The Judge’s mountain home had an inviting aspect. It was not large,—it was not handsome,—simply a comfortable brick cottage with a gable or two cut to please the eye as well as meet architectural requirements, and a fine window here and there where a glimpse of far-off mountain piled against mountain could be obtained.

It stood back from the road and hid itself from the picnickers’ gaze in lovely garments of trees and green vines that would take the envious newly-sprung cottage ten years at least to imitate.

Yet “Greenways” had never looked crude and painful as the naked places about did, even when it emerged years ago fresh from the hands of the local builder. For the Lomaxes, unlike many Australians, respected the hand of Nature even when it had traced Australian rather than English designs on their land. And the young gum trees still tossed their light heads here and there, and [p32] clumps of noble old ones stood everywhere smiling benevolent encouragement to the beginners.

It had been the Judge’s original intention to have nothing but native trees and shrubs and flowers on this summer estate, and a well-clipped hedge of saltbush at present flanked the drive, and a breakwind plantation of Tasmanian blue gum, alternated with silver wattle, ran for several hundred feet where the westerly winds had at first caught one side of the house.

The tennis-court was guarded along both ends by soldierly rows of magnificently grown waratahs, that from October to Christmas time were all in bloom and worth coming far to see. And you approached that same tennis-court through a shady plantation, where every tree and shrub was native-born, and the ground carpeted with gay patches of boronia and other purely aboriginal loveliness. Rarely did the Judge take his walks abroad on the hills or in the gullies but he returned carefully cherishing in one hand some little seedling tree or plant he had dug up with his penknife. And he would set and water and shade it in his plantation, and tell you its name and its species, and its manner of growth, for the bushland was an open book to him and every letter of it had been lovingly conned.[p33]
But Mrs. Lomax, English-born, while he was Australian, through two or three generations, hankered, after a year or two of this native garden, for the softer and richer greens and more varied loveliness of the trees and flowers of English cultivation. So they laughingly drew a line of division through the estate; and it must be confessed that, whatever the Judge’s opinion, the average eye gathered more permanent pleasure and refreshment from Mrs. Lomax’s division than from the stiff, though brilliant, portion under the Judge’s jurisdiction.

After ten years the demarcation was not so clearly defined: pines and young oaks, ashes and elms, stood about in perfectly friendly relations with the gum trees and wattles, and the boronia looked up at the rose and saw that it, too, was good.

“Have you washed your hands? Max, Muffie—go into the bathroom instantly, please, and wash your hands,” said Miss Bibby, as the children trooped in after their interview with Larkin.

Dinner was spread in the dining-room as usual. The children sighed for the times when their mother had been with them, and had had such a delightful habit of having that meal served in all sorts of unexpected places, even on days when they could not go for an orthodox picnic. Behind the waratahs [p34] one day—and of course they imagined themselves waited on by a row of stiff and magnificent footmen in red plush. Among the wattles another time, and the wattles just in bloom. Once in the vegetable garden with big leaves for plates, and the tomatoes that made the first course bending heavily on the trellis behind their seats, and the purple guavas that made the last hiding among their leaves just the other side of the path.

It would have required an earthquake to dislodge Miss Bibby from the stronghold of the dining-room table.

She sat at the head of that table now, a thin delicately-coloured woman not far from forty, with a nervous mouth and anxious blue eyes. Possibly she had been quite pretty in youth, if ever peace and the quiet mind had been hers. But the unrest and worry of her look left rather a disturbed impression on the beholder.

She sat at the head of the table and carved a leg of mutton, and saw Anna putting vegetables upon the children’s plates under silent protest.

She did not believe in meat. She did not believe in vegetables. She did not believe in puddings. Pauline had drawn her into confessing this at the first meal she had had with them, and the shock was so great that Muffie had actually burst into tears, and Max had [p35] clambered down from his chair with the half-formed intention of setting out at once for New Zealand, and dragging his mother back to her proper place.

