The Dark Mountain

by Catherine Jinks

  Do not assume that I was fully aware of all these events as they unfolded, though I could not be entirely ignorant. On one occasion, for instance, my siblings and I were brought before the Master in Equity, in order that we might demonstrate the full extent of our education. (He found that we had been very well instructed, to a degree not generally found in public schools.) There was also talk of my being enrolled at a boarding academy in Liverpool. And my mother was constantly having to take the omnibus to town so that she might consult her solicitors, leaving us to fill many an empty day as best we could.

  Nevertheless, she preferred that we not be exposed to much of what went on. I daresay that she did not want us upset. Her pride, moreover, would have revolted against our becoming acquainted with some of the particulars that might have appeared in the press: her past as a governess, for example, or the fact that she did, for a while, pursue an unsubstantiated claim of bigamy against her husband. I discovered this last circumstance a couple of years later, when I broke into her desk; Louisa further enlightened me at my mother’s funeral. Yet during the early ’40s I was for the most part uninformed. I knew only that Mr Berry was a fiend, that there was never enough money, and that lawyers were a breed of men with nothing to recommend them.

  When the interim judgement was made in our favour, I also learned that my mother was to have a fixed allowance of 350 pounds per annum. And as a consequence, she told me, I would be permitted to attend school.

  ‘School?’ I echoed, more astonished than I can convey. ‘But—’ ‘Yes, yes.’ She laughed and nodded. ‘I know that I have made my feelings plain on the subject of Ladies’ Academies. But this school, I am persuaded, will be very different.’

  She went on to explain that she had been corresponding with Mr James Rennie and his daughter Christina. Mr Rennie had opened his College High School for boys in the middle of 1841. His daughter had most recently worked as a governess to the Throsbys. ‘She is still very young,’ my mother admitted, ‘but I have every faith in Mrs Throsby’s judgement. And since Miss Rennie has studied in France and Prussia, as well as England, there can be no question of narrow or stunted perceptions.’ Upon discovering that Miss Rennie intended to open a ‘ladies’ department’ at her father’s high school, my mother had written to her for a prospectus.

  ‘Mr Rennie has very sound ideas on education,’ my mother continued. ‘He believes, not in flogging, but in the discipline of kindness and diligence. He tells me that he is earnest in his desire to have girls receive the same education as boys. In his view, moreover, education does not mean the acquisition of knowledge or accomplishments. It means the formation of habits of attention, the exercise of the reflective faculties, and the love of truth.’ My mother could have been describing her own philosophy; her eyes were bright as she lavished praise upon Mr James Rennie’s lofty goals. ‘It will mean that you and your brother may attend the same school as day pupils,’ she said. ‘Three guineas a quarter for you and two for James. Very reasonable, I think, considering the range of branches offered. Reading with Grammar and Dictionary, Writing, Accounts, Botany, French—’

  ‘But what about me, Mama?’ Emily interjected, looking rather lost. ‘Am I not to go as well?’

  ‘Oh, my darling.’ Mama pulled her close. ‘This is by way of an exploratory manoeuvre. You know that James and the Captain are my little soldiers. You and Louisa are my little flowers. If all goes well, and my two soldiers are happy, then I shall consider placing my two flowers in Miss Rennie’s care.’

  My mother’s plan was reasonable. We none of us were familiar with the ways of an academy, and Louisa, in particular, was very delicate. It made sense that James and I should test the waters, so to speak. Therefore, in January 1842, at the ages of nine and thirteen respectively, he and I were enrolled at College High School as day scholars.

  An important event in our lives, I assure you.

