14 There was an attic at the top of a dark flight a stairs in the suburban villa that was now the sister's home. It contained a fireplace and a long dormer window, three square casements in a row, of which the outer pair opened like doors facing the morning sun and a country landscape. The previous tenants had used it for a box and lumber room and left it cobwebbed, filthy and asphyxiating. Deb ordered a charwoman to clean it and a man to destemper the grubby plaster and stain the floor and then laid down rugs and assemble tables and books and basket chairs and girls, odds and ends, where by it was transformed into a cosy boudoir and their favourite room. Heather came married when she could escape from that treadmill of which she never spoke bringing her black-eyed boy to astonish his aunts with his cleverness and astonishing them herself with their heretical notions which an intimate association with orthodoxy seemed to have implanted in her but Bennett was not admitted nor any other outsider. The little brick tarp when reminiscent wood fires burned on it was a pleasant gathering place in cold weather but it was the window in the projecting gable towards which the sisters most commonly converged. It was about eight foot long by two feet high and close up under it, nearly flush with its seal, stood a substantial six foot by four table. The chairs at either end comfortably filling the rest of the alcove. They could sit here to write or sow or drink afternoon tea and look out upon as pleasant a rural landscape the Malvern Hills as any suburban villa could command. It was that view, indeed, which had decided Deb to take the house. There was, of course, a towny foreground to it and this it was rather than the distant blue rangers that held the gaze of Rose Pennyquick when she looked forth the backyard of the villa next to their own. It was a well washed and swept enclosure, spacious and well appointed and amongst its appointments displayed a semicircular platform of brick work slightly raised above the asphalted ground and supporting the biggest and best dog panel that she had ever seen. Those are nice people, she remarked, for they have given their dog as good a house as they have given themselves. Isn't it a beauty? I wish to goodness everybody was as considerate for the poor things. I wonder what sort of a dear beast it is. She watched so long for its appearance that she thought the kennel untenanted but presently saw a maid come out from the house with a tin dish. This she dumped upon the brick platform turning her back instantly and a fine, roughed, feathertail collie stepped over the kennel threshold to get his dinner. Chained cried Rose and she never spoke to him. Deb looked over her shoulder, sympathetically concerned. Is he really?  I expect they are too awfully clean and tidy to stand a dog's paws on anything but no doubt they let him out for a run. Rose waited for days and never saw this happen. The master of the house and the dapper young man, his son, went to town every morning at a certain hour evidently for the day's business. A stout smart lady with smart daughters was seen going forth in the afternoons. The maids took their little outings but no one took the dog. He lived alone on his patch of brick either hidden in the kennel or lying in the sun with his nose between his paws. He had his food regularly for it was a regular household but beyond that no notice seemed taken of him. Rose worked up from day to day, declared at last that she could not stand it. Why? What can you do? said Deb. He is their dog, not yours. Oh, I don't know but I must do something.  She sat up in bed and listened to him and to his master shouting to him at intervals to be quiet and she wept with sympathetic grief. It was a Saturday night. On Sunday morning she excused herself from going to church. She saw Deb and Francie go and she saw the family of the next house go, heard their front door bang and caught gleams of smart braces through the foliage of their front garden. Then she put on her hat and stole forth to intercede for the collie with the cook of his establishment, a kindly looking person who had once been observed to pat his head. The gleaming imitation mahogany door at which she rang with a determined hand, but a pluttering heart, was to her dismay, open to her by a young man, the son of the house, whom she had seen going to business every weekday morning, tailored beautifully and wearing a silk hat that dazzled one. He was now in a very old suit, flannel shirted and collarless, so that at first she did not recognise him. The desire of each was to turn and fly, but the necessity upon them was to face their joint mishap and see it through. Crimson, the young man mumbled apologies for his state of unreadiness to receive ladies. Equally Crimson rose begged him not to mention it and apologise for her own untimely call. Miss Pennyquick, I believe, stammered her with an awkward bow. Miss Rose Pennyquick, yes, said she, struggling through her overwhelming embarrassment. I called. I wanted, I might I speak to you for just one minute, Mr Breen. She had lived beside him long enough to know his name, also his occupation. The Breen's were drapers. Their shop in the city was not to be compared with Buckley and Nuns or Robertson and Moffatt's, but it was a good shop in its way, as this good home of the proprietors testified. Certainly, said young Mr Breen, whose name was Miss Peter, with pleasure, by all means, walk in, Miss Pennyquick. She walked into a gorgeous drawing room, where all was the best, and wore that shining air of furniture too valuable for daily use. Mr Peter drew up a cream linen blind that was one mass of lace insertion and apologised anew for his unseemly costume. The fact is, Miss Pennyquick, I hope you won't be shocked at my doing such things on Sunday. I was cleaning my gum. There is a holiday this week, and I am going shooting with a friend. It was he I expected to see when I went to the door in this state. I, said Rose, more at ease. I often do things on Sunday. I don't see why not. In fact, I am doing something now. She cast about, for words were in, to explain her errand, while he shot as stealthy glance at her. Though not beautiful, like Deb and Francie, she was a wholesome, healthy, Bonnie creature, and he was as well aware of her position in life as she was of his. I came, Mr Breen. I thought there were only servants in the house. I am sure you must wonder how I can take such a liberty, such an utter stranger, but I wanted to speak about that poor dog of yours. Rose, eh? Enlightenment seemed to come to the young man. You have called to complain of the row he made last night. We were only saying at breakfast. No, no, indeed. Rose spread out protesting hands, and seized to feel embarrassed. Not to complain of him, poor dear, but if you will forgive such impertinence to ask somebody I thought I should see your cook, who looks kind to do something to make his life a little less miserable. Measurable, Mr Breen broke in and sat up stiffening, as if half inclined to be offended, even with this very nice young lady.  