Читать книгу Nilda - Edwin Doidge - Страница 7

Table of Contents

What time the world believed in angel visits—however rare—that time might Nilda Constance Chester have been born among men. I who have seen her often with mine own eyes, have eaten and drunk with her, conversed often with her, danced with her, aye, and sorrowed with—for to such a gentle creature in distress sympathy flowed out as to a motherless lamb stricken in the cold, or fallen by the way-side—flowed as of necessity, and in a manner without merit. For, somehow, she was more alone than any maiden I have met from side to side of wide Australia.

And if here I transgress the rules of first-class literature, and write for a space in the first personal singular, let it be forgiven me. The intimacy here is genuine and not feigned. Nilda is real and alive. Her portrait? All heroines are portrayed. And here I know I shall fail, for it is not my gift to adequately or eloquently depict female beauty. Character, and shades of character, slip readily from my pen; but beauty!—I had much rather present you with her photo, and, letting that speak, pass on; yet something is required beside the picture I have so often gazed upon, and, good as it is, does not represent her faithfully, save in just one immobile attitude which does not best become her. This part would I certainly skip, if it were proper. Yet here, as best I may, I will briefly limn the face and expression of one who has much to do with this story, improbable as that may at this juncture appear, having regard to the large and national issues involved, and which, up to the present moment, seem so remote to the career of any gentle maiden who, so far as seen, is destined for no higher place in life than governess and lady-help to a respectable Sydney family.

Nilda Chester, at 20, was of medium height, and slender as a poplar, her carriage graceful. Neither fair nor dark, she struck the happy medium in complexion. Coils of thick, nut-brown hair clustered about her head, which tresses she ever dressed so cunningly and becomingly that any Parisian milliner might have wished to engage her, for no matter what vogue was the hat, from the crimpy thing that a bird might fly away with to the enormous proportions of a monster "Merry Widow" creation 8 feet in circumference, heavily feathered, it sat upon her with apparently equal felicity. Her eyes were large and of the softest brown; arched her eye-brows, that are not so common now as a hundred or two hundred years ago, judging by the master painters, who invariably paint the grand dames and beauty damsels of the Georgian periods with highly-arched brows. The nose, most truly Grecian. How anyone can be described as beautiful who possesses an aquiline nasal organ, I cannot conceive. The Roman shape of nose may be associated with genius, heroism, great powers of daring, invention, statesmanship or generalship, but I can not admit their association with beauty, where regular lines are indispensable. . . . Certainly, there are varied and distinct types of beauty. I think Mrs. Patrick Campbell very beautiful, and her daughter, Stella, no less so. I mention these, because they approximate to the type I am trying to describe in Nilda Chester. . . But it was the expression that captivated more than the classic features. Always there were—nay, are—for why should I rob the present tense of its due?—the gentleness, the sweetness, the light that Edwin Arnold might here have apostrophised. . . . Think of the shrew who might be beautiful but for the vexed spirit that is within her, that sooner or later wizens, cripples, destroys, every line of the facially beautiful. All that the shrew is, Nilda Chester—is not.

From whence sprang so fair a lily?

I would not tell you, were it not incidental to the story. And even in the telling, you shall read between the lines more than I shall write down in black and white. For it is in itself a story of blackness and whiteness, the which has lain in my desk these years, an unused secret. Now opened only to be re-written in epitome; else you had not known how Nilda came to enter into questions and matters that can only be described as "national."

* * * *

Full 20 years ago there came to Sydney town a distinguished young foreigner, who was then barely out of his teens, it is said. I am not able to determine whether it was in a warship or a private yacht. The leisureliness and unconstrainedness of his movements would appear to indicate the latter. On shore, at all events, he did pretty much as he liked, and emulated the ways of Jack ashore to his heart's content.

His name was Count von Salleberg. Perchance he had other names. Later on he certainly had. He was thought sufficiently distinguished to be invited to Government House; perchance he accepted a formal invitation and never acted on it. . . . In any case he was one of a roystering party who spent a full fortnight down the South Coast. They drank, and they shot, and they feasted. Perhaps it was at Kiama, or mayhap while the party painted the old coach-town of Nowra red, that something happened. . . . A Count for lover! Why not? The days of romance are not o'er. And love's young dream seemed possible of realisation, though more than an ocean separated the social lives of these two. . . . I never saw her; she died many years ago. But I am ready to believe that she, too, was good to look upon. That she innocently listened to fairy tales, and believed that fiction was fact; that love at first sight could not be mistaken; that he, the gay Lothair, would bear her far away in his fine ship to his grand home, and she would be a grand lady—all true and square. . . . How much he meant, I know not. How much he lied, I know not. How much he loved, I know not. How much he broke a heart—ah, of this I know somewhat. And this: that young Count von Salleberg said he must go to his ship and would return in two days for his love. . . . That he never returned. . . .

