To the Ends of the Earth (67 page)

“I beg of you, ma’am, allow me to take her driving! Between now and sunset—”

“Tomorrow. Today we go to engage rooms in an hotel if there be one proper for us. Indeed the case is so
desperate
I believe we must make use of one even if it is not quite proper.”

“Lady Somerset, I cannot believe you!”

Lady Somerset fixed me with a bold eye and spoke swooningly in her deep contralto.

“Since you expect to be a married man, Mr Talbot, you had better know the worst. Baths, sir, hot baths. It will be news to you, perhaps, but ladies require them just as much as you do!”

With that and the indication of a curtsey she returned to the ship. I hurried off and wrote a note requesting the
privilege
of driving Miss Chumley on the morrow. Back came an answer within an hour. Lady Somerset presented her compliments to Mr Talbot and consented to his driving Miss Chumley and
Miss Oates
on the morrow for an hour or two in the morning. Mr Talbot would be expected on the new quay by ten o’clock.

Lady Somerset may have expected a barouche. It was, however—and I was lucky to find it—an Indian buggy, with a rumble seat facing
aft
for Miss Oates and two seats facing
forrard
. This was brutal for poor Miss Oates—but love demands sacrifices from us all! I and the buggy were at the ship by a quarter to ten in the morning. It was already so hot that walking the horse was not merely unnecessary
but inadvisable. I became once more an object of curiosity and—I think—amusement to the crew of the vessel.

Lady Somerset appeared first. She fanned disgustedly at the cloud of flies which surrounded both me and the horse.

“Good morning, Mr Talbot. That seat is dedicated to Miss Oates, I suppose. Your horse is small. At least he will not run away with you.”

“The difficulty, ma’am, is to get him to move.”

Lady Somerset signified her agreement. I had almost said “nodded”; but with her, the movement was as little of a nod as the bowed assent of Almighty Zeus.

“She will be here directly. You have no idea the
number
of times—ah! Here they come.”

I cannot remember what I said or she said or they said—

And then?

I forgot so much these days, that is the trouble. Not that it matters, of course. None of these volumes is able to be published until we are all forgotten. In any case, journals tell so little. I leafed through these and found myself able to do no more than sample here and there. I shall not reread them. Letters too. Only the other day one reached me at the Foreign Office from—of all people—Lieutenant, or I should say Mr Oldmeadow. He has a grandson, of course, and wants this and that. He himself turned in his
commission
long ago and took up a land grant, then bought more. He is now lord, he swears, of a bigger estate than Cornwall! That, and the lanky boy with his strange way of speaking, had me dwelling on the glimpses I had of Australia. It was mostly a memory of the birds, green swarms of them, or white ones with a yellow crest. I suppose it all happened, the voyage too. Only the other day the Prime Minister himself said, “Talbot, you’re becoming a deuced bore about that voyage of yours.”

Oldmeadow’s letter did afford me a glimpse of my friends the Prettimans. They came towards the interior by way of his estate. He gave a vivid picture of them—she leading in her trowsers astride a mettlesome steed, he just
astern
of her but riding side-saddle with his legs on the
offside
as he had foreseen! A handful of immigrants and freed
government men
and one or two savages followed them.

Oldmeadow said—now what the devil did he say? Of course! He tried to persuade them that to go on was sheer insanity. But they rode off into the back of beyond, no
matter
what he could say to them. As he said in his letter, not a
hair nor hide of any of them has been seen since. I hope they reached some sort of place. And then again, there was the letter years before that, from what’s his name, Old Mr Brocklebank. He claimed to be prospering in his paint shop. Zenobia (his elder “daughter”!) had died only a month or two after leaving the ship. She had a message for me, he said. It was something like “Tell Edmund I am crossing the bridge.” Devil take it, there were no bridges anywhere near Sydney in those days and our old tub wasn’t a steamship!

But of course, I remember now. Miss Chumley appeared, followed by Miss Oates. I handed her up, Miss Oates fairly scuttled into the rumble seat. I do not know how she managed it. By the time I looked round she was seated and staring into the air, both hands gripping the handles on either side of her.

“Are you settled, Miss Oates? Miss Chumley?”

“I am very comfortable, sir. May I suggest?”

“Anything!”

“May we move away from the water? You know my aversion for the sea.”

“Of course, ma’am. We shall drive inland.”

We were off. I cannot say the drive was exhilarating as far as skill in driving is concerned. The small and sullen horse was perhaps more accustomed to funerals than to parties of pleasure. I did encourage him into a trot once, but it was not the “fast trot” and he soon gave up, clearly feeling that three passengers were more than enough. I thought so too, though for a different reason. Granted, however, that you are forced to be a threesome, Miss Oates was an ideal chaperon. I asked her if she was comfortable, Miss Chumley invited her to admire the extraordinary whiteness of a tree trunk and after that she might not have been with us at all!

