XII. Storm Signals

Part II

Nous nous imaginons, Pauvres fous que nous sommes,
Que personne avant nous n’a connu la Douleur.

Alfred de Musset.

How shall I recount the long months of gloom and sadness following Hector’s departure for Molokai?

After reading the letter which ended everything between us, I ran to my guardian imploring him to let me return to France.

“The Directrice of the Lycee where I was educated was my mother’s friend. I know she will receive and aid me to obtain a position in the administration of which she is the head.”

But my uncle was unwilling for me to go.

Mrs. Deslandes, whom I sought afterwards, drew me into her arms.

“It would be useless, little Jeanne. Hector will never return,” she said, with her sweet, melancholy smile. “It was only my selfish affection that kept him here preventing entire devotion to his calling. Yes, it is better so,” she added, with that pious resignation which enables her to support all blows unmurmuringly. “God calls him; I will not dispute possession.”

How beautiful is this Christian Faith animating mother and son! How profound, despite the narrowness of its principles! How comforting and sustaining in the dark hours of tribulation!

My uncle has touched the right chord to make me remain at Gwylata.

“Jeannette, your presence here may be really helpful. Bad times threaten, my poor little girl. Almost all my speculations have turned out badly.... The bank holds a mortgage on the station and is pressing me.... Perhaps we shall need you, if we have to economise and discharge some of the servants.

“The cook goes first,” he resumed, smilingly. “Why, we shall have a French ‘chef,’ who will prepare for us some dainty little dishes,” his unquenchable cheerfulness reasserting itself at once.

“Don’t be frightened. I am only joking. We shall not be so poor as all that. I am counting on the Golden Egg mine to put things right. If dividends are forthcoming we shall soon be richer than before.... Oh, yes! there still remain some ‘beaux jours’ for us, Jeannette.”

And my poor uncle, comforted already by his optimistic hopes in the great mine, begins to build airy castles.

Life on the station has resumed its monotonous course, broken only by Hector’s letters from his far-off island in the South Seas, that leper station, with which Father Damien’s name is so indissolubly connected.

He writes of his work among the miserable pariahs, of the devoted band of helpers—Catholics, priests and sisters, ministers, and American doctors, all united in the great work of Charity.

Daisy’s visits prove a great distraction. She alone has the power to draw me out of my melancholy. She is so bright and fresh, brimful of health and happiness. Her marriage is to take place shortly, sooner than was anticipated. By what she calls “good luck,” the bank was broken into by burglars. Dick, hearing a suspicious noise, fired several shots from the revolver he always kept near him—“without hitting anyone,” as Daisy naïvely remarked, very glad not to have a “spook” between her lover and herself. The neighbours, awakened by the shots and the noise of the struggle, secured one of the assailants.

Dick escaped with only a scratch on the temple, where a bullet grazed the skin. Daisy is quite proud of the wound, and prouder still of the congratulations showered on the hero of the hour for his courage and presence of mind. As a tangible recognition of his services he is to be promoted.

“Perhaps he’ll be manager, instead of clerk. The salary will be doubled,” says the girl, with an important air.

I tease her for being so mercenary. She opens her clear blue eyes, the hue of wet periwinkles, and answers in a tone which reduces me to silence.

“If Dick is promoted, we can be married sooner.”

Meg also does her best to divert my thoughts. She has asked me to look after Bahloo in the mornings, as she is obliged to be in closer attendance on her mistress. In spite of her fine, unflagging courage, her son’s absence and the danger he incurs from the dread disease around him have seriously affected my poor aunt’s health. So I undertake Bahloo’s education. I find the funny “petit noir” has quick intelligence, and an excellent memory, especially for figures. He is astonishingly quick at mental arithmetic. I am told that it is only a flash of intellectual activity, that towards the age of 10 or 12, the faculties of the aboriginal begin to diminish and finally atrophy, rendering it impossible to go far with the mental training that begins so promisingly. The more man rises in the scale of human development, the more necessary becomes time for his nascent intelligence to evolve. A little chick or a duckling is so much more lively than a babe.

