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Chapter V.
Father Puts His Foot Down.

“I'll do it!” affirmed Father, with much decision.

The evening meal was over, and his great armchair drawn to the open window, where he smoked and ruminated.

“Do what?” queried Mother, coming to a sudden stop in her journey across the room. She knew her man, and one glance into his face decided her he had come to some weighty decision.

“Yes, I'll do it,” reiterated he, knocking the ashes out of his pipe upon the window-sill.

Janet drew the ash-tray near as a reminder; but Tom was too preoccupied to take the hint.

“I'll put my foot down,” he declared, with emphasis.

Janet looked her desire for an explanation.

“On Johnnie,” asserted Father; “on Joan—John Jefferies.”

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Janet's gentle heart took instant alarm. She sat down on a low chair opposite, and tried to appear unaware of the sleeping culprit's latest prank. In inward trepidation, she smoothed the creases out of her apron as though smoothing them out of Tom's forehead.

“Why, bless me! whatever has the child done now?” she asked. “Falling in the creek's none so serious.”

“But praying to Satan is,” responded Tom, with a tragic and dismal air.

“Satan? — prays to him? — who prays to him?”

The most casual observer could have told that Mother needed no answer to her questions. She feigned amazement.

“Joan—John Jefferies does,” asserted Father, with a grave shake of his shaggy head. “I heard her with my own ears. And not displeased she looked to do it. ‘Keep my idle hands from mischief,’ says she; ‘but I like to do it.’”

Father met Mother's eyes. The humorous wrinkles round his took a deep indent. Mother sighed with relief, and ventured on a smile.

“A harmless, innocent dear!” she murmured; page 47 then checked herself repentantly when Father straightened himself.

“‘I like to do it!’” repeated he. “Do you notice that, Mother?”

Janet slightly flushed, and looked embarrassed.

“It was very unbecoming,” she declared. “Still, it's human nature. The child ain't crafty with all her tricks. She owns that she likes mischief, which ain't the way o' most folks. Joan's aggravating, but no sneak. Furthermore, she said she'd never fight—”

“What she said, an' what she's got to do, have nothink whatever to do with each other—nothink whatever,” interrupted Tom.

“You won't be hard on a baby like that?” questioned Janet, who didn't like the look of Tom's mouth. It reminded her of when he took a colt in hand to break.

“Discipline is more or less hard,” replied he, with scant comfort; “an' that's what Joan's comin' to—discipline. Nobody can escape from it with profit, so don't make your face look like a diagram of angles, Mother,” he proceeded cheerfully. “The little ‘un will be as happy as she can be when she gets used to it.”

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Mother's face did not acquiesce. She glanced at the unused rod in the chimney-corner. Father guessed what thought was uppermost.

“That ain't my plan,” said he decidedly. “Moral persuasion is my plan. But come to some sort of a' understanding me an' Joan—John Jefferies must. When a Christian father hears his little ‘un prayin’ to Satan, it's time to learn the young idea how to shoot, an' where not to shoot, an' what to shoot at,” proceeded he, mixing his metaphors. “I don't say but what Satan has his uses. A decent fear of him has druv many cowards into respectable livin’; but I don't hanker after him making a local habitation of my house.”

“You can't teach a little mind more than it can take in,” said Mother.

“Leave her to me,” replied Father.

The morning was scented and sunny upon which the little barbarian was to get her first lesson in the ways of wisdom, and there never was a time when she was less inclined for it. She wandered beyond the homestead, and all about her upon the wide plains the idle sheep were grazing, and the irresponsible larks carolling into pure space. The division of labour and pain troubled the child page 49 not at all; she was counting the marguerites she had gathered, and standing shoulder high among them by the gorge when Tom descried her, singing her mother's song:—

“Heigh, ho! daisies and buttercups,
Fair yellow daffodils, stately and tall!”

her eyes shining with the profound joy of childhood.

Joan comprehended presently that she was to miss freedom—the pleasure of the savage. She cried out impetuously and piteously:

“I don't like it, Farver!”

After a prolonged and doubtful contemplation of the moved face, Tom shook his head.

“You'll grow to it,” he affirmed. “It's nater to call out agen discipline. I've heard the cry of the earth when the plough cuts into it; but I take no pity for the destruction o' the grass, knowin' wheat will grow in its stead. I've seen the sheep tremble beneath the shears of the shearer. These things are deep for you now, but work is a blessed thing—you'll understand that in time. The Creator proclaimed it to the world, and signed it with His royal decree, that work is good.”

