Part 2

The Reverend Hector plays a whimsical game, interrupting a “no-trump hand” to relate a comical anecdote of one of his parishioners, or to give his mother news of a family in whom she is interested.

Instead of calling him to order, as she would her husband or me, she listens with indulgent interest.

Bridge is my aunt’s one weakness--the sole diversion which her impaired health permits. She only leaves her bed for the easy chair which is wheeled into the verandah or the drawing-room. By the way she thus neglects her favourite amusement, one may judge of her affection for her son.

Taking advantage of the renewal of the game, I study Hector at leisure. Scarcely above the average height, he appears tall, owing to the perfect symmetry and proportion of his limbs. His sun-tanned face shows its Scottish fairness only by a line near the roots of the hair. The firm lines of mouth and chin are apparent at a glance. The former is rather large, virile and well chiselled, the latter square and resolute, redeeming what some might consider a certain effeminacy in the other features. Hector will do what he wants to do, and it will be difficult to make him change an opinion.

His eyes are strangely attractive, and rivet attention at once--eyes of child-like candour and trust set in a man’s face--grey, with luminous blue shadows, “the colour of the Scottish lakes,” as his mother fondly declares.

It is astonishing to meet in this Murray Missioner a gaze so limpid and pure, which seems never to have looked upon anything but beauty and virtue. For the first time I realise the truth of the poetic inspiration of Catulle Mendes who, in his superb drama, depicts St. Theresa passing unhurt through the most impious scenes and orgies of the Witches’ Sabbath. An invincible purity surrounds her. She and her companions move in an atmosphere which veils from them all unholy visions.

The game finished, my uncle approaches under pretext of looking at my gum blossom, and says mischievously: “Well, Jeanette, is your painting as true to life as the one you did yesterday?”

“You wicked uncle! If you say another word I’ll never kiss you again.”

The threat is effective. He would sorely miss my morning and evening kisses, given on both cheeks, in good old French fashion.

V

The Anglican Service

Quel que soit le peuple et le point de l’histoire, au sein du paganisme, comme au sein d’Israël et dans les diverses parties du patrimoine Chrétien, il sera permis à une élite de percevoir le soupir de l’homme vers le Dieu inconnu et la réponse de ce Dieu.

L. WAGNER.

An eventful morning!

For the first time in my life I am present at an Anglican service. The ball-room, unused since Mrs. Deslandes’ ill-health, has been improvised into a chapel.

All the people of the station and the surrounding homesteads are assembled. The men, for the most part tall, vigorous and sunburnt, look one in the face as equals, free men in a free land. The women, with their beautiful hair and eyes, their fresh dainty frocks, are very sweet and attractive. Generally speaking, they possess more refinement than the men. One feels that the majority, even the poorest among them, read and reflect.

Mr. Brown, my uncle’s manager, is in the front row with his wife. Daisy marshals in the children, looking after them with quite a maternal air. Her glorious blue eyes flash me a smiling greeting.

The domestics place themselves behind Mrs. Deslandes, who has left her room early in order to be present at the service conducted by her son.

As I take my place beside her mistress, Meg looks dumbfounded. Daisy seats herself at the harmonium and the service begins. It is with the greatest astonishment that I recognise almost all the ritual of the Mass--the Vestments of the priest, the Crucifix, the flowers, and even the candles burning on the altar. If it were not that the prayers are recited in English instead of Latin, I might think myself in a Roman Catholic Church like those to which I often used to go to hear the beautiful music.

What would some of our French Protestants say to it all? Rabid Calvinists, for example?

As for me, too indifferent, perhaps, to attach much importance to forms, I concentrate my attention on the clergyman.

He is no longer the simple young man who chatted and jested with us last night. He is a true priest, a hierophant even, accomplishing a divine mystery. A mystic atmosphere envelops him; an ardent faith illumines his face; his gestures are majestic. The sermon is scarcely eloquent, perhaps, but permeated with absolute conviction. Some words echo strangely in my modern ears, accustomed to the broad-minded discourses of good “Pasteur Wagner,” the author of “The Simple Life,” who used to welcome me every Sunday in Paris in his little Oratory. They were addresses rather than sermons, on Charity, Love, Justice. Hector speaks of Predestination, of Salvation reserved for the Elect, the chosen Vessels of Grace. I look curiously at the congregation to see the effect of this strange doctrine. Nobody seems restive.

