*CHAPTER IV*
*The Painting of The Ship*
'Never a bird within my sad heart sings, But heaven a flaming stone of thunder flings.'
Yet his coward pen never plucked courage to itself to write across seasof this family incubus.
The earlier letters had spoken variously of 'Miss Macintosh,' or 'thelady-help'; now there was never a name given, the references beingmerely to 'the lady-help.' Even the children scrupulously followed thisup.
When the Marvellous One had gone off with her _entree_ dishes to her newhome, the father had said, 'Children, we will not tell mother just yetthat Miss Macintosh has left, it would only worry her. We will waittill we can write and say we have another one as good.'
So the tale of Hermie's housekeeping and the mislaid cheque nevercrossed the sea, and the mother in her far German boarding-housecontinued to comfort herself with the thought of Miss Macintosh'sperfections.
When Miss Browne's shortcomings made themselves glaringly patent, thepens again shallied in telling the story.
'It is so close to Challis's concert, we mustn't worry them with ourlittle troubles, children,' the father said.
So Bartie and Hermie continued to write guarded letters; and if theboy's hand at times ran on to tell how Miss Browne had put ugly patcheson his clothes, or the girl's heart began to pour itself out on the thinpaper and speak of the discomfort of the new reign, recollection wouldcome flooding, the letters would be cast aside and new ones written,short, studied, and never saying more in reference to the vexed questionthan 'the lady-help had taken Floss out for a walk.'
'I hope Miss Macintosh sees you have your little pleasures,' the motherwould write. 'You do not tell me about birthday parties or picnics.Don't forget mother loves to hear of it all.'
And Hermie would write back sadly:
'The lady-help is very busy just now, but when she has more time she isgoing to let us have a party.'
'I tremble each mail,' the mother wrote once, 'lest your letter shouldbring me news that Miss Macintosh is engaged and about to be married.It is strange such a woman has not been snapped up long before this.'
And Cameron answered:
'I do not think you need worry, my darling, about the lady-helpmarrying. She has given me to understand she has had a disappointment,and will never marry.'
But the very guarding of the letters, the reading of them over, to besure nothing had been let slip, made them seem poor and lifeless to theanxiously devouring eyes the other side of the world.
She wrote at last:
'Sweetheart, from what you don't say, more than from what you do, Ilearn of your loneliness. You are so dull, my poor boy, and the daysrise up and sink to rest all grey like one another. Yet a little morepatience, and surely there will be plenty of money to make life allsunshine for you. But just for a little brightness, darling, reach downthat box of paints we put away on the cupboard top, get out yourbrushes, and let them help the hours to fly. While the Conservatoriumhas been closed for vacation Challis and I have been four days in Rome.And she found me crying one morning in a picture gallery, in front ofsome great picture, a Raphael, or an Andrea del Sarto--some one, at allevents, who painted with hands of fire. And yet it was not the subjectof the picture that moved me, unless it was that the magic canvaswrought me to the mood that is yours so often. All I thought of was thecold harsh woman, the Martha with blind eyes, who, that first day inWilgandra, took away by force and at the same time the paint-box and theglow from your life. My boy, my sweetheart, let me give it back. Ah,would that I could stand on the chair and reach it down from thecupboard and put it into your hands myself! But do it now, my darling,this moment. I know you will be careful and not risk your position byforgetfulness. And when you are loneliest, when you miss me most, letthe brushes take my place.'
Cameron had been reading his letter at the tea-table.
'Children,' he said, and rose up, his face working, his eyes shiningstrangely, 'children, mother wants me to paint pictures again. I--shesays I am to get the box down.'
The table had no comprehension of the greatness of the matter, but roseup at once, at seeing the father so moved. Roly brought his mug ofsweetened milk along with him, Floss continued to bite at her crust ofbread-and-jam, Miss Browne fluttered about, Hermie and Bart pressed attheir father's elbow.
'Bring a chair, Bartie,' Cameron said, 'here at the cupboard in thehall.'
