The Three Miss Kings 5

The Three Miss Kings 5

And so they began to pack up. And the fuss and confusion of that

occupation--which becomes so irksome when the charm of novelty is

past--was full of enjoyment for them all. It would have done the

travel-worn cynic good to see them scampering about the house, as

lightly as the kittens that frisked after them, carrying armfuls of

house linen and other precious chattels to and fro, and prattling the

while of their glorious future like so many school children about to

pay a first visit to the pantomime. It was almost heartless, Mrs.

Dunn thought--dropping in occasionally to see how they were getting

on--considering what cause had broken up their home, and that their

father had been so recently taken from them that she (Mrs. Dunn) could

not bring herself to walk without hesitation into the house, still

fancying she should see him sitting in his arm-chair and looking at her

with those hard, unsmiling eyes, as if to ask her what business she had

there. But Mr. King had been a harsh father, and this is what harsh

fathers must expect of children who have never learned how to dissemble

for the sake of appearances. They reverenced his memory and held it

dear, but he had left them no associations that could sadden them like

the sight of their mother's clothes folded away in the long unopened

drawers of the wardrobe in her room--the room in which he had slept and

died only a few weeks ago.

 

These precious garments, smelling of lavender, camphor, and sandalwood,

were all taken out and looked at, and tenderly smoothed afresh, and

laid in a deep drawer of the bureau. There were treasures amongst them

of a value that the girls had no idea of--old gowns of faded brocade

and embroidered muslin, a yellow-white Indian shawl so soft that it

could be drawn through a wedding ring, yellower lace of still more

wonderful texture, and fans, and scarfs, and veils, and odds and ends

of ancient finery, that would have been worth considerably more than

their weight in gold to a modern art collector. But these reminiscences

of their mother's far-off girlhood, carefully laid in the bottom of the

drawer, were of no account to them compared with the half-worn gowns

of cheap stuff and cotton--still showing the print of her throat and

arms--that were spread so reverently on the top of them; and compared

with the numerous other memorials of her last days--her workbox, with

its unfinished bit of needlework, and scissors and thimble, and tapes

and cottons, just as she had left it--her Prayer-Book and Bible--her

favourite cup, from which she drank her morning tea--her shabby velvet

slippers, her stiff-fingered gardening gloves--all the relics that her

children had cherished of the daily, homely life that they had been

privileged to share with her; the bestowal of which was carried on in

silence, or with tearful whispers, while all the pets were locked out

of the room, as if it had been a religious function. When this drawer

was closed, and they had refreshed their saddened spirits with a long

walk, they set themselves with light hearts to fill the remainder of

the many shelves and niches of the bureau with piles of books and

music, painting materials, collections of wild flowers and shells and

seaweeds, fragments of silver plate that had lain there always, as

far as they knew, along with some old miniatures and daguerreotypes

in rusty leather cases, and old bundles of papers that Mr. Brion had

warned them to take care of--and with their own portfolios of sketches

and little personal treasures of various kinds, their father's watch,

and stick, and spurs, and spectacles--and so on, and so on.

 

After this, they had only to pack up their bed and table linen and

knives and forks, which were to go with them to Melbourne, and to

arrange their own scanty wardrobes to the best advantage.

 

"We shall certainly want some clothes," said Eleanor, surveying their

united stock of available wearing apparel on Elizabeth's bedroom floor.

"I propose that we appropriate--say £5--no, that might not be enough;

say £10--from the furniture money to settle ourselves up each with a

nice costume--dress, jacket, and bonnet complete--so that we may look

like other people when we get to Melbourne."

 

"We'll get there first," said Patty, "and see what is worn, and the

price of things. Our black prints are very nice for everyday, and we

can wear our brown homespuns as soon as we get away from Mrs. Dunn. She

said it was disrespectful to poor father's memory to put on anything

but black when she saw you in your blue gingham, Nelly. Poor old soul!

one would think we were a set of superstitious heathen pagans. I wonder

where she got all those queer ideas from?"

 

"She knows a great deal more than we do, Patty," said wise Elizabeth,

from her kneeling posture on the floor.

 

They packed all their clothes into two small but weighty brass-bound

trunks, leaving out their blue ginghams, their well-worn water-proofs,

and their black-ribboned sailor hats to travel in. Then they turned

their attention to the animals, and suffered grievous trouble in their

efforts to secure a comfortable provision for them after their own

departure. The monkey-bear, the object of their fondest solicitude,

was entrusted to Sam Dunn, who swore with picturesque energy that he

would cherish it as his own child. It was put into a large cage with

about a bushel of fresh gum leaves, and Sam was adjured to restore

it to liberty as soon as he had induced it to grow fond of him. Then

Patty and Eleanor took the long walk to the township to call on Mrs.

Hawkins, in order to entreat her good offices for the rest of their

pets. But Mrs. Hawkins seized the precious opportunity that they

offered her for getting the detailed information, such as only women

could give, concerning the interior construction and capabilities of

her newly-acquired residence, and she had no attention to spare for

anything else. The girls left, after sitting on two green rep chairs

for nearly an hour, with the depressing knowledge that their house was

to be painted inside and out, and roofed with zinc, and verandahed with

green trellis-work; and that there was to be a nice road made to it, so

that the family could drive to and from their place of business; and

that it was to have "Sea View Villa" painted on the garden gate posts.

