The Getting of Wisdom

H >> Henry Handel Richardson >> The Getting of Wisdom

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16

Produced by Col Choat.

The Getting of Wisdom by Henry Handel Richardson

TO MY
UNNAMED
LITTLE COLLABORATOR

Wisdom is the principal thing;
therefore get wisdom: and with
all thy getting get understanding.

Proverbs, iv, 7

I.

The four children were lying on the grass.

". . . and the Prince went further and further into the forest," said
the elder girl, "till he came to a beautiful glade--a glade, you know,
is a place in the forest that is open and green and lovely. And there he
saw a lady, a beautiful lady, in a long white dress that hung down to
her ankles, with a golden belt and a golden crown. She was lying on the
sward--a sward, you know, is grass as smooth as velvet, just like green
velvet--and the Prince saw the marks of travel on her garments. The
bottom of the lovely silk dress was all dirty----"

"Wondrous Fair, if you don't mind you'll make that sheet dirty, too,"
said Pin.

"Shut up, will you!" answered her sister who, carried away by her
narrative, had approached her boots to some linen that was bleaching.

"Yes, but you know Sarah'll be awfly cross if she has to wash it again,"
said Pin, who was practical.

"You'll put me out altogether," cried Laura angrily.--"Well, as I said,
the edge of her robe was all muddy--no, I don't think I will say that;
it sounds prettier if it's clean. So it hung in long, straight beautiful
folds to her ankles, and the Prince saw two little feet in golden
sandals peeping out from under the hem of the silken gown, and----"

"But what about the marks of travel?" asked Leppie.

"Donkey! haven't I said they weren't there? If I say they weren't,
then they weren't. She hadn't travelled at all."

"Oh, parrakeets!" cried little Frank.

Four pairs of eyes went up to the bright green flock that was passing
over the garden.

"Now you've all interrupted, and I shan't tell any more," said Laura in
a proud voice.

"Oh, yes, please do, Wondrous Fair! Tell what happened next," begged Pin
and Leppie.

"No, not another word. You can only think of sheets and parrakeets."

"Please, Wondrous Fair," begged little Frank.

"No, I can't now.--Another thing: I don't mind if you call me Laura
to-day, as it's the last day."

She lay back on the grass, her hands clasped under her head. A voice was
heard, loud, imperative.

"Laura, I want you. Come here."

"That's mother calling," said Pin.

Laura kicked her heels. The two little boys laughed approval.

"Go on, Laura," coaxed Pin. "Mother'll be angry. I'll come, too."

Laura raised herself with a grumble. "It's to try on that horrid dress."

In very fact Mother was standing, already somewhat impatient, with the
dress in her hand. Laura wriggled out of the one she had on, and stood
stiffly and ungraciously, with her arms held like pokers from her sides,
while Mother on her knees arranged the length.

"Don't put on a face like that, miss!" she said sharply on seeing
Laura's air. "Do you think I'm making it for my own pleasure?" She
had sewn at it all day, and was hot and tired.

"It's too short," said Laura, looking down.

"It's nothing of the kind," said Mother, with her mouth full of pins.

"It is, it's much too short."

Mother gave her a slight shake. "Don't you contradict ME! Do you want to
tell me I don't know what length you're to wear your dresses?"

"I won't wear it at all if you don't make it longer," said Laura
defiantly.

Pin's chubby, featureless little face lengthened with apprehension.

"Do let her have it just a tiny bit longer, mother dear, dear!" she
pleaded.

"Now, Pin, what have you got to do with it I'd like to know!" said
Mother, on the verge of losing her temper over the back folds, which
WOULD not hang.

"I'm going to school to-morrow, and it's a shame," said Laura in the
low, passionate tone that never failed to exasperate Mother, so
different was it from her own hearty fashion of venting displeasure. Pin
began to sniff, in sheer nervous anxiety.

"Very well then, I won't do another stitch to it!" and Mother, now angry
in earnest, got up and bounced out of the room.

"Laura, how can you?" said Pin, dissolving. "It's only you who make her
so cross."

"I don't care," said Laura rebelliously, though she was not far off
tears herself. "It IS a shame. All the other girls will have dresses down
to the tops of their boots, and they'll laugh at me, and call me a [P.4]
baby;" and touched by the thought of what lay before her, she, too,
began to sniffle. She did not fail, however, to roll the dress up and to
throw it unto a corner of the room. She also kicked the ewer, which fell
over and flooded the floor. Pin cried more loudly, and ran to fetch
Sarah.

Laura returned to the garden. The two little boys came up to her; but
she waved them back.

