[158]CHAPTER XIVTRYING TO LIVEItalmost came to pass that in a month “Brownses” was empty again. After a long talk with Dr. Wise and the clergyman Mrs. Conway was aghast at the prospect before her. There were absolutely no possibilities about the place. The miners’ children went to the half-time public school, which also the tradesmen’s young ones attended. Dr. Wise promised Clifand Teddie, the clergyman his two grand-children, but six guineas a quarter would hardly keep a house going.“There is no help for it, I must go back to Sydney,” the widow said, but a white look came over her face. She was in the Wises’ cottage, and the doctor and his wife were discussing the situation with her.“That scamp of an agent!” cried the doctor hotly. “You are saddled with your house for a year, are you not?”Mrs. Conway’s lips said yes, her voice she knew would fail her.[159]The doctor strode up and down the room, his blood boiling. It seemed a blot on his country that a defenceless widow should hardly have landed on its shores before she fell a prey to a scoundrel like that.“I’d bring it before the Courts, if I could,” he said from time to time.“Oh, he was careful to do nothing punishable,” said Mrs. Conway with a little bitter smile. “I believe the population is just as he stated, and there is certainly no other school. And there really are two acres of land, and some of the fruit-trees have no disease, so I suppose he thought he had sufficient grounds for saying ‘two acres of orchard in full bearing.’”“The scamp,” cried the doctor again.“Cruel, cruel,” said Mrs. Wise. She leaned back in her rocking-chair, tears suffusing her faded eyes. She was imagining herself pitted against the world, like this slight, black-clad woman, and the petty trials of her everyday life sank away into insignificance. Her glance sprang to her big, wide-backed husband striding angrily about the room. The loud tramp of his feet, the very tobacco odour that clung to him sent a sudden feeling of warmth, thankfulness, and security to her worried heart.“Let us think what can be done, Alfred,” she said; “surely between us some plan can be arranged.”The three little maids lunched by themselves in the cottage off bread-and-butter and apples, and[160]Mrs. Conway stayed shaping their lives most of the afternoon with this man and woman, who gave their help and advice as readily and thoroughly as if the stranger had been a kinswoman.“Doing without things” Mrs. Conway agreed was to be made a fine art of. There was as much fruit as they could eat, the doctor said; they must grow vegetables (his own idle young scamps should do the digging); and fowls, it seemed, were to be got together as easily as mosquitoes.“Fruit, eggs, vegetables—we should not starve,” said Mrs. Conway thoughtfully.“Firewood is to be had for the gathering,” said the doctor; “good exercise for the little girls—one of them looks a bit in need of it, I notice.”“Six guineas, and a little from the bank each quarter, would pay the rent,” continued the widow.“But what about boots, and clothes, and bread, and groceries, and meat?” cried the doctor’s wife—these were things that made such deep holes in her own housekeeping funds.“Oh, we must learn to walk softly,” said Mrs. Conway—she even laughed, for the road in front of her began to look less desperate. “Clothes we have enough of for some time, and even if not—well, one’s elbows would not grow blue with cold in this land of yours, even if they did make holes through their covering. And meat, and groceries, and bread—well, I must manage them some way.”[161]And the “some way” was not so very hard to find after all. When the little school was actually opened, there came stray pupils for odd lessons,—the mine-manager’s grown-up girls for music; the children of two squatters riding in twice a week from over the hills and far away for drawing and music; the baker’s daughter and the butcher’s niece also to be taught the pianoforte.Later on Mrs. Conway organized a cookery-class and a cutting-out class for a very small fee; taught the miners’ untrained wives that mutton-chops and tea, and tinned goods need not necessarily be on the table six days out of seven; and that pinafores and frocks were better cut out with patterns and precision, than chopped out in any fashion.When Mrs. Conway looked back on the time at Sunnymeade, she felt this last task had paid her better than any.And the time slipped along.Days grew into weeks, weeks widened into months, and months spread into years—two of them—and still the little school went on, and the widow and her small daughters just managed to live.Mrs. Conway grew thin with the ceaseless work and anxiety; and two wrinkles that came out on her forehead, during that time of stress, made their home there for life.The two breathless, terrible summers during which they stayed in Sunnymeade tried her strength exceedingly,[162]but strangely enough the children were not greatly affected by them. Dolly’s red roses were not quite so bright perhaps, nor her arms so plump as English winters had found them, and Weenie’s activity on the hottest days kept her somewhat thin, but Phyl improved wonderfully. The cough had flown, the old man of the sea seemed utterly cast away, and a healthy brown had come creeping over her little white cheeks.The fare at the cottage ran perforce on strictly simple, inexpensive lines—porridge, fruit, eggs, and