Chapter I: Part I: I (1)

At
Gwylata

Heureux qui comme Ulysse, a fait un beau voyage.

DU BELLAY.

A terrific noise makes me jump from my chair, a confused uproar of grating wheels, horse-hoofs, the barking of dogs and the cracking of whips.

“The coach, Jeanne, with your luggage,” says my uncle.

I run to the verandah to see this relic of bygone days.

A true _Diligence_ like those in the engravings of the 18th century, painted in canary yellow and emerald green, picked out with black and red.

This funny vehicle is bringing my boxes, containing all I possess in the world, my favourite books and the presents of my Parisian school-mates whom I left in tears at the idea of my departure for the antipodes--“a country of kangaroos and savages, where I would surely be eaten alive,” they sobbed.

“What a contrast to the ‘Brasier’ motor in which you drove me here yesterday, uncle,” I exclaim.

“That is Australia, little one, the two extremes. Yesterday a motor, to-day the old coach which carries letters to far-off bush homes, among them probably some from the Old World by the Messageries Boat on which you were a passenger.”

By what strange circumstance does a little Parisienne find herself in the midst of the Australian bush?

For the very simple reason that my guardian, Mr. Deslandes, is the happy owner of a big station, Gwylata, on the banks of Lake Alexandrina, in South Australia. “L’oncle aux millions,” as my school-mates used to call him, whose arrival in Paris was the signal for a short but intoxicating whirl of pleasure when the head of the little orphan was somewhat turned with boxes at the “Opera,” at the “Comédie Française,” suppers in “chic restaurants,” visits to grands couturiers, where I found myself the delighted possessor of frocks very much too smart for a school girl, and one never-to-be-forgotten time--a delirious fortnight at Cannes and Monte-Carlo.

“Come, come, little girl; breakfast will be quite cold,” calls my uncle. I glance at my precious luggage, piled up on the verandah, as the big lumbering vehicle starts noisily on its journey.

Unfortunately, in returning to my seat I indulge in a “pirouette,” to the intense astonishment of an old servant, who nearly lets fall a tray as she glares disapprovingly at me.

“Well, Meg, says my uncle; you have come for your mistress’ breakfast. Has she an appetite this morning?”

Taking up the laden tray, the old woman throws me a spiteful glance, and mutters between her teeth, “French dancing girl!”

Perhaps it is just as well that my uncle is a trifle deaf, the dear man, and does not hear the remark.

“Now you have seen the real mistress of Gwylata, Jeannette, ‘Old Meg,’ who directs everything here and holds us in ‘the path of virtue’ with an iron hand--Meg, your aunt’s faithful maid for thirty years, and now the right hand of Molly, who has given the reins into her hands completely.”

“She abuses the confidence”; I say it with conviction.

“Oh, no! Under a thorny exterior there beats a kind and devoted heart. She would suffer martyrdom herself and sacrifice everybody for Molly, and, above all, for Hector.”

The Reverend Hector Armstrong is the son of my aunt by a former marriage, and inherits her religious feeling (for she is awfully pious, my dear Aunt Molly, I have heard). In charge of the Murray mission, he has established his headquarters at Gwylata and thrown himself into the heroic task of saving the souls of the benighted settlers scattered along the course of the great Australian waterway.

* * * * *

My eighteenth birthday! My aunt has just asked for me. I find her in the little morning room, where, reclining on a lounge, she passes the greater part of her days.

After some affectionate inquiries about my comfort, she says:

“I want to give you a black pearl which I have been keeping in trust. It belonged to your mother, and will have a double interest for you when you know its history. I have had it attached as a pendant to a string of pearls of my own, which will look much better on your white neck than in my casket.”

I open the box which she hands me, and cannot repress an exclamation of wonder and admiration. In it lies a necklace composed of exquisite pearls, some white and milky, others gleaming opalesquely in tints merging from grey to rose.

But the gem of the collection is the pendant--a black pearl as large as an olive, and perfect in form and lustre.

“Oh, aunt! It is fit for a queen!”

“My dear child,” she resumes with her delicate melancholy smile, “I have no daughter to wear them. Pearls are feminine, it is said, and want light, heat and the magnetism of soft, warm flesh, or they lose their colour and die.”

“Then I’ll wear them every day,” I return, kissing her.

“This black pearl belonged to a Begum,” adds my uncle, who had entered a few minutes before. “It belongs to you now by right as the descendant of the Hindoo princess. It is the only souvenir which remained to your mother of her great ancestress, the Begum Jeanne, wife of Dupleix, from whom she was so proud to have descended. You are named after her, Jeanne.”