"Let me alone, children. I want to think."

She stood in a becoming attitude by the garden-gate, her brothers
hovering in the background.--Then Mother called once more.

"Laura, where are you?"

"Here, mother. What is it?"

"Did you knock this jug over or did Pin?"

"I did, mother."

"Did you do it on purpose?"

"Yes."

"Come here to me."

She went, with lagging steps. But Mother's anger had passed: she was at
work on the dress again, and by squinting her eyes Laura could see that
a piece was being added to the skirt. She was penitent at once; and when
Mother in a sorry voice said: "I'm ashamed of you, Laura. And on your
last day, too," her throat grew narrow.

"I didn't mean it, mother."

"If only you would ask properly for things, you would get them."

Laura knew this; knew indeed that, did she coax, Mother could refuse her
nothing. But coaxing came hard to her; something within her forbade it.
Sarah called her "high-stomached", to the delight of the other
children and her own indignation; she had explained to them again and
again what Sarah really meant.

On leaving the house she went straight to the flower-beds: she would
give Mother, who liked flowers very well but had no time to gather them,
a bouquet the size of a cabbage. Pin and the boys were summoned to help
her, and when their hands were full, Laura led the way to a secluded
part of the garden on the farther side of the detached brick kitchen. In
this strip, which was filled with greenery, little sun fell: two thick
fir trees and a monstrous blue-gum stood there; high bushes screened the
fence; jessamine climbed the wall of the house and encircled the bedroom
windows; and on the damp and shady ground only violets grew. Yet, with
the love children bear to the limited and compact, the four had chosen
their own little plots here rather than in the big garden at the back of
the house; and many were the times they had all begun anew to dig and to
rake. But if Laura's energy did not fizzle out as quickly as usual--she
was the model for the rest--Mother was sure to discover that it was too
cramped and dark for them in there, and send Sarah to drive them off.

Here, safely screened from sight, Laura sat on a bench and made up her
bouquet. When it was finished--red and white in the centre with a
darker border, the whole surrounded by a ring of violet leaves--she
looked about for something to tie it up with. Sarah, applied to, was
busy ironing, and had no string in the kitchen, so Pin ran to get a reel
of cotton. But while she was away Laura had an idea. Bidding Leppie hold
the flowers tight in both his sticky little hands, she climbed in
at her bedroom window, or rather, by lying on the sill with her legs
waving in the air, she managed to grab, without losing her balance, a
pair of scissors from the chest of drawers. With these between her teeth
she emerged, to the excited interest of the boys who watched her
open-mouthed.

Laura had dark curls, Pin fair, and both wore them flapping at their
backs, the only difference being that Laura, who was now twelve years
old, had for the past year been allowed to bind hers together with a
ribbon, while Pin's bobbed as they chose. Every morning early, Mother
brushed and twisted, with a kind of grim pride, these silky ringlets
round her finger. Although the five odd minutes the curling occupied
were durance vile to Laura, the child was proud of her hair in her own
way; and when in the street she heard some one say: "Look--what pretty
curls!" she would give her head a toss and send them all a-rippling. In
addition to this, there was a crowning glory connected with them: one
hot December morning, when they had been tangled and Mother had kept her
standing too long, she had fainted, pulling the whole dressing-table
down about her ears; and ever since, she had been marked off in some
mysterious fashion from the other children. Mother would not let her go
out at midday in summer: Sarah would say: "Let that be, can't you!" did
she try to lift something that was too heavy for her; and the younger
children were to be quelled by a threat to faint on the spot, if they
did not do as she wished. "Laura's faint" had become a byword in the
family; and Laura herself held it for so important a fact in her
life that she had more than once begun a friendship with the words: "Have
you ever fainted? I have."

From among these long, glossy curls, she now cut one of the longest and
most spiral, cut it off close to the root, and with it bound the flowers
together. Mother should see that she did know how to give up something
she cared for, and was not as selfish as she was usually supposed to be.

"Oh . . h . . h!" said both little boys in a breath, then doubled up in
noisy mirth. Laura was constantly doing something to set their young
blood in amazement: they looked upon her as the personification of all
that was startling and unexpected. But Pin, returning with the reel of
thread, opened her eyes in a different way.

"Oh, Laura . . .!" she began, tearful at once.

"Now, res'vor!" retorted Laura scornfully--"res'vor" was Sarah's name
for Pin, on account of her perpetual wateriness. "Be a cry-baby, do."
But she was not damped, she was lost in the pleasure of self-sacrifice.