We had his place in the yard built on purpose for him. Had his kennel made to a special design. A lovely kennel. I never saw a better clean straw every few days, all his food cooked. But chained, Mr Breen, and a colleague, too. Well, we couldn't have him messing all over the place at any rate. My people wouldn't. Oh, I assure you, Miss Pennyquick, Bruce is in clover. He was only being the moon. Dogs often do that. It's only their fun, though it isn't fun to us. Fun sighed Rose helplessly, and she fixed her eyes upon her companion as they sat by a vice on the edges of their brocaded chairs. With no sense that he was a strange young man, a gaze that troubled and deserted him. I am sure she answered earnestly that you have a kind heart. One has only to look at you to know it. The idea never occurred to me before. He mumbled, flattered by her discernment, and no more offended with her. I am sure no one could mean better by a dog than you, giving him all those nice things. She continued, but you don't think. You don't try to imagine yourself chained up in one spot, night and day. Week in and week out, with nothing to do, no interests, no amusements, unable to get to your work, to go shooting with your friends, to do anything that you were born to do, and consider how you would like it. Mr. Peter submitted to her humbly the fact that he was not a dog. And you think you are not both made of the same stuff. That's just where people make the mistake, even the kindest of them. Mr. Breen, I once had a long talk with the curator of a zoological garden, and he told me that animals in confinement suffer mentally, just as we should do in their place. Unless they have occupation and companionship, they go out of their minds. They get sullen and savage, and people say they are vicious, and punish them when it is only misery. He said no other dog ever got hydrophobia unless it was bitten, and that it was to save themselves from going mad, that squirrels kept whirling their wheel and tigers turning round and round their cages. They want notice and change and work, or they cannot bear it. The stagnation kills them, or I wish it did kill them quicker than it does. Look at your Bruce, born to worksheet, to scamper over miles of country, free as air, to be mates with some man who would know the value of such a friend, and be worthy of him. Oh, it is too cruel! Never had Rose displayed such eloquence, and a sudden glisten in her candid eyes put the piercing climax to it. Mr Peter's kind heart, which had been growing softer and softer with every word she spoke, was in melting state. Upon my soul he declared, You put quite a new light on it. You do indeed, Miss Pennyquick. I see your point of view exactly, but with the utmost willingness to meet her views he was unable to see how to do it. It was easy to say, let him off the chain, but the Mater, who was very particular, would never stand a dog muddying the verandas and digging holes through his bones in the flower beds. He, Mr Peter, was an only son, and she would do most things for him, but was afraid she would draw the line at that. Well, you might at least take him for walks, Rose pleaded. Nobody could object to that. Yes, I might take him for walks, the young man conceded thoughtfully. Of course, I don't get home from business, till tea time, and I have to leave directly after breakfast. Our pepper, when we go to town, takes us to the station and sees us off, and you are not at business on Saturday afternoons. I usually play tennis or something on Saturday afternoons. Well, take him and let him see you play tennis. He'd love it. I'd question whether my club would, but see here, Miss Pennyquick, I was going to meet some lady friends this afternoon, but now I won't. I will take him for a walk instead, and I'll get up in the mornings and give him the run before breakfast. There. Oh, how kind, how good you are, she exclaimed delightedly. Not at all. He returned glowing. It is you who are good, taking all this trouble about us. I am only ashamed that you should have to do it, and that you should have caught me in this state, another blushing reference to his distressing toilet. Never mind your state, she consoled him sweetly, rising from her chair. I like you better in this state than I do when you are smart. I thought you were too smart, too condescending to trouble yourself about a poor doll. I am sorry you had such a bad opinion of me, it was simply the thing didn't occur to me until you mentioned it. I know, but it is all right now. Well, I must go, you will never get your gun cleaned at this rate.  She declined empathetically, and with haste, and hurried into the hall. He opened the front door for her, and they stood together for a moment on the dustless door mat, mathematically laid upon brand of boards, as white as new peeled almonds. What a lovely garden, remarked Rose, as she stepped down to it. Those were her words, but what she really said in her mind was, who would think he was a draper? Francie was aroused from her Sunday afternoon snooze on the drawing room sofa. What is the matter with that dog? She complained pettishly, surely after howling like a starved dingo all night. Be quiet, pepper. One of you is enough. Rose's terrier was up and fidgeting with pricked beers.  Oh no, said Rose, that sort of bark means joy, not pain. Poor dear beast, what making him joyful, I wonder. I must go and see, said Rose, who had carefully refrained from mentioning her forenoon proceedings. The drowsy pair sunk back upon their cushions. Only pepper accompanied her to the attic room. He jumped upon the window seat, wriggling and yapping, and they looked forth together from the open casement, upon the spectacle of Bruce and Mr Peter apparently engaged in mortal combat. The collie had realised that he was off the chain and about to take a walk, and was expressing himself not merely in frenzy gels, but in acrobatic feats that threatened to overwhelm his master. The latter, tall-hattered, frock-coated, lavender-trousered, with a cane in his hand and a flower in his buttonhole, jumped and dodged wildly to escape the leaping mess. His face puckered with anxiety for the results of his experiment. Pepper's delighted comments drew his eyes upwards, and he made shift to raise his hat, with a smile that was instantly and generously repaid. Rose nodded and waved her hand, and Peter went off, making gestures and casting backward glances at her, until he was a mere dot upon the distant road, with another dot circling around him. Dear fellow, she mused when he was out of sight. End of Chapter 14 Chapter 15 of Sisters This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. This reading by Lucy Burgoyne. Sisters by Ada Cambridge Chapter 15 Bruce went unchained within limits, and had a run nearly every day. Workman came to put a railing and gate to the backfrander of his establishment, and Mrs. Breen kept a fidgety watch upon his movements. But evidently the only sons will rule, and he was more than faithful to his compact with Rose. She was able to see this from her commanding window, and to hear it from Bruce's mouth. And day by day her heart warmed towards Bruce's master. Many were the friendly smiles and salutes that passed between the attic window and the Breen backyard, all unknown to Rose's sisters. They were walking with her one Saturday afternoon, when they met Mr. Peter