I take the necklace into my own room, and gaze at it long, thinking of the woman whose memory has been treasured so carefully in our family. When quite a child I loved to hear my mother recount the exploits of the famous Dupleix, his fighting in India, his disappointment and despair when abandoned by all save the Begum, the intrepid companion, whose confidence and devotion lightened his darkest hours.

Is this strain of Hindoo blood in my veins responsible for the anomalies of my character, for the struggle which sometimes ensues between totally dissimilar qualities of my being? The dreamy disposition of the Oriental mingled with the vivacity of the Frenchwoman; the love of light, flowers and perfumes; the desire of being loved and caressed which made me spend whole hours in my mother’s lap, the need of devoting myself to someone or something; the keen suffering I experience when I find myself in a chilly atmosphere of indifference. Is all this simply atavism, the Indian princess living again in the Frenchwoman of the twentieth century?

It’s a little soon to express an opinion, but I believe I shall like this Australian life, all liberty, sunshine and fresh air. How amusing are its contrasts of primitive simplicity and old-world elegance, superimposed upon a solid background of English custom! Wherever on our planet two or three Englishmen have planted their flag, it becomes immediately a little corner of Old England--the same customs, same food, same dress despite the differences of climate. In the unconscious pride underlying the belief that all customs are perfect because they are English, there is betrayed a certain strength of character and will which refuses to be influenced by environment. Sometimes it is pushed to extremes and becomes exceedingly funny.

Last Monday, Daisy, the daughter of the intendant--manager, as he is termed here--took me to Wellington in her dog-cart, a smart little turnout which she drives in dashing style. (I shall certainly have to learn to ride and drive.)

We had to make purchases at the “Store,” where everything is stocked, from a morsel of cheese to a flamboyant hat.

On the road, I remarked a cottage where the wife was doing the family washing, hanging the clothes on ropes suspended between gum trees, which apparently serve many purposes. A little further on was another cottage and another washing display. Arrived in the township we saw every back yard decorated with sheets, shirts and various small things, white, blue and red, waving gracefully at the will of the summer wind.

“What a coincidence!” I murmured, wonderingly, to Daisy.

“But,” said she, quite simply, “it’s Monday, isn’t it?”

“You don’t mean that Monday is dedicated to washing as Sunday to rest?”

“Certainly. There would be a fine to-do with the servants if a mistress wanted them to wash on any other day. She would be regarded as eccentric and suspected of all sorts of misdemeanours.”

I could not help laughing at the idea of all the clean linen of Australia hanging on the line at the same hour of the same day throughout the Continent.

“If the inhabitants of Mars could see us, Daisy, this sudden white blossoming might well puzzle them. I am sure that a Martian savant ere this has discovered the cause, and explained it as a ceremony celebrated in honour of our satellite.”

Despite my laughter, there remained at the back of my consciousness a certain admiration for the sentiment of order and voluntary submission to established custom--the only domination these independent people will acknowledge.

II

The
Reverend
Hector

Qu’on vante en lui la foi, l’honneur, la probité
Qu’on prise sa candeur et sa civilité
Qu’il soit doux, complaisant, officieux, sincère,
On le veut, j’y souscris....
BOILEAU.

Oh, dear! How well I understand the feelings of the Athenian who voted for the banishment of Aristides. The poor man was so tired of hearing him called “The Just” that he must have welcomed this means of getting rid of him.

Not that I wish to exile the Reverend Hector.

For one thing, it would not be of any use. Absence does not stop the everlasting pæan of praise, for as it is, he is scarcely ever at home.

He has not returned from the mission station since my arrival, consequently I know him only by reputation.

But what a reputation!

From my aunt I can understand it.

She is his mother.

From Meg, too, who assumes a beatified expression when his name is mentioned. She is his old nurse.

She actually _smiled_ this morning--I underline the word three times--when Mrs. Deslandes told her to prepare her son’s room.

He is coming to spend Sunday here at the station.

But why should my uncle join in the daily litany of the Saint of Gwylata? or Mac, the old boundary-rider, who is teaching me to ride, and who, by way of encouragement I suppose, recounts the perilous equestrian feats of “Master Hector.”

He has all the talents, it seems--this young man--secular, as well as ecclesiastical.