Miss Bibby, however, set their minds at rest. She had no intention of interfering with the food they were accustomed to; only she begged to be excused from partaking of such herself.

No meat, no vegetables, no pudding, and still alive! The children took an abnormal interest in watching her preparations for eating at each meal.

She began each day, they found out, with a pint of hot water. Indeed they found it out to their sorrow, for she had Mrs. Lomax’s entire permission to work upon themselves one or two of her hygienic reforms—if she could only manage it.

So at seven o’clock, when in various stages of their morning toilet, they were confronted by Miss Bibby, armed with a tall jug of hot water and five tumblers. And they found they had to sit down on the edges of their beds and, receiving a full tumbler, hand back an empty one. If it had been their mother now, they might have protested and wheedled and got out of it in some way. But Miss Bibby was so strange to them, so new—and then mother had bidden them, even as she gave them their last kiss at the station, do [p36] all she bade them—that they found themselves making an absolute habit of this watery beginning to the day. Worse still, instead of being rewarded for such heroic behaviour, they were, in consequence of it, deprived of the pleasant cup of cocoa or hot milk that had always hitherto formed part of their breakfast.

“I consider it perfectly uncivilized to eat and drink at the same meal,” Miss Bibby said.

Pauline blinked at her very fast, in a way she had when angry.

“Daddy and mamma always do,” she said.

“For children, I mean,” said Miss Bibby, correcting herself. “I trust, Pauline, you do not think me capable of reflecting upon the conduct of your father and mother.”

But Pauline was engrossed with her breakfast again.

“All food should be taken dry,” Miss Bibby continued; “and your mother is anxious that I should get you into good ways. At the same time the human system needs a certain degree of liquid, so I shall call you in for your drink meals at eleven, and at three, and you may also have a glass of water each upon retiring.”

Sometimes it made the children quite depressed to watch her. Pauline used to say she would feel perfectly happy if she [p37] could once see Miss Bibby eat a big, lovely woolly currant bun or a plate of rich brown sausages dished on buttered toast.

And Lynn—it actually moved Lynn to poetry, the tragedy of this meagre fare. Pauline was bidden write “the song” down.

“And the name of the song,” added the poetess after a melancholy verse or two, “is ‘Sorrow,’ or ‘Miss Bibby.’”

Muffie told of the appearance of Mrs. Gowan and the heroic conduct of Pauline in announcing their contagion.

Lynn paused in her agreeable occupation of slicing up her banana and adding strawberry jam and milk to it.

“From to-morrow,” she said, “we have to keep in the orchard when we’re at home, so the man won’t hear us shouting.”

“What man?” asked Miss Bibby.

“The one who writes books,” said Lynn.

“What is the child talking about?” said Miss Bibby, looking at Pauline.

“At ‘Tenby,’” said Pauline. “Well, he should have asked were there any children near when he took the cottage. Why should we give up swinging on the gate? He can take his old books and sit on the Orphan Rock to write them. No one will disturb him there.”

“What are you talking about, children?” said Miss Bibby. “Pauline, answer me [p38] properly. I didn’t know ‘Tenby’ was let. Who has taken it?”

“I forget his name,” said Pauline; “please pass the bananas. Oh, Lynn, you’ve taken all the jam. Will you ring for some more, Miss Bibby?”

Miss Bibby rang absent-mindedly, though she had made the observation that any one eating bananas and strawberry jam together was actually inviting an attack of acute indigestion.

“I suppose you have confused the account,” she said, and sighed.

But a momentary agitation had shaken her.

She was a woman with one absorbing ambition—to publish a book. She carried a most pathetic tin trunk about with her—the sepulchre of the hopes of years. The MS. of at least seven novels lay inside, each neatly wrapped in paper, and with a faithful docket of its adventures pasted upon it.

