Chapter XIX. Philiberta's Scheme.

Travelling old ground, even when it is not 'measured with milestones of pain,' hath ever a melancholy influence upon us. The familiar landmarks touch us with softening memories; so many things that are the same appear to have altered; so many that have altered startle and surprise us with the change; children that we knew have grown to be men and women; men and wonen have aged beyond recognition or gone into eternity, leaving a blank that we who did not see them die can scarcely realize or understand. Not such serious changes had been wrought in Philiberta's absence from Emuville, for the years had not been many enough; yet she experienced something of that feeling of strangeness that everyone has in visiting an old spot after a long time. Every turn and twist of the old coach road was full of suggestive recollections. The coach was the same, though a trifle dingier in its reds and yellows perhaps. The old brass trumpet was the same, though its voice seemed somewhat hoarser, The off horse had the same bad cough that he used to have, and the same habit of trying to bite a piece out of his neighbour's ear after each attack. The coachman was the same; time could make no difference in a complexion tanned in early youth to a Cherokee Indian tint, and a small slight figure made of bones and wire and leathery skin. But he did not recognise Philiberta. True that she wore a thick veil, but that should scarcely have made all the difference, and even when she put it up the man made no sign of recognition. Perhaps it was, she thought, because she was as one dead now. And dead people are so soon forgotten.

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Yet, when she reached the house she knew so well, and looking through an open window, saw a woman sitting within, with folded hands and sad face and eyes that looked out in mute mourning, she felt that here at least she was not forgotten. She entered softly and stood before her friend.

Pompo, the old grey kangaroo dog, bounced up in a fury, sniffed her, and recognised an old acquaintance; then flung himself lazily down again and felt that he had been egregiously swindled.

'What is it? Who is it? Oh, I am afraid!' cried Mrs. Hugill, with a startled look in her eyes as she gazed upon the apparition.

'Afraid! Of me! Then indeed I must be altered,' said Philiberta, holding out her hands appealingly.

'My child—my Berta—alive? Now God has been very good to me! And I, how I have rebelled against Him—oh, Berta!'

When the first hysterical transports were over Philiberta looked about her and then again earnestly at her friend.

'Everything just the same,' she said, 'save that my dear's hair shows a grey streak or two that it used not to have. Yet I verily believe that it adds to her beauty instead of detracting from it. Tell me,—why did you cry out that you were afraid when you saw me!'

'Dear, I thought it was your spirit. I had been reading a book about Spiritualism, and as I sat here thinking of you, oh, so sadly! I said, "If there be any truth in it—any truth,—let her come back, if it is only once, and for one short minute." It was almost a prayer, Berta, as I said it over and over again in my mind; and then Pompo growled, and I looked up, and lo! you were here.'

'What are you doing here all by yourself?' said Philiberta, crying.

'Oh, Les' has gone with the papa on circuit this time. I am all alone except for Ponipo.'

This being the second time within a few minutes that Pompo had heard his own name mentioned, he felt that something page 136was required of him; so he bounded up, ran outside the house, rushed an imaginary bushranger or two off the ground, and then came in again. He flung himself exhaustedly at his mistress's feet, thumped the floor with his thin, hard, unbecoming tail, winked one eye, and then observed in his own peculiar manner that if anyone doubted his capabilities as a companion and protector, why, just let them say so, that was all. Then he went to sleep and snored.

'I am glad to have you to myself for to-night,' said Philiberta to Mrs. Hugill. 'I have so much to say.'

'I should think so indeed. Begin at the very beginning. But stop! What an inhospitable wretch I am! Forgive me, dear. Oh, my own darling, I cannot help crying yet for very gladness. Come, I will make some tea for you, and poach your eggs myself, I know just how you like them,—and you always prefer brown-shelled ones, don't you? This very day Jane made some of the scones you used to like; a tray full is standing now on the dresser, and a dish of Devonshire cream in the pantry. Sit here, Berta, in the old corner, and in the old chair. Both have been sacred to you all this long while. Sit down and let me feast my eyes upon you. I am so glad the men are away, I don't want anyone but myself to see or speak to you at first.'

So Philiberta, thankful for this love, and wondering what she had ever done to merit and win it so abundantly, sat in her old place and was made much of. They talked on hour after hour, these two; and then Philiberta unfolded her scheme.

'But the audacity of it!' cried Mrs. Hugill, aghast; 'and the impossibility of it!'

'I don't see either said Philiberta. 'I am merely recovering my own property in my own way. There is no "next of kin" to dispute the matter with you; and my handwriting can easily be proved genuine.'

'But won't it be forgery?'