bread forming the staple diet, but that, though monotonous, hurt none of them.And frocks were turned and twisted about, and tucks were let down, andboots went to the cobbler’sfor repairs till sole and upper refused to have longer lease of life forced upon them.Yet the cottage was the daintiest of places, for the mother would not let the memory of an ugly home lie on their minds, when the little girls grew older.The sitting-room had unlined weatherboard walls, varnished however to a warm brown seemliness. White matting was on the floor, white soft curtains blew about the ever open window, round which, in early summer, wisteria hung heavy with sweetness. There were only two chairs, but who minded that when there was a comfortable sofa, made soft and inviting with cushions of delicate flowered chintz, and chintz-covered box seats for the small ones? And[163]there were some of the old home pictures, and books and photographs and little prettinesses, and the dearly bought piano was there to while away long evening hours.Mrs. Wise always sighed as she entered the pretty room.[Illustration]Boots went to the cobbler’s for repairs.“But imagine white matting with five great boys about!” she used to say. Nevertheless the first spring saw fresh muslin curtains brightening her own rooms, and the doctor’s pleasure in them was so great, that she was stimulated to other touches of beauty about her home.She even began to take thought for what she[164]should wear—a thing she had forgotten to do for years. Clif was the unconscious cause of this.He was hanging over his mother’s chair one evening on the verandah, talking happily to her for once aboutWestward Ho!which he had just finished; and for once she had not sought to improve the occasion by deducing a moral from the story, although she had a vague and uneasy consciousness, as the lad rattled on, that she ought to do so.In the midst of the talk Mrs. Conway passed down the road, a fresh, girlish-looking figure in white with a black band at her waist, and a white chip hat, muslin-covered, against the sun. Phyl was hanging on her arm, Dolly and Weenie in lavender washing frocks were running races in front of her.Clif’s eyes followed them, then came back to his mother in her drab-coloured and unbeautiful clothes.“Why don’tyouwear white dresses and things, mother?” he said discontentedly.And the colour ran up into Mrs. Wise’s cheeks. She had suddenly seen herself with her son’s and husband’s eyes.“I—I think I must, Clif,” she said tremulously.And that very evening had seen her with some white lace drooped about her neck, and a pink rose in her brooch, and her hair loosened and quite prettily arranged about her forehead.
Italmost came to pass that in a month “Brownses” was empty again. After a long talk with Dr. Wise and the clergyman Mrs. Conway was aghast at the prospect before her. There were absolutely no possibilities about the place. The miners’ children went to the half-time public school, which also the tradesmen’s young ones attended. Dr. Wise promised Clifand Teddie, the clergyman his two grand-children, but six guineas a quarter would hardly keep a house going.
“There is no help for it, I must go back to Sydney,” the widow said, but a white look came over her face. She was in the Wises’ cottage, and the doctor and his wife were discussing the situation with her.
“That scamp of an agent!” cried the doctor hotly. “You are saddled with your house for a year, are you not?”
Mrs. Conway’s lips said yes, her voice she knew would fail her.
[159]The doctor strode up and down the room, his blood boiling. It seemed a blot on his country that a defenceless widow should hardly have landed on its shores before she fell a prey to a scoundrel like that.
“I’d bring it before the Courts, if I could,” he said from time to time.
“Oh, he was careful to do nothing punishable,” said Mrs. Conway with a little bitter smile. “I believe the population is just as he stated, and there is certainly no other school. And there really are two acres of land, and some of the fruit-trees have no disease, so I suppose he thought he had sufficient grounds for saying ‘two acres of orchard in full bearing.’”
“The scamp,” cried the doctor again.
“Cruel, cruel,” said Mrs. Wise. She leaned back in her rocking-chair, tears suffusing her faded eyes. She was imagining herself pitted against the world, like this slight, black-clad woman, and the petty trials of her everyday life sank away into insignificance. Her glance sprang to her big, wide-backed husband striding angrily about the room. The loud tramp of his feet, the very tobacco odour that clung to him sent a sudden feeling of warmth, thankfulness, and security to her worried heart.
“Let us think what can be done, Alfred,” she said; “surely between us some plan can be arranged.”
The three little maids lunched by themselves in the cottage off bread-and-butter and apples, and[160]Mrs. Conway stayed shaping their lives most of the afternoon with this man and woman, who gave their help and advice as readily and thoroughly as if the stranger had been a kinswoman.
“Doing without things” Mrs. Conway agreed was to be made a fine art of. There was as much fruit as they could eat, the doctor said; they must grow vegetables (his own idle young scamps should do the digging); and fowls, it seemed, were to be got together as easily as mosquitoes.