Pin looked after her as she danced off, then moved submissively in her
wake to be near at hand should intercession be needed. Laura was so
unsuspecting, and Mother would be so cross. In her dim, childish way Pin
longed to see these, her two nearest, at peace; she understood them both
so well, and they had little or no understanding for each other.--So
she crept to the house at her sister's heels.

Laura did not go indoors; hiding against the wall of the flagged
verandah, she threw her bouquet in at the window, meaning it to
fall on Mother's lap.

But Mother had dropped her needle, and was just lifting her face,
flushed with stooping, when the flowers hit her a thwack on the head.
She groped again, impatiently, to find what had struck her, recognised
the peace-offering, and thought of the surprise cake that was to go into
Laura's box on the morrow. Then she saw the curl, and her face darkened.
Was there ever such a tiresome child? What in all the world would she do
next?

"Laura, come here, directly!"

Laura had moved away; she was not expecting recognition. If Mother were
pleased she would call Pin to put the flowers in water for her, and that
would be the end of it. The idea of a word of thanks would have made
Laura feel uncomfortable. Now, however, at the tone of Mother's voice,
her mouth set stubbornly. She went indoors as bidden, but was already up
in arms again.

"You're a very naughty girl indeed!" began Mother as soon she
appeared. "How dare you cut off your hair? Upon my word, if it weren't
your last night I'd send you to bed without any supper!"--an unheard-of
threat on the part of Mother, who punished her children in any way but
that of denying them their food. "It's a very good thing you're leaving
home to-morrow, for you'd soon be setting the others at defiance, too,
and I should have four naughty children on my hands instead of one.--
But I'd be ashamed to go to school such a fright if I were you. Turn
round at once and let me see you!"

Laura turned, with a sinking heart. Pin cried softly in a corner.

"She thought it would please you, mother," she sobbed.

"I WILL not have you interfering, Pin, when I'm speaking to Laura. She's
old enough by now to know what I like and what I don't," said Mother,
who was vexed at the thought of the child going among strangers thus
disfigured.--"And now get away, and don't let me see you again. You're a
perfect sight."

"Oh, Laura, you do look funny!" said Leppie and Frank in weak chorus, as
she passed them in the passage.

"Well, you 'ave made a guy of yourself this time, Miss Laura, and no
mistake!" said Sarah, who had heard the above.

Laura went into her own room and locked the door, a thing Mother did not
allow. Then she threw herself on the bed and cried. Mother had not
understood in the least; and she had made herself a sight into the
bargain. She refused to open the door, though one after another rattled
the handle, and Sarah threatened to turn the hose in at the window. So
they left her alone, and she spent the evening in watery dudgeon on her
pillow. But before she undressed for the night she stealthily made a
chink and took in the slice of cake Pin had left on the door-mat. Her
natural buoyancy of spirit was beginning to reassert itself. By brushing
her hair well to one side she could cover up the gap, she found; and
after all, there was something rather pleasant in knowing that you were
misunderstood. It made you feel different from everyone else.

Mother--sewing hard after even the busy Sarah had retired--
Mother smiled a stern little smile of amusement to herself; and before
locking up for the night put the dark curl safely away.

II.

Laura, sleeping flat on her stomach, was roused next morning by Pin who
said:

"Wake up, Wondrous Fair, mother wants to speak to you. She says you can
get into bed in my place, before you dress." Pin slept warm and cosy at
Mother's side.

Laura rose on her elbow and looked at her sister: Pin was standing in
the doorway holding her nightgown to her, in such a way as to expose all
of her thin little legs.

"Come on," urged Pin. "Sarah's going to give me my bath while you're with
mother."

"Go away, Pin," said Laura snappily. "I told you yesterday you could say
Laura, and . . . and you're more like a spider than ever."

"Spider" was another nickname for Pin, owed to her rotund little body
and mere sticks of legs--she was "all belly" as Sarah put it--and the
mere mention of it made Pin fly; for she was very touchy about her legs.

As soon as the door closed behind her, Laura sprang out of bed and,
waiting neither to wash herself nor to say her prayers, began to pull on
her clothes, confusing strings and buttons in her haste, and quite
forgetting that on this eventful morning she had meant to dress herself
with more than ordinary care. She was just lacing her shoes when Sarah
looked in.

"Why, Miss Laura, don't you know your ma wants you?"

"It's too late. I'm dressed now," said Laura darkly.

Sarah shook her head. "Missis'll be fine an' angry. An' you needn't 'ave
'ad a row on your last day."