My aunt follows with eyes and heart the utterances of the preacher, whose face is animated with an expression almost fanatic in its intensity. Meg listens with unction. It is quite clear she counts herself among the chosen few. For the life of me I cannot help thinking of Max O’Rell’s story of the woman taken to task for her intolerance. “Do you think, my good woman, that only you and your husband will be saved?”

“Nae, nae,” replied the old dame, shaking her head, “I’m na sae sure o’ John.”

Mr. and Mrs. Brown remain to dinner; on service days that has always been the custom.

I love Daisy more and more. She is youth and freshness incarnate. The sermon has not made much impression on her. The great problems of Predestination and Grace glide over her head like water on the proverbial duck’s back. Her thoughts are busy with the forthcoming ball at Strathalbyn, when she is to “come out.” Soon we are talking gaily of ball-dresses, partners and cotillions--things which after all are natural to youth.

* * * * *

Miracle of miracles! Meg has brought me a cup of tea, that delightful morning tea which puts one in a good temper for the rest of the day.

After fidgetting about for some minutes she says:

“Well, Miss Joan (it is thus she gives my name a Scottish flavour) I was surprised to see ye at the sairvice yester morn. Then it’s nae true ye’re a Papist?”

“Certainly not, Meg. What put that notion into your head?”

“For sure, Miss, I thocht that all Frenchies were Papists.”

“What about my uncle, then?”

“Indeed, for all the religion the maister has, he micht be a pagan.”

It is true, my dear uncle is much more interested in his sheep than in church services. But never mind, “le Bon Dieu” will keep a place for him in His Paradise.

Meg continues: “Hoo is it, then, Miss Joan, that you belong to the true Church?”

I cannot suppress a smile. Whatever one’s particular creed may be, it is always that of the only true Church.

I explain that there are many Protestants in France, Calvinists especially.

Meg can scarcely credit her ears, and despite all my protestations, will not believe that _John_ Calvin, as she calls him, was a Frenchman. That is quite beyond her.

Only out of deference does she finally submit, inwardly sure that if he _did happen_ to be born at Noyon, in France, it was only through an evil chance. He ought to have been a SCOT at any rate.

She leaves the room muttering: “John Calvin a Frenchy! It’s nae posseeble.”

VI

The Hunt Club Ball

And I knew the old, old vision-- Him with the sorrowful eyes (pain, unrelenting pain), With the distant piercing unapproachable eyes. I knew. E. CARPENTES.

My uncle and I are spending two or three days at Strathalbyn, that coquettish little township nestling among the hills. Once a year the members of the Hunt Club meet here and Mr. Deslandes, an excellent horseman in spite of his advanced years, never fails to be present at this great sporting event.

I am still too much of a novice in the equestrian art to do other than venture the mild excitement of following the hounds in a carriage. Truth to tell, the ball interests me much more than the hunt. Sir Arthur and Lady Fairfax of The Grange, are old friends of my uncle, and welcome me cordially. He is tall, broad-shouldered, and vigorous; a splendid type of the “gentilhomme-fermier,” or English Squire. She is small, fair, fragile, whom a breath might break. Their two daughters are a striking example of race evolution, tall, well-made, and passionately fond of outdoor amusements, riding, golf and tennis. Withal, they are charming, and devotedly attached to the delicate and frail little mother, whom they “protect” most affectionately. Their simple friendliness puts me at ease at once.

Immediately after dinner they conduct me to my room, adjoining theirs, and as a lady’s maid is an almost unknown luxury in Australia, we assist each other to dress. They are keenly interested in my toilette, as their mother, in my aunt’s absence, is going to chaperon me.

I must confess to a certain thrill as I don my first ball-dress, a “symphony” in pink, to the great consternation of my new friends, who declare that according to all precedent it should be white.

However, who is to know that it is my first ball? The dress is exquisite, a creation of Paquin, and the soft rosy hue of the silk will enhance the beauty of my pearl necklace.

The ball is held in the Institute, where all the functions of the township take place--balls, concerts, political and other meetings. The huntsmen wear their red coats, which gleam vividly among the light dresses of the women. Everybody knows my uncle, and we have no lack of partners. The attraction of novelty draws them, I think.

My first ball! Is it necessary to say more? The conversation, however, can scarcely be termed brilliant. Every partner asks me in turn how I like Australia, and, as I have to confess complete ignorance of horses and sport, the talk turns on Paris, of which almost all know something. The voyage “home,” including a fortnight’s whirl through Paris or the Riviera, is so simple nowadays that the wealthier class make it several times. But their Paris is not mine. Mine is that of Art, Literature and Learning; theirs, I am sadly afraid, is the gay city of the Boulevards, the races, the “Petits Theatres.” However, we meet on common ground over public edifices and monuments, which they know better than I.