“I divine that you are taking me to view a prospect, Mr Talbot. If I dare suggest—”

“Anything, of course!”

“Have you not a prospect of trees, woods, forests, fields at our disposal? An oak, now, or beech—”

“Our only proper road goes out to Paramatta. Our
principal
view or prospect is thought to be the harbour with its shipping. In the circumstances, I do understand your disinclination for it. What else? Our buildings, as you see, are not metropolitan. I might take you by way of the
foundations
of the new church past the place where services are sometimes held in the open air—”

Miss Chumley fanned the flies vigorously from before the small portion of her face which straw and gauze did not cover.

“I have had a great deal of religion, you know, sir,” she said. “You can hardly conceive of the care which is lavished on the orphans of the clergy.”

“You sound wistful, Miss Chumley. I suppose there was no chaplain in
Alcyone
nor no random parson such as we once had. I quite see that might be an additional hardship for a young lady.”

“Yes. I suppose it was. Oh, what pretty birds!”

“We must go this way. There are savages down
there
and their appearance is not to be borne, the women in particular.”

“It is a great thing that Helen has allowed you to take us off like this.”

“It is a great compliment that Lady Somerset has
confided
you to my protection. No man ever had a more
precious
responsibility.”

“Do not have too high an opinion of me!”

“It is impossible that I should—but why should I not?”

“Because, because it is my ambition never to—be a disappointment! I hope that was prettily said, but fear—”

“It was exquisite. It moves me to distraction—oh, Miss Chumley!”

“Janet—are you comfortable? You would not care to change places with me for a while?”

I mastered myself.

“Would you not care to sit by me here, Miss Oates?”

But it was plain that Miss Oates would not care to sit
anywhere
but where she was, facing backwards and petrified.

“Here is some country for you, Miss Chumley.”

“Mr Talbot—those men! Are they—”

“Government men? Yes.”

She spoke in a whisper.

“They are not restrained!”

“They will not harm us. As for restraining—to what end? That wild country, those blue distances, may extend for all we know for three thousand miles!”

“You are quite, quite sure?”

“I would not have brought you this way had I not been sure! Only the violent or hopelessly depraved ones are restrained. If they are really wicked, then they are sent off to an island and beaten too. I was beaten myself at school and thanked the master afterwards! It was the making of me, I believe. Of course, as the Greeks said, you know, ‘Never too much.’ Our country is very high-principled and we ought to be proud of the fact. These fellows have found this shore in no way fatal to them! Why, a few days ago, on the King’s Birthday, I dined at the same table as a time-expired ‘government man’, a rich and successful one! Foreigners condemn us for what they call ‘slavery’. This is not slavery, not the galleys, the dungeons, the gallows, the torture chamber! It is a civilized attempt at reformation and reclamation. Do not look to your left. There are some aboriginals in the bush.”

Miss Oates squeaked. Miss Chumley spoke over her shoulder in a voice which I had not heard before.

“Do collect yourself, Janet! Mr Talbot assures me that the creatures will not harm us. But I am overcome with
the strangeness of things—the trees, the plants, the air—Oh, what a butterfly! Look, look! And what flies!”

“One endures them, that is all, I am afraid.”

“One should live in a city after all. This craze for Nature must pass and society come to its senses!”

“Did you not have a great deal of Nature about in India, Miss Chumley?”

“Calcutta is a city, of course. But we spent some days ashore at Madras with the collector before proceeding to Calcutta. Devoted as I am to dry land, I do not know that the experience was valuable. There were so many
directions
in which the collector positively forbade us to go!”

“Because of the natives?”

“Oh no! They are harmless. He said he could not permit us to approach a heathen temple—yet he himself, I should have thought, was hardly a deeply religious man! Have you ever seen an Hindoo temple, Mr Talbot?”

“I believe not. I have read about them though.”

“I cannot see why buildings devoted to the practice of another religion, or superstition, shall I call it, should be out of bounds to a young person. In Salisbury, you know, we have many buildings devoted to Nonconformity and even a Quaker meeting house!”

It was too much for me.

“You are adorable!”

“I do not think I am, but am glad that you think so, though you should not say so, I believe. In fact, I would wish you to remain in that opinion for—I think our horse is going to stop.”

“This is agony, Miss Chumley—”

“Helen said we should take the collector’s advice, though I think myself that he meant it as an order! But then, Helen is not at all intimidated by old gentlemen, you know!”

“Not even by beautiful young gentlemen like Lieutenant Benét?”

Her answer was a peal of laughter.

