It cannot be hard to picture my emotions, when I first read the following exchange. It takes place between Mrs Hellicar and one of the executors, her brother-in-law, who despises her as a jumped-up needlewoman. ‘Your opinion is not required,’ he says to her. ‘You have no power.’ When she retorts that she is his brother’s wife, he retorts: ‘More the pity, madam.’
Oh, but it was a shocking thing! I read with my heart in my throat, groaning when I reached the end of each instalment. I simply knew that there were messages here for me: messages concerning my mother’s conduct, for instance. Mrs Hellicar is portrayed as a feeble and timid woman. As a consequence, her property and her children are taken from her. ‘You have proved utterly unworthy of the trust reposed in you,’ her brother-in-law informs her. ‘I shall feel it necessary to consider you no longer, and so study only the good of my brother’s children.’ Mrs Hellicar slinks away brokenly, only to return towards the end of the book, humbly caring for her adult son in the guise of an old servant. She has neither the spirit nor the intellect to stand fast and fight. ‘The woman was so helpless, and friendless, and simple; had been treated as a child, and petted and fondled, and kept ignorant of business, that from very habit she deferred . . .'
I felt the reproof in this story. I understood perfectly that it was written in defence of my late mother, as a kind of memorial, and that it was directed at me. My initial response was to communicate with Louisa at once. Then I thought that I should wait until the full tale was told. Then, about halfway through the serial, I came upon a new set of characters who annoyed me intensely. If you have read the book, you must know the family I mean. They are the Thorells of Gindion parsonage, and I found the eldest daughter (Caroline) extremely offensive. She is nicknamed ‘the Captain’, and takes charge of the other children in a very overbearing way. Moreover, having objected to the marriage of her sweet younger sister Esther, on the grounds that Essie’s suitor is too poor, she herself goes and marries a penniless clergyman. How I ground my teeth when I read such passages as this: ‘We have seen that when Richie proposed that Esther should share life with him, Caroline had pronounced it impossible, and that the rest of the family, being used to consider her opinion as the ultimate in all matters, had echoed “impossible”.'
Caroline’s wedding receives a great deal of attention, none of it complimentary. Louisa speaks of ‘necessary privations’ and ‘trifles invested with immense importance’. She describes how ‘the bride-elect becomes a person whose words carry weight; who is consulted, and looked upon as an authority’. There is also much discussion about Essie’s role. How is she to continue her duties as governess, and attend to the school and the sick, unaided? Happily a third sister, newly grown, steps in to fill the breach. (The name of this sister is not provided, but we can safely assume that it would have started with an ‘L’.)
Need I add that Caroline, for all her kindness during these marriage preparations, exhibits a certain consciousness in her manner which implies ‘that she was successful in her woman’s affairs, and her sister unsuccessful’? Or that Esther is an absolute paragon? Much is made of her many shining qualities: ‘the simplicity of a guileless nature’ and the ‘dignity of a highly cultured mind’. ‘It’s like sunlight coming in at the door,’ is how one impoverished parishioner describes Essie. Whereas Caroline finds herself in ‘that position of interest, not unmingled with power, so very pleasant to some dispositions’.
I cannot tell you how enraged I became, on reading about the Thorells. The account of Caroline’s wedding, in particular, I considered utterly unfair. Why, my own marriage had been anything but an occasion for swaggering conceit; Louisa must have known that I had been an object of pity and contempt, rather than respect and admiration. How could she have said such things? Understand that I was not deceived for a moment. ‘Caroline’ and ‘Esther’ were not so different from Mama’s ‘Clara’ and ‘Emma’, after all.
I was so deeply offended that I abandoned all thought of communicating with Louisa. Towards the end of the book, moreover, there was an episode that made me positively fearful of doing so. In it, Mrs Hellicar’s daughter Ruth is approached by one Max Ibotsen for her hand in marriage. Max is a corpulent and bloated spirit merchant, with a red pimply face and dim little blue eyes; he is fifty years old when he kisses Ruth’s brow in ‘an attempt at youthful gallantry’. This lecherous conduct revolts her. She runs away from her uncle’s house to that of her brother, hot with shame and ranting that she hates Max Ibotsen with all her heart. Whereupon her brother replies: ‘Hush, dear, hatred brings sad things upon people. You know when people curse others, the curse falls back on themselves, because God will not have us take vengeance into our own hands.'