Whirling around to the inspiriting music, I suddenly become conscious of a man’s gaze fixed upon me steadily, insistently. There is something strangely agitating in its intensity. Passionate, yet tender, evoking a shadowy, dim remembrance of forgotten things, it allures even while it repels me. Against my will I feel compelled to turn towards him. My pleasure is almost spoilt, for each time we pass the silent figure I experience the half-sweet, half-painful sensation produced by an intoxicating and enervating perfume.

I have seen those eyes before; but where, where, where?

Pleading fatigue, I resume my seat beside Lady Fairfax. Talking to her, I watch the groups of dancers. Daisy is as happy as a bird. Her companions, with whom she has grown up, treat her as a young sister. One of them, Dick Power, cashier in the bank, evinces, it seems to me, a more than fraternal interest. He dances with her as often as etiquette will allow, and when he cannot he is generally hovering somewhere in her vicinity.

Amused by their little by-play, my uncle’s voice makes me start. “Jeanne, let me introduce Mr. Allan Russell.”

The man with the mysterious eyes is standing before me. Mr. Russell bows, and since I do not wish to dance, asks me to sit out with him. I cannot refuse; it would betray the impression he has made upon me.

His voice is deep, mellow and sympathetic. The conversation turns upon France, which he loves and knows well, for he goes there every year for the Salon and the Grand Prix, staying two or three months. He has met many of our artists and authors, and in discussing them, my first impression is forgotten.

The minutes slip by. Dick, who is to take me to supper, comes hurrying up. Promising my companion the first extra waltz, I take Dick’s arm. Dick Power is just a big boy, with the soft, friendly eyes of a Newfoundland dog. He will make Daisy happy, I am sure. There will be nothing dramatic or morbid in the well-ordered course of their simple love. He makes no attempt to conceal his feelings.

“Isn’t she a jolly girl?” he murmurs, as we cross the room to join Daisy and her cavalier.

To the manifest content of two of our party of four, an immediate change of partners is effected. My gaiety has returned. I cannot repress my laughter at the jests and sallies of my companions. My uncle, seated at the large table among the more staid guests, raises his eyebrows at me occasionally when our merriment threatens to become boisterous, but at heart the dear old man is delighted that I am enjoying myself so well.

The tuning of the violins is the signal for our return to the ball-room. Mr. Russell is waiting at the door and claims me for his waltz.

I have danced much this evening, and with good dancers, but I realise that up to this moment I have never known what a waltz could be. Our feet move in perfect unison. One spirit animates our two bodies, which sway in the same harmonious motion. I feel my partner’s gaze becoming more and more insistent, his eyes plunge into mine, seeming to seek the inmost depths of my being. An invincible languor seizes me, my head begins to swim....

By an immense effort of will I pull myself together.... I have only the strength to murmur, “Please stop, the heat oppresses me.”

Conducting me to a little seat concealed by trailing festoons of foliage, he leaves me a moment to get the glass of water I ask for. His short absence enables me to regain mastery over my feelings, and to analyse the bewildering sensations I have just experienced.

“Who is this man, an utter stranger an hour ago, whose gaze stirs my pulses, rousing latent forces and strangely elusive memories? Ah! my dream! I remember the eyes now. They are those of the Rajah. Have I been foolish enough to be influenced by a chance resemblance to a phantom of sleep?”

When Mr. Russell returns I am sufficiently composed to thank him and speak lightly of my giddiness, which I attribute to the heat and the scent of the flowers, by now rather pervasive.

Happily the guests are beginning to leave. My uncle is looking for me, and Mr. Russell accompanies us to the motor, which is to take us back to The Grange. The touch of his hand at parting sends the blood racing swiftly through my veins.

About ten next morning the huntsmen assemble at The Grange for the take-off. With them are four or five well-mounted ladies, including the daughters of our host, and all the young men from the outlying farms and country side on their best steeds. Few Australians are too poor not to possess an animal that can _go_ or jump.

The signal given, the hounds are unleashed and the hunt begins. Lady Fairfax and I are driving with some of the other guests. I am far too ignorant of sport to understand much of the procedure, and ply my companions with questions.

“The fox? Oh, the ‘fox’ is a bit of rag dipped in some evil-smelling fluid, and dragged over the course previously to furnish the scent.”

“Why don’t you import foxes? Surely it would make the hunt more interesting?”

