X. The Spirit and the Letter

Une seule chose est nécessaire, d’après l’Évangile. La voici:

L’homme pécheur et misérable est aimé de Dieu pour le temps et pour l’Éternité.

C. Wagner (Justice).

Hector has returned to the Murray after some halcyon days, spent together. Golden hours, whose minutes are counted by the emotions, sweet confidences wherein soul communes with soul, and words are but the gross envelope of feelings which they reveal.

The separation is hard, so soon after our fiançailles. But he will write every day, and I have promised to consider myself an Australian “fiancee,” and write in return.

He must not expect poetic effusions. Words of love lose their fragrance when written. The sound of the beloved voice, the magnetism of the living presence are necessary to give them their true value. My letters will consist only of prosaic details of the station life and of my studies ... for I have a great project in view of which I have not yet said a word.

I am going to study THEOLOGY!

The wife of a minister ought to share the religious beliefs of her husband, I suppose. This is a point I have never dared discuss with Hector for fear that we should clash; but now I long to know something of those dogmas which mould his inner life. My own religion, one of sentiment only, has never been troubled with any vexed doctrinal questions. Protestant in name, it is true, but educated in a State Lycée with Catholics and even Jewesses, where the teaching imparted was moral and altruistic, I conformed to an ideal of life lofty enough, but absolutely outside all creeds and dogmas.

I am quite prepared to share a life of self-denial with Hector. Before he left he asked me if I would consent to devote a part of his income to certain good works which he has in view, necessitating a very simple life for ourselves.

“To lead the ‘Simple Life’ of my dear Pasteur Wagner has always been my dream,” I replied, smiling. “It will be scarcely necessary, will it? My guardian is rich, and he will help us.”

“You must not count on uncle’s wealth, Jeanne; the station is not prospering, in spite of appearances. Moreover, he speculates, and with his sanguine temperament and ignorance of mining affairs generally, I am afraid, very much afraid....”

“He ought to reduce his expenditure, discharge some of the hands, sell the motor....”

“I have thought of it often, and spoken to him, but without result. Fortunately, I have my father’s small fortune, and whatever happens he and my mother are secure of a home with US,” pressing my arm lovingly.

This very day I am going to begin my theological education. Comfortably ensconced in a corner of the verandah shut off by a huge screen so as not to be disturbed, my little table piled with frowning tomes taken from Hector’s private library, I attack the bull by the horns.

The Thirty-nine Articles of the Anglican Faith.

After several hours’ steady perusal, I let the book fall.

Predestination. The Redemption of Sin by the blood of Jesus Christ. Eternal Salvation obtained by Faith alone, irrespective of deeds. Belief in an Eternal Hell!

Are these doctrines, which seem to me reminiscent of a long past day, still really taught in the Anglican Church? Oh, Jesus, gentle Prophet of Nazareth, You who journeyed through Judea, preaching to the lowly your Gospel of Love, what has been made of your teaching?

I carry my difficulties to my uncle, but he pooh-poohs them.

“Why bother your head about it at all, little girl? Leave Theology to others, and come for a walk with me.”

“But, uncle, I must try to understand. It can’t be possible that Hector teaches....”

“Tut, tut! That won’t concern you. Your role will be to cut out little frocks for the kiddies, distribute soup to the old people, and port wine to the invalids—which reminds me to stock your cellar forthwith for that purpose.”

I take refuge in silence. I will write to Hector. He will not find my scruples childish. He will understand and explain matters to my full satisfaction.

Meg and Mac have asked for a day’s leave.

They want to go to Strathalbyn to get married by the Presbyterian Minister.

I wonder who put the fateful question!

Did Mac muster sufficient courage, or—did Meg take the initiative?

“Meg, why didn’t you wait a day or two? Mr. Hector would have been back, and we could have had a fine wedding feast.”

“Nae, nae; Maister Hector is guid enow to preach on the Sabbath, Miss Joan, but we maun hae a true minister to marry us. Maister Hector is nae sound enow in doctrine.”

Not sound enough!

If Hector’s views are too liberal for her, surely there is hope for me!

Mr. Deslandes lends them the motor for the great event, and we witness their departure in grand style.

Meg and Mac are truly superb!

But Bahloo!!!

Words fail to do justice to his elaborate splendour.

For he is going also. As best man, I suppose.

The dusky mite holds himself painfully rigid in the resplendent ruby velveteen suit Meg has made for the occasion.

And how in the world has she procured here the sailor hat with “Nelson” in gilt letters around it, which is perched jauntily on his mop of frizzy hair? Would not the word “Cupid” suit better the circumstances? In truth, has not our picaninny played the part of a little black “Deus in Machina”?

Mrs. Deslandes is a little hurt that Meg should leave her service personnel without a word of regret. It has all been done so hurriedly that we have had no time to replace her. But it will be a pleasure to take Meg’s duties upon myself for a while.

After the usual Bridge, I accompany my aunt to her room to render her the little services which her weakness necessitates.

But, behold the faithful handmaiden at her post as usual!

“Meg, you here?” exclaims her mistress.

“You surely didn’t think I was going to abandon you?” comes the calm reply.

“But what will your husband say?” I question wonderingly, opening my eyes at this startling development in honeymoon etiquette, “and who is going to keep house for him and Bahloo?”

“Oh, I can easily manage that if the mistress will let me off for an hour or two in the morning.... Noo, Miss Joan,” lapsing into the vernacular, “gang to bed yer ain sel’. Ye can sleep quite peacefully, the mistress will want for naught.”

I make my exit, leaving the two old friends—friends in sooth, despite the difference of their station—to resume the even tenor of their ways, which no incident so frivolous as Meg’s marriage could interrupt.