and the collie. Pepper ran forward to greet Bruce, and they sniffed at each other's noses and wagged their respective tails in a friendly way. Deb was remarking to Rose that their pity for the Breen's dog had been quite misplaced, when a bough from her sister and a lift of the hat by the young man caused her to stop short and raise her fine brows inquiringly. Rose, I spoke to him one day, explained Rose, pink as a pinkest namesake, about Bruce. Who's Bruce? That's Bruce, his dog. Francis came running up. Rose, said she, indignantly, did you bow to that man? He is our neighbour next door, mumble Rose. I know that, so is the woodcutter, but is that a reason why you should bow to him? Do you know who those people are? They are perfectly respectable people, I believe. Said Rose, growing rustic. Drapers, said Francis, witheringly. I shouldn't care if they were chimney sweeps. They have a beautiful dog, and young Mr. Breen is very kind to him, and I thanked him for it. Oh Deb, was that necessary, my dear? Perhaps not, but I did. Well, be careful, Rosie. We are not at Redford now, you know, girls living alone and going about in public places. And that sort of person, Francis broke in crossly, always takes advantage of a little notice. Why? He looked at you as if you were friends and equals, Rose. Rose turned to retort again, but feeling the weight of opinion against her for bore. And she was glad she had never mentioned the circumstances under which she had made poor Peter Breen's acquaintance. On a later afternoon she was in the attic room, sewing at a frock for Robbie Goldsworthy, Robert Pennyquick. After the grandfather who had been expected to leave much money, well Deb and Francis entertained visitors downstairs. Old Kozaya had brought her tea and cakes, and she had had a pleasant time with her work and her thoughts, and her view of Bruce and his premises, when suddenly Francis flounced in. Now, Madam, exclaim the irate young lady, we have to thank you for this. What did I say? Give these people an inch, and they will take a mile indeed, if they can get it. What people?  Who came? Misses and miss, with half the shop upon their backs. Debbie, Deb was coming in behind her. You are not going to return the call of those people, I trust. Oh, I don't know, smiled Deb easily. It would please them, and it wouldn't hurt us. There would be no need, of course, to return a second one. I should think it would not hurt us, Rose spoke up, to behave like decent people. I never heard that it was considered high breeding, and fine manners to snub your inferiors. If they are your inferiors, you have to snub them, said Francis, if they don't know manners themselves. A very gentle snub, said Deb. We are not going to be rude to the poor things. We will call once, that is, I will, in a few months time. After all, it was hardly their fault. No, it is Rose's fault. Please, Rose, in future, be so good as to consider your family a little, as well as your neighbour's dogs. Rose's only reply was to start the sewing machine, and drive it vehemently. But her heart burned within.  He did not appear in the yard that evening, and next day, when he did, his face was turned from her all the time. The day after that, she rattled the window, and encouraged Pepper to bark to draw the young man's attention, having ready for him a smile that should counteract Francis' frowns. If smiles could do it. But again, he took no notice. Then she was sure that his feelings had been hurt. Mrs. and Miss Breen had returned to report a kill reception of the obituers that had been made almost certainly at his instigation, had probably reproached him for exposing them to the insolence of stuck-up snobs. Oh, it was horrid, and doubtless he thought her as bad as the rest. She had not gone downstairs to see his mother and sister, and how was he to know she had been ignorant, that they were there. And still he took Bruce out for walks, before breakfast and after business in the afternoons, when he might have been playing tennis and enjoying himself. She bore with this state of things for some time, then suddenly determined to end it. Where there's a will, there's a way. One of Deb's petticoats showed signs of fraying, and Deb like, she must have fresh lace for it immediately. Rose offered to go to town to fetch it, taking with her the money for her purchase. Never before had she been to Breen's, second rate, if not third or fourth, was its class amongst Melbourne shops, and the Pennyquicks had always been accustomed to the best. But when she turned in at the somewhat narrow and encumbered doorway, she was pleasantly surprised to note how Father Shoppe ran back, and how well-stocked and busy and solidly prosperous it seemed. He was there not to her great relief, behind the counter, but in a sort of raised office place at the Father End, attending to the books apparently, while keeping an eye upon other matters. Hardly had she set foot upon the carpeted aisle, when his head popped up from behind his desk, and she saw herself recognized. As it was her object to be recognized, and to speak to him, she passed the lace department, the ribbons, the silks, the dress stuffs, until she reached the Manchester department, where they sold towels and tablecloths, and beautiful satin eye-downs in all the colours of the rainbow. Here she halted and asked sweetly for torch and lace. All the way had Peter watched her, but with his head down, as if wishing to hide from her. He fancies I shall be ashamed of him because he keeps a shop, thought she, and that was exactly what he did fancy, knowing the world and its funny little inconsistent social ways. So when informed that she had left the lace counter far behind her, and while turning to retrace her steps, she frankly sought his eye, and catching it, bowed and smiled, and all the friendliness that could be expressed in such fashion. That smile drew Peter out, but still he came with a bashful and hesitating air, as if uncertain of his reception, so that she had to meet him half way, with bold hand extended. How do you do, Mr. Vreen? How is Bruce? But I see how well he is, and happy, thanks to you. I am so sorry I did not have the pleasure of seeing your mother and sister, when they were so kind as to call the other day, but I did not know they were in the house till they were gone. He glowed with joy. He clasped her hand with a vigor that made it tingle for a minute afterwards. I was sorry too, he said. My old mother is a good soul. I think you and she, I wanted her to see you, another time, perhaps? Oh, I hope so. We are such near neighbours. She was ready to say anything that would make him feel he was not being treated as a shopman. And did you have your days shooting? Were you successful? Well, with modest pride, I came upon Snipe, unexpectedly, and brought home a couple of brace, if I had thought you would condescend to accept them, Miss Pennyquick, if I had dared. Oh, thank you very much, but I could not have let you rob your mother. Conscience of heightened colour and several pairs of watching eyes rose hastily, put out her hand. Peter took it respectfully, slightly abashed. Can I, is there anything, anything else I can do for you? Yes, please, she said, struggling to remember