“Unfortunately, we did, to our cost. They have become a scourge as bad as the rabbits. You see, they attack the sheep and destroy thousands of young lambs, eating only their tongues.”

“What gourmets!”

“Quite so. This delicate taste on the part of Mr. Reynard has ruined several squatters. Sometimes a fox kills thirty or forty lambs in a single night. And then they multiply at such an alarming rate.”

“They are more prolific than the gondolas of Mr. X.,” laughed a lady.

“The gondolas!” I exclaim, opening my eyes in amazement.

“Oh! haven’t you heard that story yet? It is generally aired for the benefit of ‘new chums.’ It dates back from the time when the municipal affairs of a great gold-mining centre were transacted by rough miners more remarkable for their energy than their culture.”

“You make me curious.”

“Well, one of them, you see, had travelled a little and developed a romantic turn of mind. He proposed to import a dozen gondolas for the lake in course of construction.”

“They would liven up the landscape,” he urged. Another alderman rose, and after some words expressive of his love for the town and his desire to spare nothing that would enable it to rival the great European cities he added:

“Why this unnecessary expense? Wouldn’t it be sufficient to import a couple or two. In our prolific climate we should soon have the dozen which my honourable colleague desires.”

I laugh merrily at the anecdote.

The huntsmen are coming towards us at full gallop, clearing the fences in gallant style. The interest of this exciting steeple-chase is centred in the manner in which rider and horse negotiate each obstacle, generally in a dual capacity, but sometimes quite independently.

Lady Fairfax covers her eyes as her daughters rise to the fence like two little amazons. How comes it that this sweet, gentle dove is the mother of these fearless eaglets?

Mr. Russell is mounted on a magnificent black. Rider and horse are one like a centaur. In the excitement of the chase, he passes without seeing me, and I feel, I don’t know why, a little hurt.

“Look at Allan Russell,” remarks a lady. “Doesn’t he look splendid on horseback!”

“Yes; he sits like an Englishman, more correctly than our young people.”

“It would be much better if the ‘correctness’ were in his conduct rather than in his riding,” retorts the first lady, resenting even this slight criticism of her countrymen.

“Why? Is there anything amiss with it?”

“Much. In the first place, he seems to care far too little for his own wife whom one never sees, and far too much for the wives of others.”

So, he is married, then! I am surprised and vaguely troubled.

Certainly it is not love I feel for this man. It is rather a kind of obsession, a response to the appeal in his eyes which awakens something obscure, half forgotten.

Well, I am warned now, at any rate. He has a wife. And his eloquent glances mean only a passing flirtation.

After the hunt-luncheon, at which the women only appear for the speeches and toasts, my uncle and I start for Gwylata, taking with us Daisy, who can scarcely tear herself from her beloved Dick.

With a detached air, well-assumed I hope, I listen to Allan Russell’s parting words:

“This is not to be good-bye, Mademoiselle. Mr. Deslandes has kindly asked me to spend a day at Gwylata; so in a little while, I hope to meet you again.”

VII

Bahloo

I see the stalwart aborigines straying naked through the primal woods, light-footed amid the grass. I hear their powerful cries and calls to each other, resounding from cliffs and gullies.

E. CARPENTES.

Bahloo is the little black boy of whom my aunt has taken charge since the death of his mother, Meamei. He is being brought up at the aboriginal mission house, which is under the spiritual direction of Hector, who can thus keep watch on the child’s welfare.

Meamei, the victim, or perhaps the culprit, in a _crime passionel_--the silence of the bush holds the secret of many such--was one day brought with her newly-born infant to my uncle’s station in Queensland. Wounded, and almost dead with hunger, she had dragged herself along many weary miles. Knowing only a few words of English, she either could not, or would not, give any information about herself. She seemed to live in dread of her life.

Some suspicious-looking blacks having been seen loitering near the station, my uncle had Meamei removed to Gwylata in order to escape the danger she feared.

Here, she quickly regained her vivacity and light-heartedness. She learned to gabble English, and soon found a new admirer in the person of Byanee, a native from the Point McLeay Station.

They were married very soon, the question of Bahloo’s father, alive or dead, being a moral subtlety not particularly necessary to dwell upon when dealing with the blacks.

Meamei had been dead several months, and as Bahloo’s stepfather was inclined to express his paternal obligations more by cuffs than care, my aunt had taken charge of the little one.

The whole family was interested in the picaninny, and when he fell sick Mrs. Deslandes wanted to bring him into the house at once. Hector, however, fearing possible infection, had him taken to MacMahon’s cottage.

