4

Amy’s resentment of her cousins at Farleigh dated from the day of her landing in Melbourne. Sophie’s rebuke in the carriage had been followed by a slight skirmish with Sim at the schoolroom supper on the same evening. Amy had corrected his manners and he had criticized her appearance. Their relationship had not been improved by a certain envy. Simon was very much better off than Henry. The menage at Farleigh was one of jovial plenty, at Scudamore of elegant adequacy. This applied not only to the table but to the furnishings, the stables and, where Amy most noticed it, the children’s toys. She was aware of the greater distinction of her mother’s environment, but her satisfaction in this was undermined by the fact that the Simon Montforts had everything they wanted, and at Farleigh new and interesting packages were continually arriving from England, whereas Henry was obliged to consider his indulgences to his family.

Florez de Moya, Brigid’s son, a dark-haired boy of thirteen, whose beauty missed perfection owing to the slight inward convergence of his eyes, scarcely definite enough to be called a squint, was the frequent companion in their games. He noticed the not always suppressed hostility existing between the two families and, for his own amusement, by subtle and ill-timed remarks, would bring it to the surface.

After the founding of the Melbourne grammar school, the children of the two Montfort families were not thrown so exclusively into one another’s society. The boys set off in the morning for school in South Yarra instead of for Mr. Hammond’s rectory. Florez de Moya rode in from Heidelberg. He was not popular, particularly with a set of coarse-featured, physically precocious, and intellectually negative squatters’ sons from the more remote parts of the colony. They called him ‘Florrie’ and ‘Darkie.’

At length these and other insults became intolerable to his mixed Spanish and Irish blood. He flew at the leader of the gang and kicked his shins. He was seized, and was in danger of comparative crucifixion, when Sim, seeing ‘one of us’ maltreated by ‘one of them,’ dashed to his aid.

Sim’s valour did little more than procure him a share of martyrdom, but with it he experienced some of that illumination which is the martyr’s reward. For the rest of that week, in every interval of work, he plotted with Florez against the mob. He had some of old Raoul’s delight in being contra mundum, and with the generosity of Madeleine des Baux he had given his heart to Florez.

On Friday he went home early after afternoon school, leaving Florez, who had an imposition. When Florez came out from his detention McClure, the leader of the mob, was waiting for him, but his advances were friendly. He sensed that there was more diablerie than decency in Florez. He thought he would be a pleasant addition to his set, and it would be amusing to see young Montfort left in the lurch. In fifteen minutes’ conversation a rapprochement was reached.

Sim came to school on Monday morning and found Florez lounging with the squatters’ sons, waiting for the bell for prayers. He had no opportunity to speak to him then. At the eleven o’clock interval he approached him and was greeted with some derisive badinage. He could scarcely believe his senses. He went off alone, and part of his soul shrivelled within him.

This was only one of many betrayals which followed his quixotic acts, or the impulsive, incautious gift of his affection. He was not sufficiently stable to suffer them without acquiring bitterness of spirit, and a natural sympathy for the unfortunate was perverted into a championship of the under dog, right or wrong.

Sim was fond of his younger brother, Sam, but Sam inherited the characteristics of his grandfather, old Sam Quirk, and was without keenness either of emotion or intellect. He rather preferred the society of the squatters’ sons. At school, after Florez’s defection, Sim’s only friend was Peter Wynch, a sickly boy two years younger than himself. This friendship also was founded on an act of chivalry. Sim had discovered McClure and another youth subjecting Peter to some grotesque torment. He had routed them more by the fury of his moral indignation than by physical force. Peter became his one devoted adherent. Sim did not really like him. He was sensible of the absurdity of always being dogged by this white-faced boy. That a lame dog should be all that he could attract increased his bitterness. But Peter, as was seemly in a gently nurtured, mid-Victorian boy with religious tendencies, died of consumption at the age of fifteen.

After this Mrs. Wynch could no longer bear the colony. She fretted and sighed so continually for England that Captain Wynch was obliged to forsake his spacious colonial life and to take her there. The Montforts and many of their friends came to see them off. They brought flowers and baskets of fruit, and sweets and books. Each one, as he walked about the ship and inspected the cabins, was thinking more of England than of the departing Wynches. Letitia had an intense longing to return, if only for a short time. She envied the very sailors and stewards, who were to have a privilege which was denied to her.

Sim had come with his mother.

‘Let’s go and look at the ship,’ he said to Jane.

They walked to the other side of the deck. He handed her a large box of sweets.

‘Oh, Sim, thank you. What a big box,’ she said almost tearfully.

‘I wish you weren’t going to England. I’m sorry you’re going.’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m sorry you’re going,’ he repeated with desperate emphasis.

‘So am I.’

‘When are you coming back?’

‘I don’t know, Sim.’ The tears rose in her eyes.

He took her hand, and he felt a lump in his throat.

‘You must come back,’ he said huskily. ‘If you don’t, I’ll come for you. Jane, little Jane.’ They clung together, she weeping unrestrainedly.

Amy came down the deck, saw them, gasped, crept away and brought Letitia.

‘Sim! Jane!’ cried Letitia, and then was at a loss what to do.

Amy stood by, wearing the smile of virtue triumphant. But Letitia was in rather a minor key that day. Having seen them separate, she went away and said no more about it, except to rebuke Amy for telling tales.