“Oh, Mr Benét! He had such a
tendre
for Helen—the whole ship talked of nothing else!”

“And you, Miss Chumley—you?”

“We talked a great deal of French. I am always happy to talk French. Do you speak French, sir?”

“Not the way Mr Benét does.”

“I think your ship saved his reason, for he was most unhappy at the end. He had begged for an
entretien
, a tête-à-tête—oh, I should not talk like this!”

“Please continue!”

“Janet, you are not to listen. Sir Henry was quite
unreasonable
. I was to stand outside the door
upwind
, because anyone who entered would naturally come that way. Mr Benét rushed through. He fell on his knees before her and seized her hand, all the time reciting his verses—then the ship rolled and there they were, positively
entangled
. Then, as luck would have it, Sir Henry, against all custom, did come in through the
downwind
door! It was like a play.”

“And then?”

“He was so angry! Sir Henry, I mean! He was angry with me too. Can you understand that?”

“Perhaps. But I could never be angry with you myself.”

“Even Mr Benét was angry with me for a while, though not long. I threatened to tell Lady Somerset that his name rendered him conscious even to blushing. Which is why he altered the—”

“I do not understand.”

“It is complicated, is it not? You see, his father started the French Revolution but then had to flee from the
guillotine
, leaving their estates and everything—and took the new name in a kind of self-mockery, which is very French, I think.”

“So
that
—is why our quarrel boiled over—why Mr Prettiman was—why Mrs Prettiman—she called me—”

“I suppose he will change his name back when the war is over.”

I blurted it out.

“Miss Chumley—how old are you?”

Miss Oates squeaked again and Miss Chumley looked a little startled, as well she might.

“I am—I am seventeen, Mr Talbot. Nearly eighteen. You do not think that—”

“That what?”

We were looking at each other eye to eye. A positive tide of pink suffused what was visible of her face.

“You do not think me too young?”

“No, no. Time—”

“Come! I will not have you grieving!”

“I—”

“You are not to be sad, sir! Mr Benét will recover. Sir Henry is no longer angry with me. Does that satisfy you?”

“It does indeed. More than you can know.”

Did I say so? Did she? Was she really as anxious, so
innocent
or ignorant, and was I ever so moved by her? It is the emotions of later life which are roused by these partial memories, memory of her extreme youth and beauty—and my youth too, lanky young fool with everything to learn and nothing to lose. We spoke something like that. I think we felt something like that.

“I believe, Mr Talbot, the episode is to be forgotten with no harm done. We shall treat it the way Mr Jesperson who instructed us in the Old Testament would sometimes tell us to go on. ‘Young ladies, you need not examine verses 20 to 25 too closely and Chapter 7 is to be omitted altogether!’”

“It is sometimes advisable.”

“India, you know, is not a biblical country. I am sure of that, because when we were in Calcutta I looked it up in
my cousin’s copy of Cruden’s
Compleat Concordance to the Old and New Testament.
It goes straight from
INDEED
  to
INDIGNATION
, with nothing in between.”

“A depressing thought!”

“I do not wish you to be sad!”

“Dear Miss Chumley, life is all sunshine and flowers. Who cares if tomorrow the clouds come?”

“It is well enough for gentlemen to be bronzed, for they are fortunate in not finding themselves hedged as we do. But a young person—you see how high these gloves button and I must hold a parasol every moment I am in the sun. The brown natives of India—they sometimes look quite elegant—the natives are positively awestrook like the angel in
Comus
when they see an English lady! We must not be
bronzed
, you know, or our influence for good among them would quite disappear. My cousin says that by the end of the century the whole of the Indian peninsula will be Christian.”

“All owing to the complexion of our English ladies.”

“Now you are laughing at me!”

“Never!”

“Janet, you are not to listen. Mr Talbot, my little note which I slipped into Lady Somerset’s letter to you—you discovered it?”

“I did indeed!”

“Believe me, the very moment it was sent off I would have given anything to have it back, for I seemed then to have presumed, to have made such a frank declaration—you did not find it too—too—?”

“Oh, Miss Chumley! It kept me—restored me to
sanity
, I would say! I treasure the little paper and could repeat the message to you word for word.”

“You must not. But you did not find the words too—”

“They are sacred.”

“Janet, you may unstop your ears now. Janet!”

I turned in the seat. Miss Oates had her bonnet pushed up and her hands pressed to her ears inside it. Her eyes stared back the way we had come. They were bolting like a hare’s. An aboriginal was following us. He was stark naked and he carried a wicked-looking spear. I shouted at him repeatedly and at last he turned aside and vanished into the scrub. I do not think it was because I shouted. I think he had lost interest in us, as they do after a while.