The dining-room is decorated with trophies won at Oxford, either in sport or scholarship. He is a clergyman of the new school of muscular Christianity, and believes in developing the bodies of his parishioners equally with their souls.

Twenty times a day I hear: “Hector says this--. Hector does that--. Hector will teach you all about the English Poets, he is so well-read.”

It certainly is a fact that I am woefully ignorant of English literature. I really couldn’t say whether Chaucer and Shelley were contemporaries or not. I have a vague idea of Tennyson and Longfellow because we used to read them at the Lycee. I except Shakespeare; of course _he_ is universal, like our Moliére.

To return to our paragon of perfection. Let me whisper the astounding truth: The name of the Reverend Hector is getting on my nerves.

I long to go and shout this phrase to the reeds on the lake.... But it is really too horrid to venture forth--108 degrees in the shade, _in the shade, mind_. Imagine it, and tell me if the effort would not be altogether too violent for the state of limpness and deliquescence to which the temperature has reduced me.

As an alternative, I take my water-colours and begin a fancy sketch of the much-lauded hero. I can’t get any help from the photograph in my aunt’s bedroom, taken when he was five years old.

My colouring is a bit crude, especially in the hair, where the soft Venetian red runs to the unmistakable hue of carrots.... Still, I am not altogether unsatisfied with my maiden effort in the art of portraiture.

I have never before felt the least inclination to devote my energies to the “Arts d’Agréments,” as we call them in France--“agrément?” For whom is the “pleasure?”

For the unhappy victim condemned to torture a long-suffering piano for four solid hours a day, or spoil nice clean white paper and canvas?

“Oh’que c’est beau la toile blanche,” as one of our decadent poets remarked when returning from the Salon. Perhaps the “pleasure” is for those still greater unfortunates who have to admire the works of the embryo artist, or listen to the exercises of the future Paderewski.

“Arts d’ Agréments” indeed! Truly language was given to man to conceal his thoughts!

During these profound reflections the portrait is completed. The long Roman nose indicates firmness of will (I have exaggerated the length a little). The eyes, turned heavenward--only the whites are visible--betray his angelic soul. The long legs clad in riding breeches and gaiters suggest his equestrian prowess, and a tiny, tiny bishop’s apron hints at the recompense due to his saintly and evangelical virtues.

In one hand he waves triumphantly a Bible, in the other a tennis racket.

Only two hands! How unfortunate! I want several (like a Hindoo God) to symbolise his many attributes.

Now let me add two little wings, and around his neck a chaplet of hearts on which to inscribe the names of his admirers--just a wee one to be left blank for mine.

While I contemplate this charming production of budding genius, Mr. Deslandes enters my little sitting-room, to which he has admission at all times.

I hand him my masterpiece without a word.

He laughs until the tears run down his cheeks, and wants to carry it off to show his wife.

“No, no, uncle, I beseech you. She might take it seriously, forgetting that it’s only a joke. I would not wound her feelings for the world; we are beginning to get on so nicely together.”

* * * * *

I have found out a way of being useful.

When my aunt is racked with neuralgia, I go and sit with her for an hour or two. My hand on her forehead soothes the pain.

How strange is that healing force which emanates unconsciously from some people!

It tires me a little sometimes, but a good walk, or better still, a ride accompanied by Mac, who won’t trust me alone on horseback yet, restores me.

They used to tease me at school about what they called my “magnetism,” which had a soothing effect on the sourest and most crabbed disposition. A gift not always without drawbacks, for on how many disagreeable missions was I not sent to placate a furious teacher--the old Fraulein, especially, who, because she was German, was always on the look out for slights, and distributed impositions right and left. To me only did she unbend. Perhaps a fellow-feeling drew us together, for was not the little orphan an exile from family life as she from her country?

I have tried to exercise my “powers” on Meg, but so far without success. The austere daughter of Scottish Puritans cannot stand my French ways. Even my dresses offend her, so my aunt tells me laughingly.

She cannot understand how a well brought up “young leddy” can come down to breakfast indecently clad in a “bed-goon,” as she designates my pretty peignoir of soft surah, trimmed with Valenciennes, a chef d’oeuvre of Laferrière.

Nevertheless, I am not going to lace myself stiffly all day in this hot-house sort of temperature just to please her offended prejudice. Besides, I love loose, flowing draperies, the soft swish of silken materials, and their graceful billowy folds. (The little Hindoo Princess peeping out, I suppose.)

But Meg’s antagonism worries me a little. I have as much need of affection as of air. Dislike, even indifference, causes me real physical suffering.