But whether their pets were to be allowed to roam over the transformed

premises (supposing they had the heart to do so) was more than they

could tell. So they had an anxious consultation with Elizabeth, all

the parties concerned being present, cuddled and fondled on arms and

knees; and the result was a determination _not_ to leave the precious

darlings to the tender mercies of the Hawkins family. Sam Dunn was to

take the opossum in a basket to some place where there were trees,

a river, and other opossums, and there turn him out to unlearn his

civilisation and acquire the habits and customs of his unsophisticated

kinsfolk--a course of study to which your pet opossum submits himself

very readily as a rule. The magpies were also to be left to shift for

themselves, for they were in the habit of consorting with other magpies

in a desultory manner, and they could "find" themselves in board and

lodging. But the cats--O, the poor, dear, confiding old cats! O, the

sweet little playful kitties!--the girls were distracted to know what

to do for _them_. There were so many of them, and they would never be

induced to leave the place--that rocky platform so barren of little

birds, and those ancient buildings where no mouse had been allowed so

much as to come into the world for years past. They would not be fed,

of course, when their mistresses were gone. They would get into the

dairy and the pantry, and steal Mrs. Hawkins's milk and meat--and it

was easy to conjecture what would happen _then_. Mrs. Hawkins had boys

moreover--rough boys who went to the State school, and looked capable

of all the fiendish atrocities that young animals of their age and sex

were supposed to delight in. Could they leave their beloved ones to the

mercy of _boys?_ They consulted Sam Dunn, and Sam's advice was----

 

Never mind. Cats and kittens disappeared. And then only Dan Tucker

was left. Him, at any rate, they declared they would never part with,

while he had a breath in his faithful body. He should go with them to

Melbourne, bless his precious heart!---or, if need were, to the ends of

the earth.

 

And so, at last, all their preparations were made, and the day came

when, with unexpected regrets and fears, they walked out of the old

house which had been their only home into the wide world, where they

were utter strangers. Sam Dunn came with his wood-cart to carry their

luggage to the steamer (the conveyance they had selected, in preference

to coach and railway, because it was cheaper, and they were more

familiar with it); and then they shut up doors and windows, sobbing as

they went from room to room; stood on the verandah in front of the sea

to solemnly kiss each other, and walked quietly down to the township,

hand in hand, and with the terrier at their heels, to have tea with Mr.

Brion and his old housekeeper before they went on board.

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER V.

 

 

ROCKED IN THE CRADLE OF THE DEEP.

 

 

Late in the evening when the sea was lit up with a young moon, Mr.

Brion, having given them a great deal of serious advice concerning

their money and other business affairs, escorted our three girls to

the little jetty where the steamer that called in once a week lay at

her moorings, ready to start for Melbourne and intermediate ports

at five o'clock next morning. The old lawyer was a spare, grave,

gentlemanly-looking old man, and as much a gentleman as he looked, with

the kindest heart in the world when you could get at it: a man who

was esteemed and respected, to use the language of the local paper,

by all his fellow-townsmen, whether friends or foes. They Anglicised

his name in speaking it, and they wrote it "Bryan" far more often than

not, though nothing enraged him more than to have his precious vowels

tampered with; but they liked him so much that they never cast it up to

him that he was a Frenchman.

 

This good old man, chivalrous as any paladin, in his shy and secret

way, always anxious to hide his generous emotions, as the traditional

Frenchman is anxious to display them, had done a father's part by

our young orphans since their own father had left them so strangely

desolate. Sam Dunn had compassed them with sweet observances, as we

have seen; but Sam was powerless to unravel the web of difficulties,

legal and otherwise, in which Mr. King's death had plunged them. Mr.

Brion had done all this, and a great deal more that nobody knew of,

to protect the girls and their interests at a critical juncture, and

to give them a fair and clear start on their own account. And in the

process of thus serving them he had become very much attached to them

in his old-fashioned, reticent way; and he did not at all like having

to let them go away alone in this lonely-looking night.

 

"But Paul will be there to meet you," he said, for the twentieth time,

laying his hand over Elizabeth's, which rested on his arm. "You may

trust to Paul--as soon as the boat is telegraphed he will come to meet

you--he will see to everything that is necessary--you will have no

bother at all. And, my dear, remember what I say--let the boy advise

you for a little while. Let him take care of you, and imagine it is

I. You may trust him as absolutely as you trust me, and he will not

presume upon your confidence, believe me. He is not like the young men

of the country," added Paul's father, putting a little extra stiffness

into his upright figure. "No, no--he is quite different."

 

"I think you have instructed us so fully, dear Mr. Brion, that we shall

get along very well without having to trouble Mr. Paul," interposed

Patty, in her clear, quick way, speaking from a little distance.

 

The steamer, with her lamps lit, was all in a clatter and bustle,

taking in passengers and cargo. Sam Dunn was on board, having seen the

boxes stowed away safely; and he came forward to say good-bye to his

young ladies before driving his cart home.

 

"I'll miss ye," said the brawny fisherman, with savage tenderness; "and

the missus'll miss ye. Darned if we shall know the place with you gone

out of it. Many's the dark night the light o' your winders has been

better'n the lighthouse to show me the way home."

 

He pointed to the great headland lying, it seemed now, so far, far

off, ghostly as a cloud. And presently he went away; and they could

hear him, as he drove back along the jetty, cursing his old horse--to

which he was as much attached as if it had been a human friend--with blood-curdling ferocity.