  At that time, Mr Rennie’s establishment was to be found on Elizabeth Street. It stood opposite the northern end of Hyde Park, and backed onto Castlereagh, not far from the large, brick building that housed the Catholic and Anglican parish schools. My memory is no longer what it should be, but I seem to recall that Mr Rennie’s premises were quite elderly, and in need of repair—or at the very least, of a little whitewash—with two storeys and four chimneys. Though made of brick, the building had a stone trim, and stone flags on the ground floor. It was therefore a very solid structure, of the sort most required by an educator of young boys. Though the joinery was scarred by innumerable boots, and the door-knobs were wrung like cow-teats, and the windows were banged down with a savagery that set them rattling, I witnessed no really dreadful mutilation of the sort that you so often saw in flimsier houses of bark and weatherboard. In other words, it was a suitable address. It was conveniently placed, adequately furnished, and of exactly the right size and construction.

  Most of the building was occupied by the male student body, which seemed to spend a lot of time thundering up and down the staircase and scraping chair-legs across the floor. I was most dreadfully shocked when first I heard the sound of boys unleashed, for the noise was extraordinary—like a load of barrels tumbling from a loft. Soon, however, I grew accustomed to the conditions, and hardly noticed them. Even the shouting of the masters ceased to make me flinch in my seat. I did not have to endure such loud reproof myself, because no voice was ever raised in the ladies’ department. Nevertheless, until I became used to it, I was always reminded of George Barton, and my pulse would quicken accordingly.

  But the teachers at College High School could not have been more unlike George Barton. They were without exception cultured and genteel. Most displayed exactly the kind of curiosity and excitement that Mr Rennie saw as necessary to the pursuit and acquisition of knowledge. Mr Dodd, who taught mathematics, tried to convey to us the beauty of numbers. Mr Chambers was one of Sydney’s best teachers of music. As for the Rennies, I must confess that I adored all three of them.

  Miss Rennie was young and energetic, with clear-cut features and masses of wavy hair. She looked very much like her father, whose own hair, though greying, was still thick. They shared the same dark brows, chiselled noses and piercing grey eyes. Mr Edward Rennie had not quite such striking looks, though his appearance was perfectly inoffensive, and his manner reassuringly quiet. Indeed, when he later became the Auditor-General for New South Wales, it did not surprise me in the least. For I can still recall the extraordinary quickness of his intellect, and the way he would subdue a gang of rowdy boys simply by fixing them with his steely and level gaze.

  It was his father, however, who became the object of my most fervid devotion. Mr James Rennie was a man of character. Though not by any means young, he was immensely energetic, with a fresh and vigorous mind of the type that you will rarely encounter outside the Groves of Academe. His qualifications were impeccable, for he possessed an M.A., was the author of a respected series of works entitled Scientific Alphabets, and had formerly held the position of Professor of Natural History at the University of London. This alone would have recommended him to my mother, even if he had not already earned her approval with his educational theories. For Mr Rennie made no secret of his beliefs. Several months before I enrolled at his academy, my mother took the entire family to the Sydney School of Arts, where we witnessed a debate on the topic: ‘Would it be expedient to give to ladies the same education as is given to gentlemen?’ Mr James Rennie was then secretary of the Debating Society, and I remember how impressed we all were at the figure that he cut as he defended the ‘affirmative’ side of the debate. He had a strong, clear, musical voice, and employed many a poetical turn of phrase. Moreover, he seemed to believe very strongly in the position for which he was arguing.

  ‘I do think,’ said my mother, at the conclusion of the event, ‘that Mr Rennie would be one of the few schoolmasters to whom I would willingly entrust my daughters. For there is no side to him, and his ideas are very sound.’

  He was also quite canny,
I think. Certainly it was clever to stage such a debate shortly before his daughter opened her ‘ladies’ department’. I am sure that my mother was not the only parent inspired by his performance to make inquiries about the school. His series of public lectures on ‘Beauty’, which occurred in the early part of 1842, must have had a similar result. For his ‘ladies’ department’ grew steadily throughout the same period, forcing Miss Rennie to engage another pair of governesses. Even those who did not attend the lectures must have had their interest piqued by newspaper reports.