what it was. Some, er, lay tortured for my sister. That is what I came for. This way, said Peter gently, and they walked down Belong Narrow Shop together, closely scrutinised by the young women behind the counters. Two or three of these, with ingratuating smirks, converged upon the spot where their young chief halted and called aloud for torch and lace. The favoured one brought forth the stock, unexpectedly large and valuable, and the girl was soon able to make her choice. She wanted one dozen yards, and there was a piece of 14 that Peter styled a remnant for her benefit. If he could have presented it to her free of cost, he would have loved to do so, as it was. She made an excellent bargain. I only hoped they won't ask me where I got it. She said to herself on the way home. Happily they did not. The usual buckly was taken for granted, and Deb slashed up the lace without noticing that she had 14 yards for 12. But Rose was a poor schemer, and it was inevitable that she should soon be found out. The sisters were gathered about their window table in the attic room on the following afternoon. Kazoa had brought their tea, and amid the litter of their needlework, they drank it leisurely, enjoying a spell of rest. Both casements stood wide. Deb, at one end, gazed wistfully at the maulven hills. Francis, at the other, looked down on objects nearer home. Rose had purposely drawn her chair back farther into the room. A joyous bark arose. There's your young man, Rose, said Francis flippantly. Really, the dandy has surpassed himself, knickerbockers, and a Norfolk jacket. If you please. Why? Actually, a horse. He's going out to ride. This it is to be a counter-jumper in these levelling times. He is not a counter-jumper, said reckless Rose. How do you know? returned Francis swiftly. Proprietors don't wait behind the counter. That is where he has had to learn his business, of course, said Deb, that there is nothing disgraceful in counters. Don't be snobbish, Francie. Every trade, profession too, for that matter, has to have a counter of some sort. Of course it has, said Rose, heartened. Oh, but to see a man, a miserable apology for a man, measuring out calicoes and ribbons, and tapes and buttons, and stays and garters, and all sorts of things that a man has no right to touch. Puh! Only women sell the stays and garters, corrected Rose vehemently. And at least young Mr. Breen is not a miserable apology for a man. He is as much a real man as anybody else, goes out shooting, plays tennis. Again, Francie's cat's paw, pounced on her. How do you know? Why, why, you can see he is one of that sort, squirmed paw Rose. Oh, said Francie significantly, with a firm stare at her sister Scarlet face. Deb, there is more in this than meets the eye, even than meets the eye. I don't care what you say, struck Rose blindly.  Please, Deb, I am not a child. No, my dear, you are not, and therefore you know, as well as we do, that young Mr. Breen is nothing to us. Did I say he was anything? It is Francie that makes horrid, vulgar insinuations. But how do you know that he shoots and plays tennis? Persisted Francie's with a darkling smile, because he told me so, there. In five minutes, the inquisitor had drawn forth the whole innocent tale. She fell back in her chair, while Deb seemed to congeal slowly. Oh, moaned Francie's, no wonder they thought they could come and call, and made friends with us. And no wonder, she added, more viciously, that there he stands, leering up at this window, when his horse has been ready this half hour. Is he doing that? Asked Deb quickly. Look at him. Deb rose and looked. Then, with a firm hand, closed the two little windows, and drew down the blinds. With a sob of rage, Rose jumped from her basket chair, almost flung her cup and saucer upon the tea tray, and rushed out at the room. Thereupon the little family resolved itself into a strong government and one rebel. When I do want to marry a shopkeeper, said weeping Rose to her sisters, then it will be time enough to make yourselves ridiculous. But they thought not. No use, said they, to shut the stable door after the steed is dull on. Danger, or the beginning of danger, had distinctly declared itself, and it was their part to guard the threatened point. So they took steps to guard it. The name of Breen was not mentioned, but its flavour lurked in every mouthful a conversation, like the taste of garlic that has been rubbed around the salad bowl. In the salad that has not touched it, it filled the domestic atmosphere with a subtle, acrimonious unknown to it before, and Rose was watched not openly, but systematically enough for her to know it, never allowed to go out alone, or to sit in the attic after a certain hour, driven into brooding loneliness and disaffection, in other words, towards her fellow victim, instead of from him. End of Chapter 15, Chapter 16 of Sisters. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. This reading by Lucy Burgoyne. Sisters by Ada Cambridge. Chapter 16. Now that she could no longer entertain, Deb refused to be entertained, much to the discontent of Francis, who pined continually for a larger and brighter life, so that the invitations fell off to nothing before the excuse of the deep mourning was worn out. But when Mrs Urquhart, always maternally solicitous for her poor Sally's girls, wrote to beg them to spend Christmas at Five Creeps, Deb and Francis, who did not, for different reasons, wish to go themselves, agreed that it would be the very thing for Rose to do so, she would be absolutely safe up there, and with her old social world about her, and old interests to occupy her mind, would recover that respect for herself, which seemed to have been more or less impaired by association with suburban villain. They hoped she would stay at Five Creeps a long, long time. And if only Jim would keep her all together, said Francis, I would be content with Jim now. I wished to goodness he would, said Deb, with further not thinking particularly of her sister as she spoke. The matter was put to Rose, and she consented to go. Five Creeps was better than lawn, which had been spoken of, and the companionship of Alice than the sheph herding sisters in the close limits of seaside lodgings, besides Rose was a born bush girl. She was tenderly escorted to Spencer Street, and put him to the hands of Jim himself, in town on station business. Alice met them at the other end, and the two friends slept, or rather bunk. Together the house been full for the Christmas dance, and talked the night through, but not a word about Peter Breen past Rose's lips, so full of words as they were. Next day the trestle cables and Chinese lanterns, the sandwiches and creams, and whatnot, occupied her every moment, and thought until it was time to dress, when the interest of the ball itself became supreme. Well, there's one good thing, said Alice, as, hemmed into a corner of a small room crowded with girls, she laced Rose's bodice. We shall not want the men. There'll be one to each girl, and three over. The Simpsons alone had promised to bring six. The Simpsons were new people at Bundaboo, which Mr. Thornacrock had let. He now lived at Redford, in a third part at the Great House, the other two-thirds being closed. He was