CHAPTER VI

Otago Witness, Issue 2493, 25 December 1901, Page 13 (Supplement)

CHAPTER VI

" NO HOVK. NO HKLI'." (From the Diary of Ailsa Dnimmiind ) Februaiy, 186 — . "Life and the morning" dwell at Granton. Perhaps, I was a girl before I fame here ; but, looking back, I seem just the shell of one stuck all over with little barnacles of worldly custom. " Far past Dame Grundy's outmost guard," Marion and I are a law unto ourselves. \ T o martyrdom to fashion, no set times, no afternoon calls! When we long for society we just slip on our habits, and go over to spend a night with little Maggie Murray — and that reminds me I'm a wee bit uneasy about Maggie, and wish the wool king would come back to look after his own ; if, indeed, that potentate be not Scylla to Horatio's Charybdis. O, beaut'ful summer days at Granton ! they are slipping through my life like a knotless thread through muslin. To live in a strong pure ether between the bronze and purple afterglows and the roar of the many-channelled river! Never to be bored, — to hate no one, envy no one, believe in the good of all, even in the reformation of Tom Huggins ! When I say all this to Marion, she justs plays with my hair, and says: — " Dear me, what a thimble of a dish the baby keeps her happiness in ; it overflows directly." Yesterday, for the first time, I ventured to say : — "I know you have a bigger dish than mine, Marion, but why can't it be filled, too?" ' Why, it is filled. The baby splashed into it four months ago, like the duckling you used to set swimming in the old milk dish." I don't know how I dared, but I said : — "Then it wasn't quite full before?" Marion's beautiful eyebrows nearly met, then she laughed in a cool little way. " Why, of course, chickabiddy, running over, as a good wife's always is — as yours may be some day." Then she said hastily in another tone : — " You wonder why I never sent for you all those years, although I wanted you. Ah ! but I did not know you wanted me. I did not know this life would content you, — so little that most girls pine for, — no dances, no kettledrums, 1.0 curled darlings." " What most girls pine for — and me a Drummond too — oh, Marion ! " I said. " Yes, I was wrong. But that wasn't all I'm — I'm not a lucky woman to live with ; some women are not, you know. And some day you might find that out, and blame me for casting the evil eye upon you." " I flatly disbelieve there is anything unlucky about you, unless it's a tiny touch of the dour old Drummond temper, which I never saw, and only guess at. Some day you will exorcise that, and your evil eye will vanish like mist."

I felt I must say that if it choked me. She only put out a hand unsteadily, and said: — •'Don't — don't make on- lite-game of make-believe hinder. We •women weie mver meant to see, eye to e^e — never meant to speak, lip to lip. They won't let us ; you will know it >ome day. That's the trouble, Ailie : the seeing eye is the evil eye " She walked up and dow n restlessly for a few moment*, then came back to me. "We shall throw no moie conundrums a.t each other. Come into the garden, bihy. and pick plums for a pie."' Alas tins shadow l lam a wretch to be so happy. Were it not for that what a quaitette we should be. Didn't I once call Mi Stoimont a Cyclone? Well, he blows the dust and cobwebs out ot even thing he comes ne.u But now I s-hould call him the Trade Wind that blow*

the mariner home. True, his right hand is generally waving the Fiery Cross against something or somebody, but his left is always quietly ladling out alms and ointment. Once, Harry told me, he stayed out three nights to catch a sly sheep stealer ; then, when he got the man convicted, he secretly kept his wife aoid family till he got out. The poor woman thought the days of Manna had come back.

' If they'd only keep Jimmy in jail for good and all," s-he said to her friends. "A sulky man and no moneys purgatory itself, but no man and money for the childer is heaven enough for the likes of me."

He is just like a map of Africa — full of wide, white places, where suddenly one comes on strange serrated peaks of Quixotism, or jungle-hidden lakes of sentiment, that none would have looked for. He might have been anything in this young country ; he is head and shoulders above every other man I know. But place and show he scorns utterly. Why does he prefpr to be a recluse at Granton? And yet fame follows him, for everyone talks of those long exploring journeys of his in the autumn. In the South there is a mountain called after him. Stormont Peak ! It is a poem of a name, somehow . I shaill never see it ; it is a place you must fly to, or go on griffins, or something. But often when the wing of a nor' -west thunder drift sweeps over Granton, I think I see Stormont Peak, standing high above the midway clouda, with a rainbow touching its crest. Always a rainbow ; never the home glow of sunset, when " the even brings a' hatne." Why does he scorn women so, although he is so kind to them? Again and again it recurs, what a queer, unsociable tandem pair he and Marion are in their beliefs. But I mustn't blame his beliefs, for he is so nice to me now. He never says pretty things ;

he is in no hurry to pick up dropped gloves, but he doesn't call me "Missie" any more, and he thinks I understand when he shows me his treasures — berries and beetles — with names as long as lam tall. It's all Greek to me, although I feel so wise and uplifted when he has finished. If he ever catches me off guard, I shall say what the minister's Betty said, when she was blamed for not remembering the text. Canny Betty pointed to the clothes line, and said: —