  I attended the lectures, naturally. So did my mother, who was sceptical at first—though not after Mr Rennie had plainly described the injurious effects that can be expected from the wearing of corsets. Mr Rennie, you see, was an opponent of Unnatural Beauty. He was adamant that Beauty could not be separated from Health. According to Mr Rennie, good penmanship depended on good posture. He himself, at his school, adhered to a set of rules concerning posture that resulted in penmanship of the highest order—as could be seen by the specimens that he had brought along by way of illustration.

  I remember quite well that a sample of my own handwriting was among these specimens. Seeing it, I sat very straight in my chair, almost bursting with pride. For I revered Mr Rennie. I believed every word that he uttered. And I was happy at his school, where I excelled to an extraordinary degree. It is very gratifying, when I look back, to reflect on how well I performed there. In the middle of the year my results were as follows: first in drawing and geography, second in Italian and ornamental needlework, third in history and journal-writing.

  Not that I can take sole credit for my performance. Without my mother’s meticulous grounding, I should not have achieved such success. But I must admit that I was insufficiently grateful. Though sometimes moved to boast about her literary achievements, I was, for the most part, discreetly silent about my mother. Partly this was on account of her irregular marital status. Chiefly, it was because I wished to turn my back entirely on the past—especially where George Barton was concerned.

  My ambitions, at this time, were simple. I wished to be accepted as a young lady of the metropolis. I wished to be admired, and praised, and invited to adorn as many drawing rooms as Sydney had to offer. I wished to throw off all traces of my somewhat dubious background, and shine with what Mr Rennie called ‘woman’s peculiar glory’—that is, the ability to elevate the tone of every social circle that she might adorn.

  So you may imagine my feelings when, on the morning of March the sixteenth, 1842, Miss Jessie Knight asked me (in her inimitable, wide-eyed way) if I had ever personally known the murderer John Lynch.

  Twenty-four

  Jessie Knight was not my friend. I had thought her so once, for her demeanour was very sweet and insinuating, so that I was initially deceived. She had mastered the kind of subtle malice so freely employed in certain metropolitan drawing rooms, where ladies are brought up never to speak their minds, but to smile on their enemies, and use their tongues as double-edged swords.

  I myself was not acquainted with the technique. My mother was always frank—even blunt—in conveying her impressions, and I had inherited this trait. It was therefore some time before I realised that Jessie Knight’s intentions were purely spiteful when she let drop her careless little remarks, for all that she did it so innocently. In opening her eyes very wide, and seeming quite astonished that offence had been taken, she was merely attempting to disguise her true nature—which was wholly ill disposed towards everyone and everything.

  She was vicious, but did not appear so. With her golden ringlets and bird-like voice, she seemed more angelic than otherwise. Indeed, she was much admired by the younger girls, who would often compete for her attention. And she in turn was a capricious friend to them, sometimes offering and sometimes withdrawing her favours. I can only assume that she was practising upon these hapless creatures the various stratagems with which she would have preferred to ensnare young men. It surprised me that she did not exert herself more to captivate some of Mr Rennie’s male scholars. But I am persuaded now that she thought them poor things, callow and lumpish compared to the gentlemen who seemed to move through her mother’s drawing room in waves.

  She was the daughter of a merchant. Yet she gave herself such airs, and seemed to think herself better than anyone, if only because she lived in a fine house, wore beautiful clothes, and was connected in some remote way with Sir Thomas Mitchell—whose property at Darling Point she had visited on one occasion. No doubt she was jealous of my own, more respectable ancestry. At any rate, she did everything possible to denigrate it. I remember her once asking if Mrs Atkinson, who conducted a Ladies’ Academy on the premises of the old Australian College, was perhaps an aunt of mine? And why, in that case, was I not enrolled there? (‘For the poor soul must be desperate for business.’) On another occasion, she questioned me about A Mother’s Offering to Her Children. Why, she asked, had it been dedicated to the Governor’s son, Master Reginald Gipps? Was my mother perhaps acquainted with His Excellency?

  No, I had to admit. She was not.

  Then she must have written to him, seeking permission to dedicate the book to his son?

  I believed so.