not coming to the ball, Alice said, getting too old for balls. In their white frocks and flowers, the friends went to the drawing room, and in the thick of the arrivals, Jim brought up from the bachelor's quarters the six Bundaboo young men. Mrs. Simpson introduced them to Mrs. Urquhart and her bevy of assistant hostesses. Mr. Leader, Mr. Henry Leader, down from Queensland, Mr. Parkinson, English, Globetrotter, my two sons, whom you know, my nephew, Mr. Breen. Thus do the sporty fates love to make mock of the most carefully laid family plans. Rose and Peter faced each other, sharing one blush between them. Their natural pleasure and assolishment was only equal by their mutual admiration. What a little love she is in that pretty gown, thought he, a connoisseur in gowns. And who would take him for a draper now? Thought she, noting the vigorous frame and the perfect correctness of its garb. As a matter of fact, no one did take him for a draper, and no one cared what he was, since he was Mrs. Simpson's nephew and a man. As soon as it was understood that a previous acquaintanceship existed between them, Rose was given Peter to take care of, to show round and introduce. They walked off, elated. Well, I never expected to see you here, said she. Nor I, said he. I thought I was never going to see you any more. How is your mother? How is dear Bruce? Will anyone take him for walks while you are away? How terribly he will miss you. Well, it is something to be missed, even by a dog.  Is she your father's? No, my mother's. They are very much alike. But you don't know, my mother. The blessed Urquhart children romped up to them at this opportune moment, thrusting forward their basket of programs. Rose and Peter each took a card, and Peter proceeded to business. With pleasure, said Rose. And then, oh, if you like, well, only one more round, one. I belong to the house, and must distribute my soul. No, no, that's enough. Leave room for all the nice girls. I am going to introduce you to Ms. Alice Urquhart, Mr. Breen, dearest Simpsons nephew, and a friend of mine in town. It slipped out, unaware. Peter's air, as he squibbled, Ms. Urquhart on his card, was seraphic. Later, Alice snatched a chance to whisper to Rose, what a good-looking fellow. Who is he? And Rose hastened to explain that she knew him only very slightly. They had their first waltz together, and he danced delightfully. This was a fresh, agreeable surprise to Rose, as if drapers did not take dancing lessons and make use of them like other people. She was almost indiscreet in her eulogies on his performance, but there was not room for all, or half, or a quarter, to dance at once. And the crowded house was hot, and the night outside soft, dry, delicious, and the Five Creeks garden was simply made to be set out in. So presently Rose and Peter found themselves leaning over a gate at the end of a long, sequestered path. That, said Rose, nodding towards open paddock, is the boy's cricket ground. They play matches in the holidays with the station's round. That fence leads to Alice's fowl yards. Yes, said Peter. But now, look here, Miss Rose. Tell me straight and true. Am I to understand that my position in life makes me unfit to associate with you? What nonsense, she protested, scarlet in the darkness. What utter stuff. I am in retail trade, confess Peter mournfully, and lots of people think that awful.  I should think not, except when it comes to your family.  As if I ever thought of it, mocked Rose, which was disingenuous of her. I don't mind what anybody is, if he's nice himself. Do you think I'm nice? I am not going to pander to such egregious vanity. Do you think I am a gentleman? Do I pass for one, say, in a house like this? I am not going to answer any more of those horrid, indelicate, unnecessary questions. I, I see you don't. I do, she flamed out, indignant with him. You know I do. Would I, if I didn't? Her mouth was stopped, in the twinkling of an eye it happened, before either of them knew it. He was carried away, and she was overwhelmed. An earthquake could not have given them a greater shock. Forgive me, he muttered tremulously, when it was, too late. I know I oughtn't to have, but I couldn't help it. You are not angry. It was dashed impudence. But, oh, I say, we shall never get such a chance as this again.  Could you, I have loved you ever since that dear morning that you came about Bruce. Could you try to care for me a little bit? I'd give up the business, if you wished, and go into something else.  I won't, I won't, he promised, a joyful ring in his young voice, as long as you don't mind. And, of course, I wouldn't like to disappoint the old patter. And, thank God, there's plenty of money to make you comfortable wherever you like to live. Yes, yes, I know it's awful cheek. I've no business to count chickens like this. But here we are, face to face at last. No one to keep me from speaking to you. And, oh, darling, it must be time for the next dance, and I'm engaged for it. Then go, go, she urged. The one after this is ours, and I will wait here for you till you come back. It is only Jim, and he doesn't matter. I must be alone to think, to make up my mind. You, angel, for he knew what that meant. Of he went, wing footed, to get through his duty dance as best he could.  And then, presently, the lovers flitted out of the gate, across the boy's cricket ground, and down the bank of one of the five creeks, where Rose knew of a nice seat, the only area of possible disturbance.  Then silence, packed full. Beyond, in the moonlight waste, curlews wailing sweetly, behind a piano barely audible from the humming house. What's the matter? asked Alice Urquhart, when her bedfellow broke out crying suddenly, for no reason that appeared. Oh, I don't know, cackled Rose. I am upset with all this. This. What has upset you? Aha! I saw you, and that good-looking young Mr. Breen, making off into the garden. You've been having a proposal, I suppose? Yes, sob Rose, between two foolish laughs, and forthwith, poured out the whole story to her bosom friend. She and Peter, and decided not to disclose it to her soul, until further consideration. But she was so full that a touch caused her to run over. Ms. Urquhart's feelings, when she realised the fact that one of the penny-quicks was committed to marry a draper, expressed themselves at first in a rather chilling silence. But subsequently, having reviewed the situation from its several sides, and weighed the pros and cons, she decided to assist her friend to make the best of it, as against all the potential enemies. Of course, they will be as mad as so many marchers, said Alice, referring to the other penny-quicks. Then after all, when you come to think of it, what is there in a draper's shop any more than in a soft goods warehouse? And that's quite aristocratic, if it's big enough. Trade is trade, and why we should make chalk of one and cheese of another passes me. Oh, you've only got to be rich nowadays to be received anywhere. These Breen's seem well off, and anyway, there are the Simpsons. They are all right. Solid comfort, my dear, is not to be despised, especially when a girl can't pick and choose, and may possibly never get another chance. He is awfully presentable, too, and most gentlemanly. I am sure. Oh, on the whole, if you ask me, I'd say stick to him. Alice's voice was sad, and she sighed inwardly. I'm going to stick to him, said Rose. Well, you may count on me. I'll get them all asked here for a picnic, and we'll go over to Vunderbu to invite them, tomorrow. Mrs. Simpson said he was only with her for a few days. You darling, and if I were in your place, Rose, I'd marry him just as soon as he wanted me to.  