'Mine cubbub,' interjected Floss; 'me's hat in dere. Go 'way, daddie.'
'I'll climb up,' said eager Bart. 'What is it up there, dad?'
'Give me the chair--let me reach it down myself,' Cameron said, andstepped up and stretched his long arm to the top.
A dusty mustard-box! The children's eyes brightened with swift thoughtsof treasure, then dulled when the lid was flung back and displayednothing but a chaos of dirty oil-tubes and brushes.
But when they saw their father's glistening eyes, saw him fingering thesame tubes with a tender, lingering touch, looking at the brushes'points, they did not tell him they were disappointed in the treasure.Instead, Bart led off with a cheer.
'Hurrah for daddie the artist!' he shouted.
'Hurrah!' cried Hermie.
''Rah!' shrilled Roly.
Floss claimed a kiss.
'Me dive daddie dat,' she said in her kindest way, 'out mine cubbub.'
And thus was the painting of the ship begun.
'Can you see what I mean, Bart?' Cameron said two months later, when thepicture was almost finished, so desperately had he worked at it.
'You mean it for a ship, don't you?' Bart said. 'If I'd been you,though, dad, I'd have painted a steamship with two funnels. Peopledon't think much of sailing-boats now.'
'Can you see what I mean, Hermie?' Cameron said, and wistfulness hadcrept into his eyes.
Hermie's blue-flower eyes were regarding the great canvas dubiously.
'Couldn't you have made the water blue, papa?' she said; 'the sea isblue, you know. P'raps, though, you hadn't enough blue paint. But I likeit to be a sailing-boat; steamships aren't so clean.'
The man's heart clamoured for his wife, who had never been at a loss tofind what he meant. For a moment it seemed intolerable to him that shewas not there at his elbow, to share the exaltation of the moment withhim.
'Run away, run away,' he said irritably to Hermie and Bart; 'you shakemy elbow, you worry me; run away.'
Miss Browne made a hysterical noise in her throat.
'It is so sad,' she said; 'what is it you have done to it? It is only aship and a man, and yet--do you know I can hardly keep the sobs backwhen I look at it.'
To her amaze her employer turned eagerly round, shook her hand again andagain in warmest gratitude, and fell to painting once more with feverishhaste.
The canvas showed a livid stretch of coast and ocean, and a spectre shipwith a spectre captain at the helm.
The ship had an indescribably sad effect. You saw her straining throughthe strong, repellent waves, you heard her cordage creaking, you saw herbattling stem struggling to push a way. She was a living thing,breaking her heart over the black hopelessness of her task. Thecaptain's face burnt flame-white out from the canvas; his desperate eyesstared straight ahead; his long hand held the helm in a frightful grip.You knew he was aware he would never round his cape; you knew he wouldfight to do so through all eternity.
The Camerons celebrated the day of the finishing of the picture as ahigh holiday. The children had ten shillings tossed to them to spend asthey liked. They bought a marvellous motley of edible things, anddragged their father and Miss Browne up the Jib to partake of them. Itwere sheer madness to suppose a whole half-crown's worth of Brazil nuts;to say nothing of chocolates, tarts and other extreme dainties, could bediscussed within the cramped walls of a house in a street. The wholewidth of the heavens was needed, and a thousand gum-trees, and the smellof earth and grass.
Cameron walked about on th
e heights as if on air. He had not paintedthat canvas that stood, still wet, down below in the straggling town.He had entertained a spirit, something stronger, fiercer, moretriumphantly capable than himself. He could have flung up his arms andrun shouting up and down, shouting thanks to the winds, the trees, thesailing skies, that the spirit had taken its dwelling in him.Magnificent fancies came bursting upon him; now and again he held hishead, so rich were the conceptions, so strong felt his hand to bringthem into instant being.
An urgent craving for his wife took hold of him--he strode away from thechildren's shouts, away from Miss Browne, who sat wretched because shehad forgotten the tin-opener, and the tea, and the sugar.