That she never saw him again.

That is an old, old story, told a thousand times, witnessed times without number; occurring and re-occurring so oft in every city, town and hamlet that it becomes one of the most prosaic tragedies of life. . . . Poor human nature. . . . and the woman, as usual, was left to suffer. . . . The after years? It may not be told. . . . Only this, that the betrayed one married while yet her honor was not called in question. Perhaps that was her greater sin; yet would I cast no stone of severity. Deserted, distracted, torn by fear, what else remained to her? Be that as it may, it is said she died of a broken-heart, while yet in the years that should have been in the prime of her womanhood. . . . He, Donald Chester, was just an ordinary man on the land, described as an easy going yeoman, practical, unpoetical, phlegmatic.

So much for the part, which will suffice to explain much that follows.

* * * *

At the garden-gate two girls on the tip-toe of expectation, greatly excited. For this change in the domestic economy of "Linden" meant so much for them. For now they were no longer to be ordinary school-girls, but were to have a teacher of their very own—a young lady who was to be their especial guide, philosopher and friend. . . . There they had been posted for well nigh half-an-hour; and at last she came. Mrs. Horton had herself gone to Redfern station to meet her, so that she should not feel lonely; had gone because there was really no one else really she could send; had gone as an act of grace, but without a thought of any condescension, for she had reason to believe that Miss Chester was as represented—a very gentle and superior young person; and, as will have been gathered, it was so intended to receive and treat her.

The sprightly Gladys caught the gentle Esther by the hand, and together they ran out into the street as the cab pulled up, and, before Mrs. Horton could say a word of introduction, the impulsive Gladys had seized Miss Chester by the hand, and, with a warmth of exclamation which could not be mistaken, cried, "I'm so glad you have come at last. We thought the cab would never get here." . . . Then, turning to her sister, "This is Esther."

"Yes, so glad to meet you both. You are Gladys, of course?" They were for pulling her within the gate, but the new-comer turning, said, "I must pay the cabman."

"No, Mamma is doing that, and giving directions as to the luggage. Is this all you have?" asked Gladys.

"Not quite all; my luggage is not extensive, but there is a box left at the station, as it was too heavy to bring along in the cab."

"Now, come along, dears," said Mrs. Horton. "I'm sure Miss Chester must be famished. I myself feel hungry."

"You got up so early; it was very kind of you to come yourself to meet me," came gratefully from Miss Chester, cut short by Gladys, who protested that she had offered to go, but Mamma would not hear of it.

"Have you laid the breakfast things?" Mrs. Horton questioned, as they made up the steps into the house.

"Quite an hour ago, Mamma."

"Then tell Maggie to let us have some breakfast in ten minutes;" and Esther was deputed to show the new-comer up to her room. This she did with shyness, which meant that she found not a word to say, and could make no conversation, just answering in little more than yes or no to the questions the new governess asked. So unlike Gladys, who needed no questioning to make her tongue go.

"Oh, what a cosy, delightful little room!" was the new-comer's pleased explanation, as she stood for a moment surveying the comfortable apartment prepared for her.

"It was Tom's," was all that Esther found to say.

"I'm afraid Master Tom will not thank me for robbing him of his room."

"He has the lumber-room, downstairs."

"The lumber-room! Poor Tom."

"Oh, but it's larger than this, and has been cleaned out."

"And where is your room?"

"Just opposite this—come and see it."

But that was postponed, for, before many minutes, Gladys came running up with sundry of the lighter boxes, and with a word to hurry, please, for breakfast. Then, catching sight of the hat Miss Chester had just taken off and placed on the bed, Gladys broke out with a note of exclamation, "Your hat is just a picture, Miss Chester. Do let me try it on." Then, with her mob of hair flying about her shoulders, she tried on the hat, which was adorned with two large feathers, one black and one white, and making her way to the glass coquettishly fixed it, and laughed at the effect, protesting she would have one just like that when she was grown up.

"Oh, you'll have a much better one, I am sure," said Miss Chester.

"It is quite the latest style, and will knock Tom," protested Gladys.

"Knock Tom! How will it do that?"

"Oh, he says you are from the way-back among the gums, and will want 'civilising.' He is such a tease. But you won't mind him. Miss Chester, will you?"

"Oh, that will be all right. I'm sure to like Tom, since he is one of you."