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Joan followed with her gaze the flight of a butterfly, lifted her eyes higher to sight a lark.

“No,” she said then, sending a direct glance straight into the eyes regarding her, “I don't want to work—I want to play.”

“Ah! so we all do at the first, but we learn better by and by. You are getting a big girl, and ought to know things,” he added persuasively.

“I don't want to know many things,” responded she, frowning and sitting down on the grass to pluck more marguerites.

Father's expression changed to severity.

“That's not true,” he said, drawing near, and sitting beside the child among the flowers. “Out there,” he continued, pointing to the mysterious borderland, “there is a world of cities—places away beyond the utmost distant rim—”

“Ah!” ejaculated the child, interested, and alive in a moment with the common passion for knowledge of the unknown.

“Read, my little maid—read what has been, an what is, an' what is goin' to be. Be a scholard. I ain't one myself, but that's no fault of mine. ‘Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might.’ An' I have done it. But it's been rough page 51 work, dear maid; an' while I have worked, I have wished—an' my work and my wishes haven't gone the same road—not that that's sing'lar, but while I've been ploughin' an' plantin', I've been longin' for the knowledge of all that's in the heaven above an' on earth beneath, an' in the waters under the earth. If you'd been a boy, mother an' me expected you to learn most things there was to learn—to become a power in the land. Bein' a girl, we hopes you'll do the best you can.”

“Oh!” said Joan.

Then they went back silently, hand in hand, the man who craved knowledge, and the child who wished to play.

he mid-day dinner hour was a busy hour for Janet. She carved a whole side of mutton for the hungry farm-hands before she rested.

“Well?” queried she, when all but she and father had eaten and departed.

“I've done it,” said he complacently.

The woman looked hard at him, then at the vanishing red figure.

“How did she take it?”

“Manfully,” responded he, with assurance.

Joan went her favourite way to the plains, page 52 circuitously by the gorge. There she paused, reconsidered, and made straight for the enclosures, where shearing was in progress. The great pens were packed with frightened sheep that looked appealingly from side to side, bleating piteously. Standing straight as a flaming hollyhock, her arms behind her back, she watched the inevitable come to pass. As the shearers dragged the sheep from the pens and adroitly threw them, her breath came hard and fast; she flushed while the bright shears met in the soft fleece, which fell in white heaps about the terrified animals. She waited while several were shorn, branded, and set free; then, as though feeling the shame of the denuded, took herself off. The sight had hurt her to the extinction of her high spirits. So Life treated you so.

She lay down on the tussocks, and, supporting her head with her hands, looked steadily afar. She sought enlightenment. Her father had said that, were she a boy, she would have known all things almost immediately; that, being a girl, she would know a few things if she read a great deal. There—beyond the shimmering grass, over the far line of blue—were the things of which her father spoke! page 53 He himself had seen those wonderful cities, and the people who did not milk cows and herd cattle or plough fields.

A lark carolled from the blue above, but Joan did not turn her eyes; she was satisfied that the best things were those that she had never yet seen, and of which she had heard but now.

It would take a long time to read about them, spelling frequently—also many days indoors. If she were a boy, she could go and see for herself. A girl might not follow her inclination to inspect personally. Still, she had a boy's name—was not she entitled to some of his prerogatives?

The blue borderland came nearer, the intervening plains dwindled. She was a good walker. It was possible—she could return on the morrow. The one sweet, desired, lawless act, and all afterwards for atonement! It is a time-honoured heresy; but the young sophist dimly perceived that Father and Satan made insubordination uncomfortable. She sighed, and, rising, determinedly set her back to temptation. Presently she looked back, just a glance while she moved on in the right direction; but finding progression difficult, feet moving in one direction with head turned in another, she stopped page 54 again and turned, then set off at a full run towards degeneracy.

Rosy, panting, tingling with the delightfulness of rebellion, Joan came to a halt at last, and, with a little thrill at the suspicion, turned to see whether, perchance, Satan was in the rear. No, only the gold-flooded tussocks and the house roof, too indistinct to impress its claims. So she journeyed between two infinities—the past and the future; but what lay behind was despised because familiar.