  ‘Ah,’ said Jessie Knight. ‘How enterprising. And does Mrs Barton receive a portion of the six shillings charged for every copy? Or was the money paid to her in one sum, before publication?’

  I confessed that I did not know.

  ‘No, of course not,’ Jessie said sweetly. ‘Who wants to bother with all the dull details of a mercantile transaction?’ Thereby implying that my mother, in earning her money, was no better than a common woman with a grog-shop licence.

  My only defence against this sort of thing was rudeness. Not being able to reply in kind, I would ignore Jessie, or tell her to shut her mouth. My true revenge was to outdo her in almost every branch of learning offered to us. It irked her horribly when I received the first medal for general superiority at the end of the year. I know this because of the clumsy way she tried to insult me after the presentations, when Mr Rennie announced that a prize would be given, at the commencement of the next school term, to any pupil who spent a portion of the holidays writing a set of books by double entry, consisting of a Day Book, Cash and Bill book, journal and ledger, accurately balanced.

  ‘I suppose you and your brother will be entering that competition,’ my foe declared meanly, ‘now that Mrs Barton has started to earn a good wage.’

  It was a stupid remark, which did not endear her to Miss Rennie. Our teacher promptly declared that if Jessie had a mind to be unpleasant, she could go straight home and miss all the dancing. This was in December, long after the death of John Lynch—whose trial took place in March of the same year. Jessie and I were still on speaking terms in March. We had little choice, since Mr Rennie favoured the modern system of ‘pairing’ pupils. If the system does not seem so modern now, back then it was the latest thing: senior girls, or ‘monitors’, would correct the production of those who were younger and less able. Jessie and I were both monitors, along with Mary Mullen, and a handful of others whose names I forget. Therefore we were thrown very much together. Often we would sit beside each other at the front of the room. Sometimes we were asked to check each other’s work.

  It therefore required no great ingenuity on Jessie’s part to address me in a low voice one fine March morning as we prepared for class.

  ‘Tell me,’ she murmured, ‘did you ever personally know the murderer John Lynch?’

  I dropped my books. The noise of it resounded throughout the high-ceilinged chamber, making everyone turn with a start.

  Everyone, that is, except Jessie. She just stood there smiling.

  ‘Papa was reading from the Gazette,’ she continued, ‘and it said that John Lynch, who is being tried for murder in Berrima, was tried once before. Back in 1835, for killing a man called Smith at Oldbury. Oldbury is the name of your father’s estate, is it not?’

  I gaped at her, unable to speak. Th
en Miss Rennie came to my rescue.

  ‘No gossiping, if you please,’ she warned. ‘Attend to your work, Miss Knight. If you wish to discuss vulgar subjects, kindly do so outside the school premises.’

  As you may imagine, I could scarcely concentrate on the task at hand. There was a little girl—Isabella—whose stilted reading I was required to correct, and I am quite sure that many a gross error slipped by me unperceived, since I barely heard her. As a result, I was unprepared for the exercise that followed. Our textbook contained a series of questions relating to every extract included therein; I found myself asking ‘Why was not Jane happy while taking care of the baby?’ and ‘What kind of persons are not happy?’ without having the least idea whether Isabella’s answers were correct or not!

  Jessie did not approach me again, that day. Yet she watched me closely, delighting (no doubt) in every mistake that I made as a result of my preoccupation. It was a dreadful experience. The strain was immense. And at the close of the final lesson I hurried out to meet my mother in a state of extreme anxiety, hardly able to contain myself.

  My mother, I should tell you, unfailingly caught the omnibus to town so as to escort her children home from school. At least that was her professed motive. I sometimes wonder if she did it partly in order to exchange a few words with Mr Rennie, who was always very polite to the parents of his pupils. But if she did, I cannot blame her. I would probably have done the same myself.

  He was an extremely personable man.

  ‘Mama,’ I said, without sparing a thought for James or Emily. (Louisa had been left at home, on account of her poor health.) ‘Mama, John Lynch is being tried at Berrima! For murder, Mama!’