Page 8 of My Brilliant Career

As regards scenery, the one bit of beauty Possum Gully possessed was its wattles. Bowers of grown and scrubs of young ones adorned the hills and gullies in close proximity to the house, while groves of different species graced the flats. Being Sunday, on this afternoon I was at liberty for a few hours; and on receiving the intelligence contained in the letter, I walked out of the house over a low hill at the back into a gully, where I threw myself at the foot of a wattle in a favourite clump, and gave away to my thoughts.

So mother had been telling my grandmother of my faults — my grandmother whom I loved so dearly. Mother might have had enough honour and motherly protection to have kept the tale of my sins to herself. Though this intelligence angered, it did not surprise me, being accustomed to mother telling every neighbour what a great trial I was to her — how discontented I was, and what little interest I took in my work. It was the last part of the letter which finished up my feelings. Oh heavens! Surely if my mother understood the wild pain, the days and hours of agony pure and complete I have suffered on account of my appearance, she would never have shown me that letter.

I was to be given more time on account of being ugly — I was not a valuable article in the marriage market, sweet thought! My grandmother is one of the good old school, who believed that a girl’s only proper sphere in life was marriage; so, knowing her sentiments, her purpose to get me married neither surprised nor annoyed me. But I was plain. Ah, bosh! Oh! Ah! I cannot express what kind of a feeling that fact gave me. It sank into my heart and cut like a cruel jagged knife — not because it would be a drawback to me in the marriage line, for I had an antipathy to the very thought of marriage. Marriage to me appeared the most horribly tied-down and unfair-to-women existence going. It would be from fair to middling if there was love; but I laughed at the idea of love, and determined never, never, never to marry.

The other side of the letter — the part which gave me joy — was the prospect of going to Caddagat.

Caddagat, the place where I was born! Caddagat, whereat, enfolded in grandmotherly love and the petting which accrued therefrom, I spent some of my few sweet childish days. Caddagat, the place my heart fondly enshrines as home. Caddagat, draped by nature in a dream of beauty. Caddagat, Caddagat! Caddagat for me, Caddagat for ever! I say.

Too engrossed with my thoughts to feel the cold of the dull winter day, I remained in my position against the wattle-tree until Gertie came to inform me that tea was ready.

‘You know, Sybylla, it was your turn to get the tea ready; but I set the table to save you from getting into a row. Mother was looking for you, and said she supposed you were in one of your tantrums again.’

Pretty little peacemaker! She often did things like that for me.

‘Very well, Gertie, thank you. I will set it two evenings running to make up for it — if I’m here.’

‘If you are here! What do you mean?’

‘I am going away,’ I replied, watching her narrowly to see if she cared, for I was very hungry for love.

‘Going to run away because mother is always scolding you?’

‘No, you little silly! I’m going up to Caddagat to live with grannie.’

‘Always?’

‘Yes.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes.’

‘Honour bright?’

‘Yes; really and truly and honour bright.’

‘Won’t you ever come back again?’

‘I don’t know about never coming back again; but I’m going up for always, as far as a person can lay out ahead of her. Do you care?’

Yes she cared. The childish mouth quivered, the pretty blue-eyed face fell, the ready tears flowed fast. I noticed every detail with savage comfort. It was more than I deserved, for, though I loved her passionately, I had ever been too much wrapped in self to have been very kind and lovable to her.

‘Who will tell me stories now?’

It was a habit of mine to relate stories to her out of my own fertile imagination. In return for this she kept secret the fact that I sat up and wrote when I should have been in bed. I was obliged to take some means of inducing her to keep silence, as she — even Gertie, who firmly believed in me — on waking once or twice at unearthly hours and discovering me in pursuit of my nightly task, had been so alarmed for my sanity that I had the greatest work to prevent her from yelling to father and mother on the spot. But I bound her to secrecy, and took a strange delight in bringing to her face with my stories the laughter, the wide-eyed wonder, or the tears — just as my humour dictated.

‘You’ll easily get someone else to tell you stories.’

‘Not like yours. And who will take my part when Horace bullies me?’

I pressed her to me.

‘Gertie, Gertie, promise me you will love me a little always, and never, never forget me. Promise me.’

And with a weakly glint of winter sunshine turning her hair to gold, and with her head on my shoulder, Gertie promised — promised with the soluble promise of a butterfly-natured child.

SELF-ANALYSIS