It is enough to examine one of them:—The Heirs of Tranby Chase. It weighed four or five pounds. The publishers would never have had to grumble at its brevity, or have been compelled to use large type and wide margins to “bulk up.” It was written in the thin, early Victorian handwriting not often met with in this generation [p39] of writers. It subscribed faithfully to the great canons of publication—for instance, it was written on “one side only of the paper”; it was pinned together at the “left-hand top corner”; no publisher had ever found it necessary to gnash his teeth because it reached him rolled instead of flat.

Yet behold the piteous history!

“The Heirs of Tranby Chase, by Katherine J. Howard Bibby, Author of The Quest of Guy Warburton, Through Darkness to Light, or Lady Felicia’s Peril, etc., etc. Commenced Jan. 1, 1895. Finished March 6, 1896. Copied out (three times) December, 1896. Submitted to Messrs. Kesteven, Sydney; but they say they are publishing very little at present, as times are depressed. To James & James, Melbourne; returned. And unread, I am sure; the package had hardly been touched. To Brown & McMahon, Melbourne. A most polite note, but they do not care to publish so long a story. Shortened it, and copied again (July, 1898). Sent again to Brown & McMahon. A printed refusal: ‘Regret cannot use.’ December, 1899, posted to London to Messrs. Frogget & Leach. No reply. Wrote five times, but could not get packet back again, though I enclosed postal note for return in case of rejection. (Memo., never submit another MS. to this firm.) Copied story again, and sent [p40] to Bailey & Thompson, Paternoster Row. An extremely kind and flattering reply; their reader evidently thinks highly of the story. Will be glad to publish it at my own expense. Consulted Thomas. He thinks this would be unwise, and will not allow me to withdraw my savings from the bank for the purpose until I have tried other firms. Sent to Mr. Lance Rankin, the great author’s agent, together with the five-guinea fee which I found was necessary. April, 1902. Returned by Mr. Rankin, who says he has submitted it to fourteen different firms, but that there is a great depression in the book market at present. Possibly my plot is weak—must try another story.”

And so on, and so forth. The pluck of the woman! The marvellous patience and endurance! Did this extinguish her spirit? No; she refreshed herself with reading tales of other writers worsted in the fight—Gissing’s New Grub Street afforded her the maximum of melancholy satisfaction—and then she fell to work on a new book. And what the character of the new book was the latest popular success decided. Among the seven novels the trunk secreted was a historical romance, a religious novel, a detective tale, some “bush studies,” and a book of political character.

Lynn disposed of a second saucerful of [p41] the banana compound that she called her ice cream. It seemed to quicken her memory.

“Hugh Rosskin is his name,” she said deliberately, “and if Howie gets him it will be a great big shame, ’cause Larkin——”

But Miss Bibby was standing up, trembling from head to foot, and with a spot of scarlet colour in her cheeks.

“Hugh Kinross,—oh children, children—was that really the name? Oh, Pauline, my dear, my dear, try to think!”

“Yes,” said Pauline, “Hugh Kinross—that was it.”

“Hugh Kinross! Hugh Kinross! And at ‘Tenby’!” Miss Bibby looked as excited as Muffie had done, when, going to feed her guinea-pig the day before, she found five little pinny gigs, as she tumultuously expressed it, had been unexpectedly added unto her stock.

Then she tried to pull herself swiftly together and to look—as Miss Bibby should look.

“If you have finished, children, you may go,” she said. “Yes, Anna, you may clear the table.”

She hurried away out of the room.

“It’s my belief she’s in love with ’im, and p’raps they’ve ’ad a quarrel,” said Anna, who was aching in this quiet country place for a spice of adventure. Miss Bibby had [p42] not noticed that the girl had come into the room at Max’s request with “more lawberry leserve.”

The little girls looked at each other with sparkling eyes. They loved a mystery as much as Anna did.

“Oh,” said Pauline, “won’t it be lovely? Let’s go and watch at the gate.”

They flew off to stare at “Tenby”—“Tenby” with the local charwoman already there, throwing up the windows and sweeping away the dust of the winter.

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