“Fruit, eggs, vegetables—we should not starve,” said Mrs. Conway thoughtfully.
“Firewood is to be had for the gathering,” said the doctor; “good exercise for the little girls—one of them looks a bit in need of it, I notice.”
“Six guineas, and a little from the bank each quarter, would pay the rent,” continued the widow.
“But what about boots, and clothes, and bread, and groceries, and meat?” cried the doctor’s wife—these were things that made such deep holes in her own housekeeping funds.
“Oh, we must learn to walk softly,” said Mrs. Conway—she even laughed, for the road in front of her began to look less desperate. “Clothes we have enough of for some time, and even if not—well, one’s elbows would not grow blue with cold in this land of yours, even if they did make holes through their covering. And meat, and groceries, and bread—well, I must manage them some way.”
[161]And the “some way” was not so very hard to find after all. When the little school was actually opened, there came stray pupils for odd lessons,—the mine-manager’s grown-up girls for music; the children of two squatters riding in twice a week from over the hills and far away for drawing and music; the baker’s daughter and the butcher’s niece also to be taught the pianoforte.
Later on Mrs. Conway organized a cookery-class and a cutting-out class for a very small fee; taught the miners’ untrained wives that mutton-chops and tea, and tinned goods need not necessarily be on the table six days out of seven; and that pinafores and frocks were better cut out with patterns and precision, than chopped out in any fashion.
When Mrs. Conway looked back on the time at Sunnymeade, she felt this last task had paid her better than any.
And the time slipped along.
Days grew into weeks, weeks widened into months, and months spread into years—two of them—and still the little school went on, and the widow and her small daughters just managed to live.
Mrs. Conway grew thin with the ceaseless work and anxiety; and two wrinkles that came out on her forehead, during that time of stress, made their home there for life.
The two breathless, terrible summers during which they stayed in Sunnymeade tried her strength exceedingly,[162]but strangely enough the children were not greatly affected by them. Dolly’s red roses were not quite so bright perhaps, nor her arms so plump as English winters had found them, and Weenie’s activity on the hottest days kept her somewhat thin, but Phyl improved wonderfully. The cough had flown, the old man of the sea seemed utterly cast away, and a healthy brown had come creeping over her little white cheeks.
The fare at the cottage ran perforce on strictly simple, inexpensive lines—porridge, fruit, eggs, and bread forming the staple diet, but that, though monotonous, hurt none of them.
And frocks were turned and twisted about, and tucks were let down, andboots went to the cobbler’sfor repairs till sole and upper refused to have longer lease of life forced upon them.
Yet the cottage was the daintiest of places, for the mother would not let the memory of an ugly home lie on their minds, when the little girls grew older.
The sitting-room had unlined weatherboard walls, varnished however to a warm brown seemliness. White matting was on the floor, white soft curtains blew about the ever open window, round which, in early summer, wisteria hung heavy with sweetness. There were only two chairs, but who minded that when there was a comfortable sofa, made soft and inviting with cushions of delicate flowered chintz, and chintz-covered box seats for the small ones? And[163]there were some of the old home pictures, and books and photographs and little prettinesses, and the dearly bought piano was there to while away long evening hours.
Mrs. Wise always sighed as she entered the pretty room.
[Illustration]Boots went to the cobbler’s for repairs.
Boots went to the cobbler’s for repairs.
“But imagine white matting with five great boys about!” she used to say. Nevertheless the first spring saw fresh muslin curtains brightening her own rooms, and the doctor’s pleasure in them was so great, that she was stimulated to other touches of beauty about her home.
She even began to take thought for what she[164]should wear—a thing she had forgotten to do for years. Clif was the unconscious cause of this.
He was hanging over his mother’s chair one evening on the verandah, talking happily to her for once aboutWestward Ho!which he had just finished; and for once she had not sought to improve the occasion by deducing a moral from the story, although she had a vague and uneasy consciousness, as the lad rattled on, that she ought to do so.
In the midst of the talk Mrs. Conway passed down the road, a fresh, girlish-looking figure in white with a black band at her waist, and a white chip hat, muslin-covered, against the sun. Phyl was hanging on her arm, Dolly and Weenie in lavender washing frocks were running races in front of her.
Clif’s eyes followed them, then came back to his mother in her drab-coloured and unbeautiful clothes.
“Why don’tyouwear white dresses and things, mother?” he said discontentedly.
And the colour ran up into Mrs. Wise’s cheeks. She had suddenly seen herself with her son’s and husband’s eyes.
“I—I think I must, Clif,” she said tremulously.
And that very evening had seen her with some white lace drooped about her neck, and a pink rose in her brooch, and her hair loosened and quite prettily arranged about her forehead.