It would save a lot of unpleasantness, and it wouldn't force the hostile clans to try and make one family when they never could. I don't see why they couldn't. Mrs. Simpson is his mother's sister. Oh, well, we shall see. I don't know about Deb and Mary, but France can be all sorts of a cat when the fit tapes her, and as she is certain to oppose it to the bitter end, she will never have done irritating his people and setting everybody at loggerheads. However, never mind that now. She enveloped Rose in a comforting embrace. We'll just enjoy ourselves while we can, and until we must start the fuss with the girls at home, we'll keep things dark, shall we? Just you and I and he. You can tell him when you see him tomorrow that I am his friend. I will, I will, and he will adore you for your goodness. Alice, with still no lover of her own, was pleased with this prospect, and so Rose had a heavenly time for a week or two. Peter extending his visit to match hers and went home within a day of him, in good heart for the inevitable struggle. End of Chapter 16 Chapter 17 of Sisters This is a LibraVox Recording. All LibraVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, or to volunteer, please visit LibraVox.org. This reading by Lucy Burgoyne. Sisters by Ada Cambridge Chapter 17 The starting of the fuss was thus described by the starter in her first letter to her friend. Oh, my dear, it is simply awful. There is not a scrap of hope. Dear old Deb is the worst, because she cries, fancy Deb crying. I don't care what Francie says and does. Only, if she were not my sister, I would never speak to her again. Even Mary is antagonistic, though I don't believe she would be if it were not for that insufferable husband of hers. He thinks himself and puts it into her head that we are all going to fall into the bottomless pit if we let trade into the family, as if nine-tenths and more of the aristocracy of the country were not traitors. And my Peter is as good as her person any day. But I don't care, except for Deb. I do hate her to have to cry, through me, and to be so kind at the same time. She scolds Francie for being horrid, that does no good. She says, and she's quite right, and then asks me if I have any love left over for her, and all that kind of thing. It makes me feel like a selfish brute, and yet it would not be unselfish to sacrifice Peter. Really, I am quite distracted. I have hardly slept a wink since I came back. Further details followed. I did not know until I got a letter from him, by the gardener, that Peter came this morning to call. The call, and was not let in, because I had been got at, you must know, and works against us.  She that goes to church every Sunday and pretends to be so pious. Old hypocrite. Well, as I was reading Peter's letter, the doorbell rings. And who should it be but old daddy Breen, coming to demand what we mean by it? Snubbing his precious son, whom he thinks good enough for a princess, and so he is. He was not going to be turned from the door, not he. And presently I heard him and Deb at it, hammer and tongs, in the drawing room. And she came up to me afterwards, simply in flames. She was wild. My dear, she has left off crying and started to fight. Papa Breen, I am afraid he is a bit bumptious, for what she calls his class in life, turn the scale, and now she is as implacable as Francie. She says she will not have the house a penny quick disgraced, or words to that effect, while she is alive to prevent it. And when I ask her to be just to Peter, who is no more answerable for his family than I am for mine, and not to judge him offhand before she knows a scrape about him, she simply looks at me as if she itched to box my ears. Isn't it too hard? Other girls have such a lovely time when they are engaged, everybody considering them, and giving them opportunities to be together. There's not going to be anything of that sort for us, I can plainly see. Well, I shall not give him up, so they need not think it. I have seen my poor old boy. He was cut up, but feels better now. He asked me to go and see his mother. The moment I walked in and he said, Mother, here she is, the darling opened her arms, and we just hugged as if I was to her daughter already. There is nobody like mothers. Papa Breen came home while I was there. I thought he was going to be aggrieved, but he was not with me. If it is not a snobbish thing to say, he is rather proud of his son's choice. He was a bit too fussy and outspoken, and dear Peter got the fidgets, wondering what he would say next, but I did not mind. He talked about building us a house, but Peter whispered to me that that would take too long, and that already he had one in his eye. I know it, a lovely place with the prettiest grounds and stables and coach house, and all. Nothing is too good for me. I tried to pacify the girls by telling them that I should have a comfortable home, but they seem to think that the vulgarest feature of the whole affair, it may be, but it's nice.  We are going to have Bruce to live with us. Then I made Peter come home with me, and I took him in myself to see Deb. He behaved as nicely as possible, but it was no use. She is of age, Mr. Breen, says Deb, with that look of hers. She will do as she chooses, but she will never do this with my consent, and I feel I never shall. Puppa Breen sticks in her throat if only she had seen Peter before his father came, and not after, but I daresay it would have been the same. They are too weak and up with their prejudices to begin to know him. It is quite hopeless. Here I live in my own home without a friend, and he is treated like a pariah, my poor dear boy. He has been to see me two or three times, as he has a perfect right to do, and they have just had him shown into the drawing room, and left him to me, neither of them coming near, and this while Bennett Goldsworthy loaves all over the house, as if it was his own, and presumes to look at me in a superior sort of way, as if I was one of his dirty little Sunday school children in disgrace. They bring him up into the attic, even, our own private room, mine as much as theirs. They never did it before, and it is only because he is banded with them against me. Well, I wouldn't marry Bennett Goldsworthy if there was not another man in the world. I have my ring, such diamonds, too valuable. I tell Peter that he says nothing can be that, and I know they can't help seeing it, because the whole room flashes when I turn it this way and that, like blue lightning playing, but they all pretend not to, since they find they cannot break our engagement. The idea is to ignore it as if it was something so low as to be beneath their notice. Perhaps they fancy that will wear me out, but it won't. If they had been nice and pleaded with me, and if Peter had not been so very dear and good, I might have caved in, but not now. And indeed, I am sure I never should anyway, only we might have agreed to differ without quarrelling, which we never did before. Oh, it is too miserable. Poor Mr. and Mrs. Breen must hate the very name at Pennyquick, and they will end by hating me if this goes on. Peter has bought the house, and is asking me to hurry our marriage, to get me out of it. He says a private ceremony would not be dishonorable under the circumstances. It seems to me a mean sort of way to go to him. But what do you think? My dear, wrote Alice Urquhart, I think Peter is right.  