* * * * *

Every day I mount “Jenny,” a knowing old mare, who permits herself no liberties with my inexperience.

My riding-master is old Mac--MacMahon--to give him his rightful cognomen. Is he a distant cousin of the famous “Maréchal,” I wonder? The bush conceals many family secrets in its bosom.

Mac was once a boundary-rider, as those men are termed who pass their lives in the saddle, inspecting paddocks and runs, recovering strayed stock, and keeping the station generally in order. Too enfeebled by age--and whisky--to be of any great use now, my uncle, in the kindness of his heart, keeps him on without any defined duties. He still rides marvellously, and in lesson hours his bearing is most rigidly correct towards his “Miss Mam’selle,” as he calls me. Mademoiselle quite alone strikes him as too familiar.

It is one of my greatest delights to get him to talk during our rides. He is a perfect mine of information on the early days of the colony, the goldfields of Victoria, and the bush-rangers.

Under the seal of secrecy, he has actually confessed that he himself belonged to the famous Kelly Gang; and he calmly relates the most blood-curdling yarns of pillage of stations, banks held up, and furious rides to escape capture.

Sometimes I rather suspect him of imposing on my credulity--“pulling my leg,” as I heard one of the station hands say one day. Of course that is “slang,” and I must not use such naughty expressions; but Australian slang has for me a great fascination. There is always a decided twinkle in Mac’s small, shrewd blue eyes as he piles horror on horrors. It amuses us both, and I respond by marvellous stories of the Old World, which he left when a child, and still dreams of seeing again.

Mac knows also many of the legends of the black tribes, and when he has sufficiently scared me with the exploits of Captain Starlight, he relates the legend of the Pleiades--Mea-Mei--in the aboriginal tongue, and stories about the Bunyip, which are told to the picaninnies to make them good.

III

The
Dream

Notre âme lorsque le corps dort ... reçoit participation insigne de sa
prime et divine origine et en contemplation de cette infinie sphère
à laquelle rien n’advient, rien ne passe, rien ne déchet, tous temps
sont présens, note non seulement les choses passées en mouvemens
inférieurs, mais aussi les futures.

RABELAIS (Pantagruel liv. ii. ch. xiii.).

I have had a strange dream wherein, by a sort of dual personality, I beheld myself smaller and slimmer. My hands and feet were adorned with heavy jewels. Rose-coloured silken draperies were wound round my supple body. Precious gems gleamed on my brow and neck. Reclining upon cushions in a room of white marble, I was gazing through a wide archway which gave on to a colonnade. Tall palms bent their sombre tufted heads and plantains waved their pale green leaves in the breeze. Birds of brilliant plumage hovered over flowers of dazzling splendour. Ideas, new to me, but which I felt were of remote antiquity, surged through my brain, the mentality of which seemed extraordinarily increased. I was expecting some one. The violence of my feelings frightened me. Passionate and eager, my heart was yet full of anguish, even horror.

A man entered the room, clad in rich draperies of silk and velvet, embroidered with gold, a turban fastened with a diamond aigrette covered his black hair.

Dismissing the women around me with a slight gesture, he threw himself at my feet.

His musical, softly-cadenced voice murmured words which only my other self understood. I felt for him the fear mingled with the attraction and admiration that one feels for a beautiful tiger, or for one of those glittering jewelled snakes of India.

He drew from his bosom a necklace of black pearls and clasped it around my neck. His eyes, with their pupils dilated, were fixed upon me like those of a bird of prey.

Trembling and fascinated, I swayed towards him, when a man with clear-cut, ascetic features stood between us. The loose sleeve of his monk’s habit fell back as he raised a Crucifix menacingly towards us. I made a brusque movement to separate the two men, and awoke.

My hand was clenched convulsively on the Begum’s black pearl, and the unclasped necklace hung over the edge of the bed.

Next morning I recounted the dream to my uncle, who listened attentively.

“It is really very curious, Jeanne, because that particular pearl once belonged to the wife of a Rajah. Widowed early, and converted to Christianity by one of our missionaries, she took refuge in a convent at Madras, in order to escape the unwelcome attentions of her husband’s successor. The story goes that she had not always been thus obdurate to his advances, but yielding to the thought of the dishonour attached to a wife faithless to her husband’s memory--there are no ‘Merry Widows’ in India--she fled one day, taking her daughter with her.”

“What did the new Rajah do?”

“Nothing. He dared not brave the religious prejudices of his people.”