On reading this, I was terrified. I thought: ‘How much has she found out?’ And I put the serial to one side for a long period, reluctant to take it up again. For if she had meant something specific by her homily, I did not want to know.
Months afterwards, I stumbled upon ‘The New Bush Home’. Only then did I find myself pondering the curiously potent quality of Max Ibotsen’s lascivious conduct. There was something so disgusting about it. So deeply repellent. It made me wonder if Louisa was as uninformed as I had previously supposed. Could some personal experience have coloured this imagined scene? Or was she writing about George Barton and my mother? Had Louisa understood their relations more thoroughly than I had ever assumed?
And if that were so, could she shed light on other aspects of Mama’s conduct?
The question stayed with me. Though I busied myself with all the minutiae of daily life, I could not seem to shake it off. Occasionally I considered writing to Louisa. Then I would ask myself: when shall I find the time? At last, early in the autumn of 1872, something occurred that propelled me to act.
I was looking to engage a servant. For many years I had practically done without, but the school was consuming much of my energy, my husband was still a carrier (thus often from home), and Eva was only five years old. Good female servants were not so easily acquired in Orange, back then. I was forced to interview many a hapless and slovenly soul in my search for a suitable candidate, and one of these women was Catherine Byrnes. She was not young. Nor did she inspire me with confidence. She must have been between sixty and seventy years of age, with straggling grey hair, a heavy midriff, and feeble, stick-like limbs. Though she had made some attempt to groom herself, I noticed that the darning on her clothes was clumsily worked, and that her cuffs and hems were frayed. Her complexion, moreover, made me suspicious. It was much mottled around the cheeks, and her nose was red. A red nose may make reference to cold weather, but it was not a particularly chilly morning. Nor was my kitchen fire a poor thing; on the contrary, it sported a bright blaze strong enough to boil a kettle.
I thought to myself, ‘This woman has been intemperate, at some stage’, and wondered if she was still drinking. It seemed unlikely, for her hands did not tremble. They were not unsteady like the hands of an habitual drunkard.
‘Have you any references, Mrs Byrnes?’ I inquired, whereupon she gave me a piece of paper, very soiled and crumpled, and almost coming apart at the folds. It was a letter of recommendation, dated 1851.
I told her that a twenty-year-old reference was useless to me. Did she not have letters from more recent employers? She replied that her latest mistress had ‘died afore she could be asked’, and that the one preceding had been illiterate. There had also been a five-year interruption occasioned by a failed marriage, as well as one master whose recommendation would not have impressed me, since he was gaoled for manslaughter.
‘Indeed?’ said I, as it occurred to me that some past tragedy might account for her former intemperance. ‘The victim was not closely connected to you, I hope?’
‘Oh no, Ma’am. No connection, for all I liked him well enough. He were a reaper on the farm. Name of Rogers. Shot in his belly—a sorry accident. T’were the rum that did it, is what the judge said.’
‘Rogers?’ I echoed, my
hand rising to my breast. The name was horribly familiar. ‘Where—where did this event take place, exactly?’
Mrs Byrnes eyed me with something like suspicion. ‘Out near Bathurst,’ was her reply.
‘You wouldn’t be referring to the case of George Bruce Barton, by any chance?’
The woman seemed to shrink, hunching her shoulders and pulling her shawl close about her. With pursed lips and a corrugated brow, she shifted uneasily on her stool.
‘What if I was?’ she muttered.
‘You were employed by George Barton?’ I said, trying to keep my voice calm. ‘You were at the Yarrows when he shot William Rogers?’
She turned bright red. Her lips began to tremble; tears sprang to her eyes. At last she blurted out: ‘Aye, ’twere me! And if you want to know, then yes, I were the one in his bed! But I never passed him no shotgun! I never did!’
We sat for a moment, staring at each other. I was too shocked to speak. Perhaps Mrs Byrnes thought me offended, for at last she got up, and made as if to go.