Laura stole out of the door and ran down the garden to the summer-house.
This, the size of a goodly room, was formed of a single dense,
hairy-leafed tree, round the trunk of which a seat was built. Here she
cowered, her elbows on her knees, her chin in her hands. Her face wore
the stiff expression that went by the name of "Laura's sulks," but her
eyes were big, and as watchful as those of a scared animal. If Sarah
came to fetch her she would hold on to the seat with both hands. But
even if she had to yield to Sarah's greater strength--well, at least
she was up and dressed. Not like the last time--about a week ago Mother
had tried this kind of thing. Then, she had been caught unawares. She
had gone into Pin's warm place, curious and unsuspecting, and thereupon
Mother had begun to talk seriously to her, and not with her usual
directness. She had reminded Laura that she was growing up apace and
would soon be a woman; had told her that she must now begin to give up
childish habits, and learn to behave in a modest and womanly way--all
disagreeable, disturbing things, which Laura did not in the least want
to hear. When it became clear to her what it was about, she had thrown
back the bedclothes and escaped from the room. And since then she had
been careful never to be long alone with Mother.

But now half an hour went by and no one came to fetch her: her
grim little face relaxed. She felt very hungry, too, and when at length
she heard Pin calling, she jumped up and betrayed her hiding-place.

"Laura! Laura, where are you? Mother says to come to breakfast and not
be silly. The coach'll be here in an hour."

Taking hands the sisters ran to the house.

In the passage, Sarah was busy roping a battered tin box. With their own
hands the little boys had been allowed to paste on this a big sheet of
notepaper, which bore, in Mother's writing, the words:

Miss Laura Tweedle Rambotham The Ladies' College Melbourne.

Mother herself was standing at the breakfast-table cutting sandwiches.

"Come and eat your breakfast, child," was all she said at the
moment. "The tea's quite cold."

Laura sat down and fell to with appetite, but also with a side-glance at
the generous pile of bread and meat growing under Mother's hands.

"I shall never eat all that," she said ungraciously; it galled her still
to be considered a greedy child with an insatiable stomach.

"I know better than you do what you'll eat," said Mother. "You'll be
hungry enough by this evening I can tell you, not getting any dinner."

Pin's face fell at this prospect. "Oh, mother, won't she really get any
dinner?" she asked: and to her soft little heart going to school began
to seem one of the blackest experiences life held.

"Why, she'll be in the train, stupid, 'ow can she?" said Sarah. "Do you
think trains give you dinners?"

"Oh, mother, please cut ever such a lot!" begged Pin sniffing valiantly.

Laura began to feel somewhat moved herself at this solicitude, and
choked down a lump in her throat with a gulp of tea. But when Pin had
gone with Sarah to pick some nectarines, Mother's face grew stern, and
Laura's emotion passed.

"I feel more troubled about you than I can say, Laura. I don't know how
you'll ever get on in life--you're so disobedient and self-willed. It
would serve you very well right, I'm sure, for not coming this morning,
if I didn't give you a penny of pocket-money to take to school."

Laura had heard this threat before, and thought it wiser not to reply.
Gobbling up the rest of her breakfast she slipped away.

With the other children at her heels she made a round of the garden,
bidding good-bye to things and places. There were the two summer-houses
in which she had played house; in which she had cooked and eaten and
slept. There was the tall fir-tree with the rung-like branches by which
she had been accustomed to climb to the very tree-top; there was the
wilderness of bamboo and cane where she had been Crusoe; the ancient,
broadleaved cactus on which she had scratched their names and drawn
their portraits; here, the high aloe that had such a mysterious charm
for you, because you never knew when the hundred years might expire and
the aloe burst into flower. Here again was the old fig tree with the
rounded, polished boughs, from which, seated as in a cradle, she
had played Juliet to Pin's Romeo, and vice versa--but oftenest Juliet:
for though Laura greatly preferred to be the ardent lover at the foot,
Pin was but a poor climber, and, as she clung trembling to her branch,
needed so much prompting in her lines--even then to repeat them with
such feeble emphasis--that Laura invariably lost patience with her and
the love-scene ended in a squabble. Passing behind a wooden fence which
was a tangle of passion-flower, she opened the door of the fowl-house,
and out strutted the mother-hen followed by her pretty brood. Laura had
given each of the chicks a name, and she now took Napoleon and Garibaldi
up in her hand and laid her cheek against their downy breasts, the
younger children following her movements in respectful silence. Between
the bars of the rabbit hutch she thrust enough greenstuff to last the
two little occupants for days; and everywhere she went she was
accompanied by a legless magpie, which, in spite of its infirmity,
hopped cheerily and quickly on its stumps. Laura had rescued it and
reared it; it followed her like a dog; and she was only less devoted to
it than she had been to a native bear which died under her hands.