Philiberta laughed.

'How can it be, when I do it myself?'

'Well, forgery is not quite what I meant, either. There is some other name in law for an act of that kind.'

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'Is there? I don't know, I never heard of anyone doing it before.'

'Nor I. It is the wildest scheme!'

'If the worst comes of it, which would be discovery,' said Philiberta, 'I don't see what the law could do to us. I have a right to reclaim my own, and I do not know why I may not reclaim it by any method I think fit. People hearing of it might call me mad, or at the least eccentric, but that would be because they did not know all my reasons and motives.'

'Well, I, being a married woman, can't carry out any part of the scheme without my husband's sanction and assistance,' said Mrs. Hugill. 'Little as I know about law, I am aware of its arbitrariness in all matters connubial. A woman is treated by the law as an inferior animal; as one having neither sense nor knowledge, and quite incapable of managing her own affairs. She is positively without rights and privileges, is not allowed to have money in the bank unknown to her husband, and is looked upon generally as a creature of as little responsibility as Pompo there.'

Pompo stopped snoring and started up—that dog was never too hard asleep to hear his own name—and seeing that his mistress was excited, rushed out with a howl to hurt some more bushrangers.

'I must tell the papa, Berta,' said Mrs. Hugill, coming back to the important subject under discussion.

'Of course you must,' said Berta, 'and Leslie too. And we shall need Mr. Hugill's help anyhow, for I know no more about legal arrangements than you do, and have no notion how to set about this affair properly. But you will have to broach it to the papa, dear, and bring him to my way of thinking. The chances are that he will set his face directly against it at first.'

'The chances are! My dear, you should say the certainty is that he will set his face against it. I doubt if he will ever listen to it.'

'Ah yes, he will, if you undertake to make him. After all, there is nothing wrong in what I want to do. It is not a sin.'

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'No, except that all utter folly is open to a charge of sin. And indeed the boundary line dividing the two is not always distinct. But supposing we succeed, Berta, what are you going to do?'

Work, dear friend, work. There is nothing better for me. I want to be doing. Nothing but activity can keep me alive. If I do not succeed in this scheme of mine, I will just turn my back on the money and go out into the world to earn my living. I can do it, you know. I have done it, partly, during the last eight months. I am not without money now, and I earned it.'

'How?' said Mrs. Hugill, eagerly.

'When do you expect Mr. Hugill home?' asked Philiberta, calmly ignoring that last question.

'To-morrow. But if you won't tell me how you earned money in the past, perhaps you will condescend to explain how you propose to earn it in the future?'

'Oh, there are many ways open to willing hands and sharp wits, backed with a good constitution. I am not afraid of anything.'

'But have you no definite plan?'

'Yes; I am going to be an actress.'

'My child!'

'Yes. During those weeks of loneliness that I told you of, through those interminable days of sea and sky, I had but one book to read—a copy of Shakespeare. It constituted the captain's entire library, and I believe he thought it was a Bible, for he looked surprised one day when I quoted a passage from it. "Is that Gospel?" he asked. "Yes; the grandest of gospels," I answered. "Well, I'm blest if I thought there was anything half so lively in Scriptur'," said he. "Show me the place in the book." Then I explained, and he looked shame-faced and said: "Well, I'll swear it was a Bible up to the time we held an inquest on Dick, the sailmaker, who went to Davy Jones's sudden one night through popping down between the ship and the wharf at Newcastle, him being under the influence, as it, were, and a trifle off his sea-legs at the time, page 139Some blamed cuss kissing the book must have swopped it, that's certain," said my captain.'

Mrs. Hugill laughed.

'I thought I had read Shakespeare before,' said Philiberta, after a pause; 'but I learned then, during those long days and nights, that I had not. I learned to live in him then, and lifted up my voice in continual thanksgiving that it was that book and none other that was "swopped" for the captain's Bible. I have it yet, a dirty, well-thumbed, well-worn volume. The captain gave it to me, and laughed to see my gratitude. The old hook will be precious to me as long as I live, for it was so much to me then. And I know almost every word in it by heart.'

'And so you will go on the stage?'

'Yes; it must be a glorious career. It must be glorious work to interpret to the multitude the thoughts of the world's greatest genius.'

'Indeed it must!' cried Mrs. Hugill enthusiastically. 'You will be a wonderful success, Berta, and a great woman.'

Neither of them knew anything of the difficulty and unprofitableness of trying to 'interpret to the multitude,' etc. Neither had heard that remark, now so trite, about Shakespeare and insolvency.

'I always thought you would do something great and become famous, Berta,' said Mrs. Hugill.