“Mac will make an excellent nurse. When he has a trust reposed in him, he would die of thirst rather than touch a drop of whisky.”

“Yes,” said my uncle, “and once the responsibility ceases?”...

“Then it will be our turn to look after him.”

“I am thinking, though, what is to become of your riding lessons, little cousin, if I take away your instructor, unless,” bowing profoundly, “you will allow me to take his place and ride with you to-morrow.”

“Certainly, Hector, if you will let me help look after Bahloo.”

“I don’t think you ought to. The symptoms are grave. I am afraid it is typhoid.”

Then, after a moment’s hesitation, he added, smiling,

“It is scarcely right for me, a clergyman, to dissuade you from doing a good deed. If you will take proper precautions....”

“Oh! I will be prudence itself. I adore nursing. My dearest dream was to become a doctor, until uncle vetoed it. You shuddered with horror, godfather, didn’t you, at the mere thought of having a niece an M.D.?”

He is a little old-fashioned in his notions, the dear man, but I love him with all my heart, in spite of, perhaps because of, the difference in our opinions.

This morning, immediately after breakfast, Hector and I go to see Bahloo.

Mac is waiting for us at the door of his cottage, which consists of one large room, a small kitchen, and a wide, shady verandah, where one can lounge luxuriously.

My uncle has housed him very comfortably, that he may have less reason for yielding to his weakness.

The baby is in Mac’s bed. He himself sleeps on a mattress on the floor. Little Bahloo is all but unconscious. His black skin looks dull and lifeless. Only his eyes are large and brilliant with fever.

Poor little pariah! What has he done to be sent into the world?

His tiny body still bears the marks of Byanee’s hand. Hector understands medicine. In the bush, where doctors are rare, the parson has often to look after the bodies as well as the souls of his parishioners.

Does he not thereby follow humbly in the footsteps of the Great Pastor, who journeyed through Judea healing the afflicted, as he preached the new Gospel of love and hope?

After arranging the hours when I should relieve Mac in his new duties, we return to the house.

The horses have been brought round to the verandah, ready for our ride. In place of my old Jenny, the groom holds my cousin’s horse, Said, a beautiful animal, the pick of the stable, the best mount in the country, as Mac has proudly asserted on several occasions.

“Look, Hector, they have made a mistake with the saddles.”

“Said is yours now, Jeanne--that is, if you will accept him. I have really no time for riding,” he adds, to remove any scruple I may have, “and it would be a crime not to use such a noble animal, wouldn’t it?”

Said, quite conscious that we are speaking of him, lays his velvety nose on Hector’s shoulder and whinnies caressingly out of sheer joy.

We begin our ride.

Said is a perfect treasure. When his ardour is too great for my inexperience, a word from my companion renders him docile and obedient.

My new instructor is much more difficult to please than Mac. Nothing misses his keen eyes. He has evidently determined to make me a good horsewoman.

* * * * *

Our little patient is getting better. The attack is a mild one. He is sleeping now, and to pass the time, I take one of my uncle’s books from Mac’s shelf. It is the “Life of Father Damien,” by Clifford.

I read the first pages with keenly awakened interest, and when Mac comes in to relieve me, I carry off the volume.

Comfortably stretched on my cane lounge, I continue its perusal. It is as fascinating as a romance, this life of the hero of the lepers, so splendid in its devotion and simplicity.

Hector, whose approach is unheeded, so great is my absorption, bends over to read the title of the book.

Suddenly he draws himself up, his mobile features contracting.

“Ah! you are reading about Father Damien. I envy him as much as I admire him.”

“But, Hector, leprosy! That frightful disease of which he died!”

His face grows sombre.

“I would give everything,” dropping his voice, “to become a real missionary and go to Molokai.”

“It would kill your mother, Hector.”

“After all,” he continues, musingly, “there is a moral leprosy also, that of indifference and impiety. I can find plenty of opportunities to fight that.”

I remain silent. I don’t like these burning religious questions. Feeling that we may clash, the wisest course is to avoid them.

* * * * *

It is an odd thing that Hector, so good to the rough bushmen, interesting himself in the petty details of their lives, so sweet and tender to his mother, whom he surrounds with a protecting love, so considerate towards me, whom he treats as a little sister, should become cold and stern directly a question of dogma is broached. Is it an atavistic survival of Puritan times and teaching?

Perhaps it is due to the narrowness of his education. Strange, indeed, that he, so clear and wide-visioned, so eclectic in all literary matters, should have read nothing of those great religious writings outside the pale of orthodoxy!