‘You’ll not be wanting me, then,’ she muttered. ‘I know. I’ll allus be judged hard by them as saw the papers. But I don’t partake of liquor no more, Ma’am. Not since that day, I swear. It taught me the best lesson I ever could learn—the noise, and the smell, and all that blood . . .’ The colour ebbed from her face, leaving it deathly white. ‘’Twere the rum that did it. We was all of us drunk, master and servants. I swore I’d never touch the stuff again, and never have.’
‘Wait!’ I half rose as she reached for the door. ‘Stay! Please, I—I must speak to you.’ Glancing around, I saw Eva playing with a sieve, and sent her immediately into the garden. ‘Please, Mrs Byrnes,’ I continued, when my daughter had gone, ‘believe me when I say that I would not condemn you out of hand for past excesses. But I knew George Barton. He was my stepfather, and I want to hear what he did. It’s important to me . . .’
The old woman opened her eyes very wide. ‘Your stepfather?’ she gasped.
‘I fear so.’
‘Lawks.’
‘I never saw a full account of the affair. Whatever your part in it may have been—’
‘I were not at fault!’ Mrs Byrnes exclaimed. ‘I were trying to catch me rest, is all! And them boys kept comin’ in, all awash with gin, trying to pull me out of his bed—and George too drunk to stop ’em—’
‘So he shot one of them to protect you?’ I inquired.
‘Who can tell? We none of us had our wits about us. Later he told Waller that poor old Brandy were saying as how he’d “knock the old bugger’s head off ”, but I never heard it. George was full of strange stories. He allus thought the men were making plans against him, and he lost all sense when he drank.’
‘Yes. I know.’
‘Begging your pardon, Ma’am, but he were no damn good,’ the woman declared, blood mounting once again in her cheeks. ‘Too free with his fists, for one thing. I were right glad when he got taken. He’d have killed me, else—he said he would if I ever tried to go.’
‘Did he talk about his wife? About the lady who left him?’
Mrs Byrnes hesitated. She looked shifty, and scratched her chin.
‘Please,’ I urged. ‘Don’t spare my feelings, I know what he was. Just tell me what he said.’
‘He said that he left her,’ the old woman replied. ‘On account of she was a whore that begged for his attentions afore they married and bedded other men afterwards. Begging your pardon.’ Seeing me flush, she quickly added: ‘I never paid him no heed, not where women was concerned. He were allus a liar when it came to women.’
‘Did he—did he ever mention Belanglo?’ I could hardly force the name out. ‘He was flogged once—you must have seen the scars—and it happened in the forest at Belanglo—’
‘Oh, aye.’
‘He talked about it?’
‘Said he was flogged by John Lynch, as murdered all of them poor folk at Razorback.’
‘He said that?’
‘Aye, but . . . Ma’am, he’d say anything. Knowing as how we’d all gasp and gather about him.’
‘What else did he say? Did he say that my mother was there?’ Seeing her look away, I strengthened my resolve—and my tone, as well. ‘He told me something once that I cannot believe, and I want to know if he told you the same. That is all. As you remarked, he was a liar.’
‘He said as how John Lynch had flogged him, and took advantage of his wife,’ the old woman announced abruptly. ‘Only Lynch was never punished for it, on account of his wife’s shame.’
‘I see.’
‘He called me a whore, and I never strayed,’ she insisted. ‘I were faithful to him, though he used me cruel.’
‘He was a liar,’ I said. ‘It is nonsense. He was not even married when they flogged him. It is all a parcel of lies.’
‘Aye. I’ve no doubt of that,’ said Mrs Byrnes. She watched me for a moment as I brooded, adjusting the folds of her shawl. ‘I never heard no more of him, after he was hauled off to gaol,’ she added. ‘Two years, they gave him. Do you know how he fared, Ma’am?’
‘Oh, no!’ I replied—far too quickly. ‘Not at all.’
‘No. Well. He weren’t too spry, even then,’ she mused. ‘Perchance he died on the chain gang—and good riddance, I say. I never could find a good position after he dragged me name through the mud.’