My little native charge amuses and interests me with his chatter. He knows so many legends of his tribe—that of the laughing jack, the dingo, and the Pleiades, that mysterious constellation which plays so great a part in the mythology of primitive races.

The expected catastrophe has arrived, more sudden and overwhelming than anyone could have foreseen.

Two letters were brought to Mr. Deslandes one day just as we had finished lunch. The first, from the bank, brought the frown I know so well on his face; the second bore the heading of the unfortunate mine. After perusing the latter, my uncle uttered a groan, staggered, and fell heavily to the ground.

Our efforts to restore consciousness were unavailing. The doctor, summoned from Strathalbyn, arrived only to find life extinct.

The blow was too sudden. My dear aunt sank under the shock, and we had the sad consolation of laying in the same tomb these two beings so united in life.

I shall not dwell on this mournful period—the only things which sustain me in my grief are the sympathy and affection of those around me.

Mr. Brown and Dick have spared me the ordeal of the necessary formalities. A cable from Hector, who could not have arrived in time, had he been able to start at once, has given me full powers.

Daisy and her mother have been tenderness itself. The grief of all who work on the station, some grown old in the service of their beloved master and mistress, has affected me deeply, and been a great consolation in my distress.

The station is sold. The price covers the mortgage and the debts contracted during the last years of my uncle’s life, when all his credit was used to pay up the calls of the miserable mine. A small sum remains, sufficient to assure the future of some of the old servants, of Meg and her husband, on whom Mrs. Deslandes had intended to settle a small annuity.

Mr. Saunders, the lawyer engaged in liquidating the estate, thinks it madness on my part to give up this money, but the obligation is as sacred to me as a debt. How can I permit these poor souls to go to the Destitute Asylum while I enjoy the money promised to them?

Hector has devoted his small patrimony to the work to which he has consecrated his life. In his last letter he speaks of his experiments about to be tried in the laboratory which he has had fitted up in order to seek a remedy to the frightful disease. I will not trouble him with these worldly cares, from which he seems to be gradually detaching himself.

Many proffers of assistance reach me. Daisy, married during those wearying months occupied in the settling of my uncle’s affairs, has entreated me to make my home with her. A room is always ready for me in the pretty cottage at Wellington.

I have been staying with Daisy’s parents. They insisted on my leaving the great empty house. But I do not want to tax their hospitality. Their own future is precarious. Perhaps the new owner of Gwylata may not retain the old manager? If so, it may be difficult to find another position at his age.

Other friends of my uncle have written, offering an asylum and material help. People are warm-hearted and generous in Australia, where life is easy. But I am young and strong, and I shall find some means of gaining a livelihood in this new land to which I am becoming daily more attached.

Mr. Saunders, the lawyer, who still retains his interest in me, in spite of what he calls my foolishness, has just brought me a letter from his niece, Mrs. Clarke, whom I met at Strathalbyn, during the Hunt Club meet. It was she, I remember, who defended Mr. Russell so warmly.

She offers me a position as governess to her small children, if the journey to New South Wales does not frighten me.

“The house is very modest,” says Mr. Saunders; “the place is really only a large farm. My niece is not rich, but you know her, and she will make you happy. Your business methods are about on a par, so you should suit each other admirably!”

I have bidden a tender “adieu” to all my Gwylata friends, including little Bahloo, who weeps bitterly. Dick and Daisy are to escort me as far as Murray Bridge, where I take the Melbourne Express.

Once again we three glide along the smooth waters of the great river. My thoughts return to the first time I saw the noble waterway of Australia, the day I fled from Gwylata to escape Allan Russell’s visit.

How far off it all seems! What trouble have I not been through since then!!!

Away with sad thoughts! A new life is beginning, unknown, but full of possibilities.