A second halt, and the child was alone with the universe. All landmarks were obliterated except the western mountain range. The space was speechless—no sound yet from the city. Joan felt no fear, only a little wonder that the world was so large. She kept up a little jog-trot, her footfalls falling noiselessly upon the turf; but when she had grown weary, she was astonished to find the margin of earth and sky no nearer, only more misty and indistinct. She stood alone in unbroken silence and mysterious shadow, and sighed to see the last glow of sunlight fade in the West. Her own sigh startled her; she thought someone was standing near her, and, when she had satisfied herself that this was not so, regretted her isolation. At home at this page 55 hour, Mercy the energetic was making tea, and Mother the tender waiting for Father to put on his slippers before pouring it out. How nice some tea would be; she was very thirsty. She wiped a tear out of each eye with her handkerchief—Joan was dainty in her ways—then, with a fresh spurt of determination, went on again. The tears were born of the flesh; her will was subdued, not conquered.

With sunset there came from the east a heavy, damp mist, which brought a cold breath with it from the sea. This deepened presently almost to a drizzle, and Joan's curls clung damply to her forehead, her eyelashes were so moist that her vision was blurred, and at last she could see no farther than her own inquisitive nose.

“I'm not crying,” she said out loud; “it's the rain blowing into my eyes.”

But her assertion sounded so bold, uttered in such appalling silence and darkness, that it frightened her. Her feminine instinct to have the last word was amply gratified, and she said no more, not even to herself, but crouched down upon the wet tussocks, a very damp, cold, limp piece of baffled humanity, suffering the agonies of first defeat.

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She strained her eyes through the gloom for the lights of the city. Suddenly she gave a little low ecstatic cry. There was a light, a red, glowing light that burned out of the darkness, disappeared, reappeared, and broadened to a flash, that swept the plains like a search-light. Joan's eyes ached beholding it. She jumped to her feet, startled by a long, loud, but tremulous “Coo-ee!”

Her heart thumped in her ears so that she could not hear her own faint reply. Then the gladdening flash again nearer, and the music of hoof-beats upon the turf. Another flash revealed Father on his old cob. He held a lantern in his left hand above his head. He wore neither leggings nor topcoat, for he had ridden forth hurriedly, but over the saddle hung a thick grey shawl.

For the space of a moment the lantern rays shone on a small figure with outstretched arms and scared, uplifted face, and upon the man's drawn, furrowed cheeks. His mouth was set like the mouth of a man who has ridden in the teeth of death. He lowered the lantern with a catch of the breath like a sob, and, setting it upon the ground, bent one knee and carefully wrapped the shawl about Joan; then, extinguishing the light, page 57 remounting, set the child before him, and without a word turned the horse's head. The strong, encircling arm trembled, and closed round the soft body with a tightening grip. Presently he muttered to himself:

“Seven years last autumn I rode this same way to receive her…. It might so be that she got lost. P'raps she didn't want to go…. It's been rough on Mother…. O give thanks unto the Lord, for He is gracious, and His mercy endureth for ever.”

The windows of the farm-house shone like a beacon; torches and lanterns flared in the mist, and cast grotesque and gigantic shadows of men and women on the walls of the barns, appearing there for a moment with mocking gestures, then disappearing to be seen later among the dark trees of the bush.

Mercy, with pale cheeks, believed she knew, and peered with frightened eyes into the gorge, flashing a lantern across its gleaming waters, craning her neck and starting at every dark object that obstructed the stream.

At the boundary gate a woman stepped out of the darkness. She had listened with heavy, choking page 58 heart - throbs to the fast - approaching hoof - beats. Tom reined in with a jerk. He could not see Janet's face, but he discerned it with his mind's eye. She put out both hands and touched the unresisting bundle in her husband's arm.

“Twice given,” she whispered hoarsely. Then she cried gladly, “Twice given!”

When Tom dismounted she clutched at the bundle, made to carry it into the house, turned at the threshold, and, before the group of eager faces about the doors, kissed “the master” on the mouth.

The young prodigal had been warmly bathed, robed in white flannel, fed and cried over by Mother, and blessed for being still alive by Mercy, who shook her head the next moment, and declared, without explanation, that it was “disheartling,” and was now standing on the white sheep-skin rug in front of the fire, directing occasional side-glances at Father, who sat in his chair, smoked, and saw nothing. Mother, anxious concerning his behaviour, seeing that the child's looks were wasted on him, did not attempt to rouse him. He roused presently of his own accord, knocked the ashes out of his pipe, put it away carefully, then looked at Joan steadily.