"Minister, div ye see the saip I pit on thae claes? Na, but it cleaned them fine for a' that ! "

And he is so grand to ride with, even better than Harry, I think. First you see a large, jove-like palm spread out near the ground, then there is an electric moment in space, and there you are like a bird. At that point most colonial squires wash their hands of you, and begin to grind an axe of their own about a pipe, or strap, or switch — dear me. my metaphors are mixed. But this thoughtful Cyclone never forgets you have a stirrup, a whip, a rein, all wanting attention. He never hurries the pace, never drags it, never flogs his horse. Peccavi ! I laugh, and also I blush to see that I called him a "hideous giant, with a face fiery as a harvest moon." What is beauty? I don't know, nobody knows. But somehow lam beginning to think that the Apollai Belvidere type is a " wersh " affair — a* '" wer«h " as porridge unsalted. How feeble i« the finest Grecian nose be«ide a massive feature that would carry thiough a Waterloo by itself (didn't someone say that Napoleon lost because Wellington had a double-bridged nose and he hadn't?) What is the black Byronic eye, or the romantic shifty blue, beside the keen and steadfast gray that keeps its quick fire through sun and storm? Macassared curls are simply peurile beside waves of leonine brown with a reddish tinge running through, pushed off a highdomed forehead.

Gracious! what utter rubbish I'm writing. This is the reason : — One must let off a little nonsense steam at twenty. Marion is sweetly responsive to all nonsense but this kind. Dear old Maggie is the literal sort that would scent solid romance behind it. There remains but the trusty pen, that protesteth not, nor thinketh evil. A truce to the Cyclone and all his works '

To-morrow begins the straggler shearing, a mild after-glow of the big event in December. Only five or six shearers are engaged. I thought of the glorious volume of sound that used to pour out of the hut door in summer twilight.

It was very wicked, but I did laugh Of couise it was quite ordinary to the rest. " What are you laughing at. Ailie?" asked Marion. "In civilised Kinds they pa^s lound the hut, with us they pass round the "mnrster instead.'

" Yes," said I, drying my eyes, "of course wav is better ; it look* as if you valued giace when you spud a man and horse 30 mil' 3*3 * for it."

" And in the nrddle of shearing at that," put in Mr Stoimont, gloomily. " The mustering has taken every shoe off the place. 1 must put Long Jimmy on the job to-morrow for the parson ■* horse. Let's *cc ; he lamed

"Are they a singing ciowd. Ham?" I asked "I didn't inquire whether they had giaduated at the RA M Hut I fancy tney are a horsey, raffling crowd, too full of blow to sing." Mr Stormont )ust came in from mustering, and c. night the wolds "0, yes. I knew you'd pick the scum of the pot. Netherbv You've got a scratch team, and no mistake ; a set ot unhanged ruffianas ever I "I didn't select them for their beauty an\ more than foi tin n music' said Harry, placidly. "AH the old hands aie off to the diggings, and I doubt if even this scratch team will sit tight to the job." "Confound 'em, no! I «aw flat mutiny, and duck and gietn yearn the optic* of every mother's son of them. Andrew Muim.y tell- me he had tlnee relays befoie he got through shear.ng The last lot finished foi a fdvoiu >e<-teid.t\ , and thiew up their hats with a yell. calling 'Hunoo, boy- we're off to old Orton'-, and he' P. cnve us curry three times a day, and potatoes as often awe'U ate them, or niver a bit w e -heat 1 ' He was standing at the window as, he spoke. and called out -nddenh : — "Come here, Mi-s Diummon.l ; isn't that the tellow who left the gate open on th* load to C'on-ie." "The cattle duffer. Ye-. I'm -ure it 1-." I. The men weu tiling i><i-t the fence to the hut. The cattle clutter turned, and gHA c us a long, insolent start. Rnd then laughed, and -aid something to the man behind him. I could not. of cour-f. hear the words, but somehow I shivered, as if someone had stepped over my grave. Mr Stormont shook his head solemnly. •" Hdiiy. Hairy, it's wor-e than cutry three times a danIt's battle, murder, and sudden death you've taken aboard, you amiable old bat. That last beauty but one would put an addition to our woolshed, with a fiery stick for a pin and three-quarters." "Pick 'em jourself next time, and insist on a parson's reference," said Harry, sweetly. "0, and talking of that "he fished in his pocket. " Yes, here it is ; from the new manager at Bromley, a bit of a dry wag, it seems."