It will be a real kindness to both families, who would never know what to do with the house wedding. Besides, then you might have to be given away by BG. Walk out quietly and unbeknown, and don't come back. Right from the Blue Mountains or somewhere, yours ever, Rose Breen. And later on, when things have settled down, their hearts will melt, and they will come and see you. Let me know what day, and I will run down to the dentist to see fair play and sign the register. Now you need not have any scruples, child, because the whole of your husband's family approve of the match. Simpson's delighted if a little huffy for the moment to see solid worth look down upon. And Deb and the others are certain to come round when they find it is no use doing anything else. Outsiders don't matter, and I should hope touting for wedding presence in such a mixed concern. As for your clothes, you have plenty. When you want more, you can get them cost price at the shop. It is a very good shop I hear, and I mean to be a steady customer from this out. Oh yes, and I will come and see you, old girl, nows and then, when I have to go to town. And you and Peter must spend all your Christmases up here, while he is seeing his people at Bundaboo. You can camp with me, like old times.  Perhaps because Francis chanced to be absent at the time.  I am not going shopping. I am going into Melbourne to get married, to get married quietly, and have done with it, so as not to be a nuisance to you any more. Married, gasped dead, holding the agitated creature at arm's length. What, now? And you spring this on us without a word of warning. What was the use, Deb? You know what you would have said. I have got to have him. Dear, I really have, and this seemed the only way. Where is he? Waiting till I am ready. They have a carriage outside. His mother and sister are going with us. His father will join us when we get there. And Alice Urquhart, who is in town, and one of his cousins from Bundaboo. Quite respectable and aboveboard. You see, only very quiet, so as not to trouble you and the girls. And poor dear, Bennett Goldsworthy more than we can help.  Rose, in your wildest aberrations, I did not credit you with being capable of humiliating us to this extent. I, you always say that. If you only knew him, but someday you will. And then you will wonder how you could have set yourself against us so. I can't help it, Deb. I did it for the best. Marry him, I must, and will. And I am only trying to do it in a way as inoffensive to you as possible. You call this an inoffensive way, but those people cannot be expected to know. They can, they do. Don't insult them anymore. They are giving me everything they can think of to make me happy. And here I have no home, no love, no sympathy from anybody. Tears gushed from her eyes and debs as from the same spring. They were instantly locked in each other's arms.  But to a good husband, Debbie, and the man I love, and that's first of all, and I must go to him now. I must not keep him waiting. Bless you, dearest. I am happy now. Never mind the others. You can tell them after I'm gone. But I felt that I must speak to you before I went. Oh, I am so glad I did. Goodbye, darling. I must go. You must not go, said Deb, swallowing her tears and resuming her imperious air.  How can you treat us so, child? And perhaps we deserve it, only you don't see what you are doing, as clearly as we do. Deb, Deb, don't stop me. They are waiting. It is late now. The bright elect, pale and bright, struggled in her sister's strong hands, which held her fast. Where is Mr. Breen, demanded Deb, waiting at his house, waiting for me. I must send for him. Oh, Deb, not now, when everything is settled, and they have had all the expense and trouble.  For one minute only. No, I won't stop it. I can't, of course. But I must go with you. Rose, I must. Oh, Deb, would you? Oh, how I wish I had known before. Yes, I'll run and bring him. We must drive faster. That's all. Oh, Deb, how happy this will make us. But run away and fetch him, ask him, with my compliments, if he will be so good, and I will get my hat on while you are gone. How she managed it was a mystery, but by the time the bridegroom appeared, Deb was in her best walking costume, hattered and veiled, with a pair of new pale coloured gloves in her hand. Mr. Breen said she, grave and stately, I am going to ask a favour of you. Allow me to take my sister to the church and give her away. Peter was naturally flurried, besides being a trifle overall. He mumbled something to the effect that he was sure his family would be quite agreeable, and that his sister would give up her place in the carriage and go by train. And Deb, facing him with the air of a duchess, thought how thoroughly shoppy his manner was. His splendid new clothes helped to give her that impression. Fine dressing was one of the Breen's trifling eras of taste, as drapers, which damned them in her eyes. But what would she have thought if he had not done all honour to his bride in this respect? We will go by train, said she decisively. I have already delayed you a little, and you must be there first. The train will be quicker than driving, so that we shall be quite in time. She smiled as she caught his swift glance of alarm at rose. No, I am not going to kidnap her. I only wish to observe the proprieties a little, for her sake. If the proprieties have not been observed, retorted Peter, suddenly bold. It has not been all my fault, Miss Pennyquick. Perhaps not, she said gently, for she was a generous woman. Perhaps not. At any rate, holding out her hand, we must let bygones be bygones now. Be good to her, that is all, I ask. Peter seized her hand in his super fine glove, and rung it emotionally, while Rose embraced her sister's left arm and kissed her sleeve. Then, after a hurried consultation of timetables, the bridegroom retired, and was presently seen to clatter past the house in the bridal carriage, which had white horses to to Deb's disgust.  