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.