" Dear Sir, — The Reverend Sydney Camper, being on his yearly round in the district, holds service at our place Thursday, 10th inst. I shan send him on to you Friday following, when, no doubt, you will spare a horse and man to take him up the gorge.

" There's an unbranded colt here which 'they say is yours ; if that is so, you can have him any time you send over. And, by the way, lam you would kindly muster in any unchristened infants about your run , it would save the reverend gentleman's time. — Yours truly, "F. Smith

Napoleon a ve.tr ago; give him Old Dodgtr this time, and chance it. Old Dodi'ei l- about up to the c-leneal avoirdupois, and the Pope himself couldn't tlog him out ot his own jog tiot. Never lend yom be-t hoise to a woman 01 a paison." "Mr Diogene-.' 1 sa.d, \ou .»e fai woi.se than Bum-- wlnn he wrote " I'eg NulioUon' on the wot- ot pnest-tid eatt'e ' Fot you blame not only the mnn-tei moict\ of the population, but the full half of Lie.ition a- "ell If Mai ion could only -nhpa-na Sultan, and I Hlack lU— . we would be -ate on ther te-timouv. I think" " Kissing goes by favour. I have known a woman tond of her hoi-e who loved no othyi thing." an-ueied Mr Stoimont, coldly Did he glance a.t Mauon"? Did -he pale the slightest degiee.' I cannot tell, but a -ttange l'ttle chill touched v- all. To-night Mi- Huggnis came in. looking \eiv unpoitant in the die— Mi Stoimont gave hei at Yew Veal She did not *>cc Harry in the deep aimchan. tor indeed oui keio-ene lamps ai c none ot the bnghte-t. though bi lliant attei the Stygian unhagia.nce ot our tallow candle-. She began. — ' I hear a* how the pai-on'- coming, mi^ih, and \\ c \ c been savliur, I'om and me. we mu^t get. little Molly done tin- tune: a\; was up at the Folks la--t yeai, ( wkl -he got mi-.sid. And Tom, he .-a\-, would the mi*-u- 01 Mis- Diummond be godmothu": "■Certainly. Mr- Huggin-. I -hall be vei y pleased to be little Molly"- godmothei,'" Marion said, pleasantly. Mrs Huggins mumbled thank-, but the mam ta\oin w.i- plainly yet to come '"And. mi— u-. she ha-ift got the lag ot a. white gown: wh te being h.nd on the wash and a cold colour, like. And lorn, he vivs that no t'hiistian was evei chn-tened in led Manuel " I choked a graceless tittei at the idea ot Mi Huggm.s a- an authority on sacerdotal matters The woman went on uxi.ly; — " And we thought. Turn and me, that you might have .some little white gown that'd do, and wouldnt mind lending it."' Marion started, and sat up with a -tiange, staitled expression in her eves. She has never et spoken of her baby to me. "Molly shall have a white diess," she said at last, and Mrs Huggins went out. I caught one glimpse of H.nry's face, and oh! the agony, the reproach, stamped upon it! I stolt aw in, leaving thtm together ; I hoped, and feared, I knew not what. But Man-ion herself left the 100 m almost at once, and shoitly afterwards she called to me fiom her own room. "(let Ms a hot iron, baby; we must get leady for the christening." On the bed there lay a beautiful, old-fashioned muslin skirt. "It was a ball dress I wore in Australia," she said with a wan smile "A bonny godmother my torbeais would think me, if they e-ver thought of godmothers at all. — me, a, dancer, an Eiastian by my mairiage, and now, above all. to offer to put this shred of sinful frippery on an innocent bairn at her christening ! Are we not foolish mortals? Tom Huggins thinks the Lord would not accept Molly in red flannel; the dead Diummond- would haive thought He would not accept her in my old ball dress. " But we know better, Manon ; we know how He loves them for themselves," I said. Marion was smoothing out on her pillow a litcle fairy dress of softest cashmere. Quite suddenly she laid her head on my shoulder with a dry, tempestuous sob. "0, yes, Ailie, we are wiser. If we did not know that we .should go mad, we motheis," she wailed. "0, Marion ; 0, Marion : " was all I could say. "0, she is better with Him ! I would not have her back — to be a. woman — no, no ' But the sight of it ! " She disengaged herself gently from me, and held it up again as if to accustom her eyes to it. >• gh e — s he looked so beautiful in it. She only wore it once." she said, with the same ghostly smile. "Was she fair, like you, Marion?" I asked. " No. Very bright and very dark, like her father." She threw up the window, and looked out on the summer stars, as if she would pierce the floor of heaven with her eyes. "Biing me the iron, baby dead 1 ," she said, at last. "I want to take the pattern quickly and put it away." When I had the iron heated, she had cut it out in paper ; the little fairy dress was gone, and two widths ot the beautiful old muslin lay torn, ready to smooth out. Together we laid out the dainty little seams. '" Here is some insertion ; you may take a tiny sleeve if you like ; we have not much time.'" I went out and saw Harry pacing on the grass, with that dark look still on his face. " Did she give it to the woman?" He almost hissed it in my ear. " Ah, no ; she would have given her right hand sooner. She is cutting up an old ball dress instead."