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“Speak up, young maid; answer fair. Did you, or did you not, mean to run away from me an' Mother?”

Joan straightened herself, slipping her arms behind her in a way she had when she meant business. Two pairs of grey eyes watched the situation without blinking — eyes very like each other.

“Why, Father,” besought Janet, hovering near in trepidation, “sure-ly you're glad enough—”

“Hush up,” said Tom peremptorily, without a flinch in his gaze.

Janet hushed up, and Joan nodded vigorously—one nod; her mood was not superlative.

“You meant to run away? Speak; don't nod your head like a pony.”

“Of course she didn't,” faltered Mother, who was afraid she did.

“Hush up!” commanded Tom.

Joan rubbed one bare, swollen foot against the other, lifted one damaged member and glanced at it, then met her father's eyes again.

“I runned away.”

Janet gave a startled cry, and sank into her rocker. What would happen now?

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“Mother, I'm surprised at you!” reproved father, “when I ask you to hush up.”

He had risen from his chair, and stood with his legs apart and his hands thrust into his pockets looking from his height down upon the foot-or-two-so-many-inches of white-robed humanity much as he would have regarded some unknown species of duckling, seriously, and with great concern. He felt at sea.

“You ran away of your own free will an' accord from ‘ome an' me an' Mother?”

“Yes, Farver.”

“Why?”

“To see the werld,” said the young explorer, with the intonation of a Cockney.

“The dear innocent!” came from the rocker.

“Look, Mother,” remarked Father, so quietly that she knew he meant it, “if you won't hush up, you an' me will have a difference. —So you were off to see the world, were you? Do you think the world wanted to see you?”

Joan rubbed her wounded foot again, then shook her head.

“Not it, my girl,” responded Tom. “The world ain't kind to innocents. ‘Ome's the place for them. page 61 Say you won't run away no more. On the honour of John Jefferies—gentleman—an' that you're sorry you ever ran away at all.”

Joan stood on both feet, tilted on her toes, flushed, but said nothing. Tom waited. Still no answer. He looked at the rod. A deep groan of smothered anguish escaped Janet, and Joan burst out:

“No, no, Farver. No, no, I ain't sorry, ‘cause I liked to do it. I won't do it no more; but I ain't sorry!”

Tom's face softened, and Joan's quivered; Mother's was invisible behind her apron.

“Do you mean,” asked Tom, as though he wanted to know, “that you're sorry that you can't be sorry?”

“No,” said straightforward Joan, “I ain't sorry, ‘cause I ain't sorry. I'm sorry ‘cause I must stay at home an' read.”

“In that case,” responded Father, stooping to lift her in his arms, “you come to bed without kissing your mother, an' stay there without her till you are. I can't have no bad little maids in my house, that ‘ud sooner run away an' leave her mother than learn her book.”

Tom left the child unkissed, but only to the outside of the door. There he waited and listened.

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“Oh, dear me,” he presently heard, “I can't do what I want. I must—do—what I must. I must do't, an' I don't want to.”

Every long-drawn breath from the bed stabbed him; there was a stifled sob outside the door in sympathy with every sob within.

“It's discipline, dearie,” he whispered.

“I must do't, an' I don't want to…. It hurts to do it…. I'll be good now, Farver.”

When Tom trusted himself to enter the room, the child lay quietly upon the soft pillows sleeping; long-drawn, spasmodic sighs occasionally convulsing her soft, round throat. Her face was wet with tears, and one small cheek lay upon the forehead of the old battered wooden doll he had brought home that first night he forgot a present for Janet. He gazed till his own breast heaved.

“Ah, God!” he cried, as he sank upon his knees, “what are we, when all's said an' done, but rebellious, hurt children? An' when we're sore an' isolated by reason of our sin an' sorrow, it is by Thy mercy we can hug our toys. We sleep, most of us, with faces wet with tears; but we ain't so lonely claspin' our battered playthings.”

Father and Mother had been abed an hour, each page 63 pretending to sleep, when a knock came at their door, low down.

“I'm good now,” came from a short, white-robed figure that stood there when the door was pushed ajar.

“You shouldn't leave your bed; you'll catch your death, my lamb,” said Mother.

“Climb up,” said Father; “there's room here between.”