(1829)
Priscilla longed to open the window wide. The air of the little parlour was close from the heat of the summer afternoon; flies were buzzing against the panes; a cool, flower-scented draught, leaking through the slit of open window—by which she was sitting, quiet as a mouse—the nodding of blossoms, and the fluttering of leaves, told her that the sea breeze was rising.
Sunlight and sea breeze and garden allured. She looked through jasmine, trained about the window, on satin flowers, stocks, purple and yellow sweet sultans, and pheasant-eyed pinks, on moss-roses delicate and demure, on flaunting sunflowers, hollyhocks, and Indian shot, massed against the stone wall, and on the rustic seat shaded by monthly roses and elder trees. Oh, if Mamma would only wake up and tell her that she might go and sit in the garden with her sewing!
But Mrs. Walham showed no sign of waking. As invalid she was reposing on the sofa, with the eau de luce on the little lacquer table beside her. She was pale, but no paler than usual; she was prettily dressed; her lilac print gown, the lilac ribbons in her lace cap, the amethyst pendants of her ear-rings, and the amethyst brooch fastening her collaret, were becoming to her. A grey woollen shawl was drawn sedately to her knees, to avoid unseemly display of limbs during her slumber, Priscilla knew, for even Mamma could not feel chilly on such an afternoon. Mrs. Walham had adopted the part of martyr on her husband’s decision to leave England for Van Diemen’s Land. She had complained consistently of the coldness of the climate since the family’s arrival at Hobart Town on a bitter day of June. As occasional invalid she reminded Mr. Walham of her sacrifice to his selfishness, lightened her domestic duties and languished picturesquely in the parlour of the White Farm.
Mrs. Walham, then, reposing elegantly—not snoring, but as a gentlewoman breathing placidly; dressed tastefully; the lilac hues affected by her harmonised with the paleness of chintz for sofa and armchairs set on faded Brussels carpet, as with the tresses, blushes, dresses of simpering ladies in the beaded, gilt-framed prints on the lime-whitened walls, and with the soft greyness of silver candlesticks before the chimney-glass, and the apple-blossom china on the rosewood table.
As invalid Mrs. Walham exacted devotion from her daughters. The first volume of Susan Ferrier’s Marriage lay open on Priscilla’s lap. She had read Mamma to sleep. She had read herself nearly to sleep before Mamma: Priscilla would sit up, ruining and reddening her eyes by candlelight, whenever Papa brought home a new novel from Deane’s Circulating Library in Hobart Town; so, finding repetition tedious, she had dozed while reading to Mamma. Mamma had been vexed with her: surely, it was very, very little to require of her!—she had complained, with resentful show of tears. So Priscilla had droned on, and at last Mamma had reposed…
Mamma had reposed for more than an hour by the little Dutch clock. Only once had she shown disposition to wake—when Priscilla had tip-toed to the door, thinking to escape. Mamma had stirred, had half-opened her eyes, and had murmured indefinitely, but so crossly that Priscilla had tip-toed dutifully back to the window seat, concerned far less for dear Mamma’s health than for her crossness. Mamma would be quite insufferable, if Priscilla offered pretext to her by waking her in slipping from the room to the garden.
The high stone wall shut from the girl’s sight the cornfields, and the bush rolling up to the hills. She heard voices and laughter and the lazy sweep of scythes. The men were idling in Papa’s absence; they would suffer when he returned from Hobart Town. He had ridden away after breakfast in a horrid temper. He had been in a horrid temper since reading that letter yesterday. He had not even told Mamma who had written to him, or what the matter was. Mamma and Priscilla thought that the letter must be from Uncle Robert and about Rose.
Rose couldn’t have been falling into mischief! She was too sensible. She couldn’t have tired of Hobart Town and Uncle Robert’s house, or have quarrelled with Uncle Robert, and have written to Papa to come and take her home! Because Uncle Robert, hard, dried-up, old creature as he was, was always generous to Rose. He showered gifts on her. Rose had written about her new dresses: spotted and silver-white muslins, with apple-green and lilac lute-strings. Leghorn bonnets—one with Indian-red ribbons, and one with cerulean blue which did not suit her; she would give it to Priscilla who would be adorable with this and a white muslin dress; Henry Mayne would be wildly jealous of all the beaux rivalling him! A Cashmere shawl worked with little pale flowers and green leaves; a pelisse of gros de Naples silk—jonquil-yellow, so daring but so becoming! A pair of ear-rings with little emeralds, and a pair with red coral drops. Ornaments and clothes—different from this washed blue print, Priscilla thought ruefully.
Yes, Uncle Robert had proved bewildering, Rose had written. Though he was rusty and snuffy as a rule, he loved to see her in bright colours. But he wasn’t always rusty and snuffy; he would wear black broadcloth, with a stiff white, frilled shirt, and a diamond would glitter on his bony hand, when he received company at dinner—gentlemen of the Military and the Civil Establishments, the bankers, the merchants, or the captains of ships—oh, the wonderful, white-winged ships! Not little Government brig or sloop, or even whaler, but John Company’s ships!
Old Robert seemed to have his finger in so many pies. ‘Sea Pies!’ Rose had written. His new, grey stone house near the Battery was very big and gloomy; the furniture was all very heavy, and the silver very ugly but very rich. The servants were all so silent and mysterious. Yes, a gloomy house, seeming as old already as Robert, though he had built it so little a while ago. With two Norfolk Island pine trees, like a gallows, before it; with iron gates in a high stone wall, and ivy spun over the stone like a big green cobweb. Still, Rose had a view from her bedroom window of the Derwent and the ships—the wonderful white-winged ships!
She had been presented to the Governor and his Lady. She had not been so much afraid of Colonel Arthur, after all, though he had reminded her of the Duke of Wellington in the picture at home; he had been kind and complimentary. On Sundays she attended St. David’s Church. She did not like Mr. Bedford’s sermons so well as Mr. Haven’s sermons—the Rev. Philip Haven: he was an eloquent preacher, though quite a young man. He had arrived only recently from England, and was said to be seeking a chaplaincy among the prisoners.
Of late, Rose appeared to have lost interest in Mr. Haven, though he had figured in many of her earlier letters to her sister. She had not mentioned his name for several weeks. Her letters had seemed strange—some all nonsense and laughter, and others sad and blurred, just as though she had been crying while writing. And now this mysterious letter from Hobart Town? It must have been from Uncle Robert and contained bad news to send Papa hurrying off in a bearish mood!
Oh, Priscilla could swoon for exasperation with Mamma, lying there sleeping placidly; and the room stifling with the heat of the summer afternoon. And the garden all scented and beautiful, and now whipped by the lively breeze from the sea…