“And what became of the child?”

“She remained with her mother at the convent, and was brought up in the Christian faith. Later on she married a French doctor and became the mother of Jeanne, who afterwards married our great Dupleix. Don’t you remember how, profiting by her relationship with certain Hindoo Princes, Jeanne procured some important alliances for her husband to the benefit of French rule in India?”

“I remember. And didn’t she sell her jewels to help pay his army when funds did not arrive from France?”

“Yes. Louis XV. preferred to lavish money on his favourites rather than pay the soldiers who fought for him. However, the Begum kept a few pearls of the necklace so famous throughout India, and they were divided between her descendants and kept as precious heirlooms.”

“Then, this black pearl of mine----”

“Is one of them. And the Hindoo Princess of the dream was probably your ancestress.”

“No, uncle, not an ancestress; for she was really--I--I can’t explain. It is too subtle, but I can feel it.”

My uncle laughs.

“The apostles of re-incarnation, that old doctrine, so much in vogue just now, would say that the Princess of Mysore has re-incarnated in my little Jeannette. That would explain,” placing his hand affectionately on my shoulder, “the big velvety eyes and exotic grace of our dear little girl.”

I kiss him to stop further utterance.

“But, dear uncle, who then----”

I stop short, blushing and finishing the sentence in my thoughts only--“Who, then, is the Rajah?”

Happily, my uncle attributes my flushed cheeks to his compliment.

IV

Cousins

On s’approche, on sourit, la main touche la main.

MUSSET.

The Reverend Hector has arrived. Like Caesar (Caesar or Hector, it is all one), he has conquered and attached me to his chariot.

How was the conquest made? Very simply! After dinner I went on the verandah overlooking the lake to wait for the moonrise, and also to let my aunt receive her son whom Mac has driven from Wellington.

I never tire of this Australian landscape by moonlight. Grey and monotonous in the crude sunlight, it becomes, under the witchery of the moon, poetic, even majestic. The gigantic trees, with their twisted branches and gnarled trunks detached against the sombre background of sapphire, recall the weird eerie effects of Gustave Doré.

A man’s voice, with musical tones in it, startles me from my dreamy contemplation.

“I see,” says the Rev. Hector, for it is he, “that we share a common taste--a love for our beautiful Australian nights.”

“Nature is closer to us here, and penetrates us more deeply with her primitive forces.”

“That radiant moon rises on a world of youth and strength. Here the conventions of the world seem paltry. Will you forget them, Mademoiselle, and begin as we are sure to end? Since I am your aunt’s son, will you treat me as a cousin?”

I accept the outstretched hand, and return his friendly clasp. I do not know, if it is so with every one, but the hand, especially the manner in which it gives and returns a clasp, is for me a sure index to the personality of the owner.

My cousin’s grip is hearty, strong, and “sympatica,” as the Italians say--a word which conveys many shades of meaning too subtle to express. It inspires me with confidence, and imparts an assurance of devotion, strength and unswerving loyalty.

“Little cousin,” he resumes, “permit me to say how glad I am to see you at Gwylata. The house is quite transformed, my mother ten years younger, and Mac almost a reformed character, thanks to the influence of his ‘Miss Mam’selle.’”

“Oh, Mac and I are great friends.”

“He’s a grand old fellow, despite his weakness. We understand each other, Mac and I. He forgives me when I rate him for yielding to his besetting vice. I am sure the Divine Master will judge him leniently.”

This is the first note which betrays the clergyman; but he speaks very simply, without a trace of cant.

My uncle’s cheery voice recalls us to the drawing-room, where a bridge table is set.

“You play cards!” I exclaim, in amazement, turning to the young minister.

“Yes, why not?” he replies, smilingly. “In the Anglican Church we don’t look upon them as pictures of the Devil, like certain Pharisaical sects. If the dangerous element, ‘gambling,’ is eliminated, why deprive oneself of an innocent recreation?”

Under plea of having some work to finish--a sketch of red gum blossom, which I want to send off by next mail--I give my place to Hector, and move to a side table while the players begin their game.

To-night it is not by any means our usual bridge, serious, almost sacramental in its portentous solemnity, with grave discussions on every doubtful move.

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!

To-day we have had our first quarrel. It was over Renan’s “Life of Jesus.” He is greatly astonished that I have been permitted to read it.

“It is a dangerous book, Jeanne, an evil book.”

“How do you know, if you have not read it?” I cannot refrain from answering, rather hotly.

* * * * *