Excuse me, Molly darling; but your mother says you must be a bit more careful with your clothes."'

With another sweeping curtsy, Molly ran off laughing to the stables, and Miss Monckton said: 'She's a dear madcap; but who would have her other than she is.'

Who indeed? For Molly Maguire had long been the darling of two households, both of which had done their best to spoil her, but without success. She had her moods, of course, but without them, she would not have been Molly. She was that dearest of womankind: an Australian bush girl, trained in the simple life in the country, but educated in the city. A self-possessed lady in the drawing-room, but an adept in the saddle, with a clear brain, observant eye, steady hand, and heart of gold. Miss Monckton used to say that there was not very much of her; but had she been bigger, she might have been vain and conceited. So, although something of a madcap, Molly was simple, loving, and guileless. A mother's girl in the home, a boy's girl in the saddle, and a dear good girl always and everywhere.

Miss Monckton's regret was that there were not more like her.