His face twitched and softened, and he dashed his hand quickly j "That is comforting, to be sure, said Marion, with a faint across his eyes ' ironical inflection. "Of course, you mean she was a poor creatur "Thank heaven, she has some feeling left," he muttered. I slipped spiritually." both hands over his arm. "Protoabh. probably," said Mr Camper, in the swelling tone of . "0, go to her, and tell her you are pleased. She spoke to me confident raconteur. "I should say that a woman in such outer da.k about-her. She wants comfort ;it is buried so far away ; llt!hS < lbout the co " kl "« (> [, ell() l)Sl )S mUst be < T T , , „ „ poor crea«ture m all w<u s. I thin 1 never saw it ; I cannot say what you could. r ...•_. His arms dropped at his sides. "Comfort! I cannot comfort her; she will not speak to me. Then I took my courage in botl hands. ''Harry," I said, "'what is it that is choking the lives out of you and Marion? What is this shadow of Granton that never lift', day or night ? Tell me ; surely something could be done if you would only -peak, and not eat out your health as you do." I saw the irresolute quiver of his lips in the moonlight. "■ It's too late, Aihe. And I did speak, too ; I said all — that \vai> possible ' I caught a fateful reservation : his manner, and shook his ai: trying to smile a little. "And did you say all that wa> iM-posbible as well? Ah. no, you didn't. lam ju»t beginning to understand the A B C of a woman's life, and somehow I think it isn't always, it isn't even often, t_. possible, the solid, the concrete, that we want to hear ; it is the impossible, the nothing, the moonshine, that is yet, far away the very reality of life. The impossible, the nothing, the moi shine — think of it, Harry. Not only the solid truth, but the misty draperies that float about her. No, don t tell me what the trouble was ; go and tell her all there is left to tell." I was gaining ground w ith him. I could see the shadow of a resolve forming, as he looked into my eyes "Do you understand her?" he asked, tentatively. How is it that sometimes we can feel an unasked question floating , about us? Well I knew the reaJ words his man's pride kept back were : — "Does she care for" me still?" And, 0, the sorrow of it ! What did I know, and what could I say? It seemed an eternity that he stood and watched me. Then I said, with a rush : "I do not ; I can only say with the poor girl in Tn Memoriam,' I cannot understand, I love. "I do understand that Marion is the soul of loftiness and honour, and that you need not fear to find anything mean or false about her." I saw his face stiffen in the moonlight ; his voice was dull and crushed. " I see. It is 'honour first with you Drummonds ; honour ' before trust, kindness, love ! always ' honour ' irst ! 0, you daughters of an iron race ! it is true, :hat old superstition Stormont talked of yesterday. Eow well one can see that the bitter taste of the ash-sap s still on your tongue. — the ash-sap your Celtic ii'omen gave theij babies before ever they tasted mothers' milk ! " Again I said in tears : "' I cannot understand ; I love ' ; I love and trust y 30th. I never tasted the ash-sap." " Thank you, Ailie. All this is our secret, mow," he said, pressing my hands sorrowfully. A massed away to the garden, I heard him mutter : — " No hope, no help ! "