He found himself down near the creek, with the gums waving eighty feetabove his head, gums with snow patches of blossoms on them, stern gums,smiling gums, red, silver, blue. And he called, 'Molly,' and the treesencouraged him.
And again, 'Molly,' 'Molly,' and there burst up to his lips from hisheart all the words he had had to stifle away since the sailing of hership. All that he would have poured out to her these last two years,all that had lain quiet and kept his being stagnant since that lastagonised clinging of her arms.
'I thought I could bear it,' the man said to the trees, 'but I can't--itis too much! Are you listening to me, Molly? I must have you again totalk to. She has had you long enough--Challis has had her share of you;now I must have you again. These children take us from each other,Molly. We are very fond of them, but we should have more time to loveeach other without them, to love like we did twelve years ago. I wantyou, to tell you about the picture, Molly, Molly. Can you hear, darling,can you hear?'
And sometimes she seemed near to him, seemed a part of the air, thetrees, the earth, and he raved to her and talked joyously.
And sometimes he lost her, the delicate spirit webs broken by theworld's machinery, and he dropped his head on his arms and wept.
But when the thread snapped finally, and nothing could bring her to himagain, he groped his way upwards, for now the loneliness, after thespeaking, was a thing he dared not bear. The children welcomed himeagerly. They had wanted him so badly, they said, for dinner, and herehe came only just in time for tea. Would he please open that tin ofjam--there was no opener, but perhaps he could do it with a bit ofbroken bottle? And there were no matches; would he please use his andlight the fire? The tea was forgotten, but hot milk and water would benice, perhaps, but there was only a little milk remaining, and the sugarhad been left behind. He fell to laughing, and was thereby restored tomore normal mind. He lighted the fire, and water and milk circulatedround the little party, and refreshed it. He attended to thewounded--Bart had gashed his hand attempting the opening of that tin ofjam, Hermie had a tick in her arm, Roly had stirred up a nest ofbull-dog ants, and had met with his due reward, Floss had eaten too manychocolates, and Miss Browne had been stuck in the mud, attempting to getwater from a pot-hole; her large shabby shoes looked patheticallyridiculous.
So by the time he had helped all his lame dogs over their stiles, andgot them ready for marching home, his mood was quite a happy one again.He went down the mountain-side, Floss in his arms, Bart and Hermie oneither side, Miss Browne and Roly close at hand.
And with a flushed face and happy eyes and a fluent tongue he told themall manner of wonderful things; in very truth he could keep them tohimself no longer. How the world was going to be very pleased indeedwith his picture, and hang it in so famous a place that Challis wouldnot be the only one making the name of Cameron celebrated. And how awhole mint of gold was going to be given to him for it--Hermie and MissBrowne would be able to order all they liked and more from the familygrocer. And how he was going to send for mamma to come at once to staywith them again, so that they could all live happily to the end of theirdays.
Through the little town they wound with eyes shining at the thought.
Hermie's order-loving soul was soothed at the vision of domestic peaceonce more. Bart resolved to keep his best knickerbockers for themother-fingers to mend.
'Can she make puddings?' said Roly, who despised the culinary skill ofMiss Browne. And 'Mam-mam,' murmured little sleepy Floss, not becauseher mind held recollection of using the name, but because a babynext-door spoke it incessantly, and it seemed pleasant. Only Miss Brownelooked wistful-eyed; a mother such as this seemed would never deem hercapable enough; Christmas would see her back in Sydney, weariedlywaiting occupation in the registry office.
They turned the key of the door--Lizzie had had holiday also. And onthe threshold, pushed beneath the door by the post-boy, lay another longblue envelope with no stamp upon it, and only printed letters instead.
Cameron picked it up, quite without suspicion--his cheque for thequarter, he supposed.
But the reading told him he was dismissed the service for hiscarelessness and the culpable neglect of his duties during the past fourmonths.