She certainly did not find a position in my house. I was unable to employ her; the sight of her in my kitchen every morning would have been too much to bear. So I gave her some money, and bade her good luck. She understood my feelings, I believe. She may even have shared them.
After she had gone, I sat thinking for a while. And one night later in the week, I wrote to Louisa.
I wrote about Mrs Byrnes, and Belanglo, and Tom Hellicar’s Children. I even mentioned certain things revealed to me by George Barton, though not in great detail. I could not yet feel safe enough to tell anyone about our final meeting. Then I addressed the letter care of James Atkinson, at Oldbury, and sent it off.
What was I expecting in return? I hardly know. Even now, I am uncertain as to how Louisa might have responded, given the chance. She was always so oblique. So quiet. Though expressive enough in her normal domestic exchanges, there was something kept well hidden, which no one ever saw—except perhaps her husband, Mr James Calvert.
At any rate, my curiosity will forever remain unassuaged. Because three days after the letter was posted, I opened the Sydney Morning Herald, and my eye fell on her obituary.
She had died on the twenty-eighth of April, leaving a husband and newborn daughter.
At first I did not grieve. I was too shocked, perhaps, and hardly had the time. Preoccupied with business and family matters, I struggled to decide on the best course of action. Should I write? Should I set off for Oldbury? But I had missed the funeral, so what was the point? Then my brother’s letter arrived, and removed every inclination to visit my old home. He was not gracious. Evidently, he had forwarded my own letter, which had been discovered on Louisa’s writing desk. She must have opened it minutes before her husband’s riderless horse came galloping into the yard at Swanton. Seeing the empty saddle—imagining the worst—Louisa’s tender heart had failed her. So that when James Calvert arrived back at Swanton soon afterwards, thrown but essentially unharmed, he had found his wife dead of a heart attack.
This was the news related to me by my brother. In the process, he all but accused me of hastening my sister’s end. He was furious that I should have written, after so long a time, simply to revive a lot of distasteful rumours and unhappy memories. Had I no regard for Louisa’s frail state? Though possibly uninformed of her recent confinement, I could not have forgotten, surely, that she had for much of her life suffered from pulmonary consumption and a bad heart? Had it not occurred to me that my long-awaited letter, with its disturbing contents, might make my sister ill? It would certainly have made his own wife ill, had she read it. Happily, my brother had been the first to recover it from
Louisa’s desk, and had burned it soon afterwards.
I was probably not aware ( James added) that he had recently married Sarah Horton, daughter of the previous incumbent of Sutton Forest church. They now had two bonny sons. Louisa’s infant child, Louise, would remain with her father at Swanton. And if it should ever occur to me to visit, he would be grateful if I did not conduct myself as I usually did, rampaging about, insulting my dearly departed mother and bewailing my own fate, which—if he might be so bold as to express his opinion—was not nearly as miserable as poor Louisa’s, and which I had largely brought upon myself.
He concluded by hoping that I was in good health, and declared himself to be, sincerely mine, James John Oldbury Atkinson, Esquire.
There were no words of comfort. No bequests from Louisa. There was not even a final message, for she had died without saying goodbye to anyone.
I could not imagine how James Calvert must have felt.
You may ask what I did, after I had finished reading. To begin with, I burned the letter. Since James had burned mine, I extended him the same courtesy. Then I sat by the fire, and covered my face with my apron, and howled until I was wrung dry of tears.
I was weeping because I had lost the last of my family. Louisa was dead, and I never spoke to James again. For I could not forgive him. Perhaps I should have blamed his prudish wife, or the influence of George Barton, but I was far too overwrought. Instead I condemned him for his weakness, and banished him from my heart.
As for Louisa, her absence pains me still. She was a great loss, not only to me but to Australia. I do not believe that she has been sufficiently commemorated for her work, though the genus Atkinsonia, of the mistletoe family, was named after her. Six years ago, it was suggested in the Sydney Morning Herald that a memorial to my sister be erected in the Botanical Gardens—but nothing came of it. I have the clipping here. I have kept everything ever published by and about Louisa. It is all that I can do for her now.
The Dark Mountain Page 29