"Now listen, children," she said as she rose from her knees before the
hutch. "If you don't look well after Maggy and the bunnies, I don't know
what I'll do. The chicks'll be all right. Sarah'll take care of them,
'cause of the eggs. But Maggy and the bunnies don't have eggs, and if
they're not fed, or if Frank treads on Maggy again, then they'll die.
Now if you let them die, I don't know what I'll do to you! Yes, I
do: I'll send the devil to you at night when the room's dark, before you
go to sleep.--So there!"

"How can you if you're not here?" asked Leppie.

Pin, however, who believed in ghosts and apparitions with all her
fearful little heart, promised tremulously never, never to forget; but
Laura was not satisfied until each of them in turn had repeated, in a
low voice, with the appropriate gestures, the sacred secret, and
forbidden formula:

Is my finger wet?
Is my finger dry?
God'll strike me dead,
If I tell a lie.

Then Sarah's voice was heard calling, and the boys went out into the
road to watch for the coach. Laura's dressing proved a lengthy business,
and was accomplished amid bustle, and scolding, and little peace-making
words from Pin; for in her hurry that morning Laura had forgotten to put
on the clean linen Mother had laid beside the bed, and consequently had
now to strip to the skin.

The boys announced the coming of the coach with shrill cries, and
simultaneously the rumble of wheels was heard. Sarah came from the
kitchen drying her hands, and Pin began to cry.

"Now, shut up, res'vor!" said Sarah roughly: her own eyes were
moist. "You don't see Miss Laura be such a silly-billy. Anyone 'ud think
you was goin', not 'er."

The ramshackle old vehicle, one of Cobb's Royal Mail Coaches,
big-bodied, lumbering, scarlet, pulled by two stout horses, drew
up before the door, and the driver climbed down from his seat.

"Now good day to you, ma'am, good day, miss"--this to Sarah who,
picking up the box, handed it to him to be strapped on under the
apron. "Well, well, and so the little girl's goin' to school, is she? My,
but time flies! Well do I remember the day ma'am, when I drove you all
across for the first time. These children wasn't big enough then to git
up and down be thimselves. Now I warrant you they can--just look at
'em, will you?--But my! Ain't you ashamed of yourself"--he spoke to
Pin--"pipin' your eye like that? Why, you'll flood the road if you don't
hould on.--Yes, yes, ma'am, bless you, I'll look after her, and put her
inter the train wid me own han's. Don't you be oneasy. The Lord he cares
for the widder and the orphun, and if He don't, why Patrick O'Donnell
does."

This was O'Donnell's standing joke; he uttered it with a loud chuckle.
While speaking he had let down the steps and helped the three children
up--they were to ride with Laura to the outskirts of the township. The
little boys giggled excitedly at his assertion that the horses would not
be equal to the weight. Only Pin wept on, in undiminished grief.

"Now, Miss Laura."

"Now, Laura. Good-bye, darling. And do try and be good. And be sure you
write once a week. And tell me everything. Whether you are happy--and
if you get enough to eat--and if you have enough blankets on your bed.
And remember always to change your boots if you get your feet wet. And
don't lean out of the window in the train."

For some time past Laura had had need of all her self-control,
not to cry before the children. As the hour drew near it had grown
harder and harder; while dressing, she had resorted to counting the
number of times the profile of a Roman emperor appeared in the flowers
on the wallpaper. Now the worst moment of all was come--the moment of
good-bye. She did not look at Pin, but she heard her tireless, snuffly
weeping, and set her own lips tight.

"Yes, mother . . . no, mother," she answered shortly, "I'll be all right.
Good-bye." She could not, however, restrain a kind of dry sob, which
jumped up her throat.

When she was in the coach Sarah, whom she had forgotten climbed up to
kiss her; and there was some joking between O'Donnell and the servant
while the steps were being folded and put away. Laura did not smile; her
thin little face was very pale. Mother's heart went out to her in a pity
which she did not know how to express.

"Don't forget your sandwiches. And when you're alone, feel in the pocket
of your ulster and you'll find something nice. Good-bye, darling."

"Good-bye . . . good-bye."

The driver had mounted to his seat, he unwound the reins cried "Get up!"
to the two burly horses, the vehicle was set in motion and trundled down
the main street. Until it turned the corner by the Shire Gardens, Laura
let her handkerchief fly from the window. Sarah waved hers; then wiped
her eyes and lustily blew her nose. Mother only sighed.

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16