Rose was questioned about clothes and pocket money, and asked whether she had a safe pocket anywhere. On Rose answering that, she had. Deb pressed into it a closed envelope, which she charged her sister not to open, until away on her honeymoon. Rose disobeyed the order, and found a hastily scroll check for £100, money which she knew could ill be spared. Oh, you darling, she murmured fondly, but I won't take it. Deb, I won't. It would leave you poor for years, while I shall have heaps of everything. If you don't, broke in Deb, tragically stern and determined, if you don't take it and buy your first clothes with it, I will never forgive you as long as I live. Child, don't you see? Rose saw this much. Deb's horror of the thought of being beholden to the Breams, for it posed not to all true so. Reluctantly, she pocketed the gift, but I shall never want it, you know. I don't care about that, said Deb. The bridegroom's relief of mine, when he saw the bride coming, was so great as to do away with all the usual embarrassment of a man so circumstanced. Ha, now we are all right, he said to Harry Simpson, cousin and best man, and forthwith acted as if the trouble were over, instead of just beginning. There was nothing shoppy in his dominion now, even to Deb's prejudiced eye. The sisters walked up the nave to the altar, hand in hand. Deb passed the bride's maid, Alice Urquhart, without a look. Her people had brought the young pair together, and were answerable for these consequences. And similarly ignored those walking fashion plates, Mrs and Miss Bream. She landed her charge at the appointed hazel, and quietly facing the clergyman, stood still and dry-eyed amid the usual tearful flutter. Apparently the calmest of the party, but poor Deb suffered pangs unspeakable, and her excessive dignity was maintained only by the sternest effort. In the vestry after the ceremony she was introduced by the bride to her new relations, and Papa Breen, with a great show of magnanimity, expressed his satisfaction at seeing Miss Pennyquick on this suspicious occasion, and formally invited her to what he called a little snack at Menzies, where a gorgeous wedding breakfast had been prepared at his orders. Thank you very much, Mr Breen. She said affably, it would have given me great pleasure, but if you will excuse me, I must run home to my other sisters, whom I left in ignorance of this, this event which concerns them so nearly. Oh Deb, do come, pleaded the bride. No, the line had to be drawn somewhere. Deb was very kind, very polite, very plausible with her excuses, but to Menzies with those people and their white horse carriage she would not go. End of Chapter 17 Chapter 18 of Sisters This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. This reading by Lucy Burgoyne. Sisters by Ada Cambridge. Chapter 18 Rose had never been reckoned a person of importance by her family, but now that she was gone, there remained a terrible emptiness where she had been. She was one of those unselfish, good-natured members of households to whom falls the stopping mending, the year-and-going, the fetching and carrying, the filling of gaps generally, and at every turn Devon Francis missed her unintrusive administrations, which they had accepted as a much-matters of course, as the attentions of the butcher and baker. It was presently perceived that Cazair missed her too, that Cazair, who had loyally opposed the plebeian marriage, was becoming a turncoat and renegade, blessing where she should have cursed, blaming where she should have praised, yes, blaming even Queen Deborah, who needless to say, took her head off for it. It had been Cazair's own choice to follow the sisters into exile, and to share the privations involved in their change of life.  Rose was the one who had understood the cost of the sacrifice, and who had lighted it by sympathetic companionship. They had cleaned rooms and made capes and puddings, and set hens, and stirred jam, and ironed frocks and laces together. They had spent hours in pleasant gossip over the many homely subjects that interested both. Their relation had been more that of a mother and daughter than of servant and mistress. Regarding her as virtually her child, Cazair had then quick to spring to the side of authority in the matter of the irregular love affair. The natural parental impulse was to nip it in the bud, but Providence had decided the issue in this case, and the flirtatious girl was one thing, and a respectable married woman another, and Cazair was lonely and felt neglected and put upon when nobody came to talk to her in her kitchen, or to help her with her cooking and ironing, and particularly after she had told Deb that it was a shame to bear Malice to miss Rose now, and Deb had commanded her to mind her own business. She was suspected of treacherous visits to the house next door. She was known to have spent Sunday afternoons with Mrs. Peter herself. The iniquity of these proceedings was in secrecy she observed, or tried to observe, regarding them. It was she who knew before anybody else when a baby brain was coming, and if a married woman was a personage to Cazair an incipient mother was being of the highest rank. She had forgiven Mary everything for the sake of her black-eyed boy. Now she took the news that Rose was what she called interesting to Deb, and demanded that action should be taken upon it, with an air that was almost truselant. Deb, of course, did not believe in being spoken to, even by Cazair in that way. Has the muffin boy been, she inquired, with a steady look? It's too soon yet, and I can tell you, Miss Deb, that if it was you in her place, she wouldn't keep it up like this, and at such a time too. When the muffin boy comes, Cazair, please pay him the sixpence we owe him from last week. You will find the money on my writing table. Well, I don't care. I call it a shame not to go to her. Perhaps she would like to go to her yourself. Deb swiftly changed her tone. I'd like nothing better, the old woman retorted, with spirit, if you are agreeable. I am perfectly agreeable. Well, it was only the other day she said she'd give anything to have me, if it wasn't for taking me away from you. Oh, pray don't consider that. I can easily get somebody else, said Deb, absolutely. Though her surprise at the idea of Cazair wanting to leave her was only equal by her dismay. Cazair, already surprised to find herself of so much less consequence than she had supposed, said that. If that was the case, she'd go and see Miss Rose about it. You can go now, said Deb. Thank you, Miss Deb. I will, said Cazair, as soon as I have cleared up. Would a month's notice suit you? I don't wish to put you about at all. A month will be ample, said Deb. A week, if you like. I'll see what Miss Rose says, said Cazair. Rose, after the interview, wrote affectionately to Deb to say she would not dream of taking Cazair if Deb wanted her. Deb wrote affectionately to Rose to say that she would be rather glad than otherwise to make the change, as the work was too much for such an old woman. So Cazair went over to the Breen camp, where she had comfort and companionship, and her own way in everything, and Deb began to experiment with the common, or garden, general, as pervade by Melbourne registry officers. She loathed these creatures, one and all. They were of a race unknown at Redford, and she was singularly unlucky in the specimens that fell to her, although some of them could have been made something of by a mistress who knew how to do it. It is only fair to state that they loathed her for a finicky, unreasonable, stuck-up, poor woman who gave herself the airs of a wealthy lady. They came at the rate of two a month, and each one, as she passed, seemed to leave the little house meaner, dingier, more damaged than before. It was not living, it was picking, Francis said, and Deb agreed with her. Although, when Cazair ventured to call one day to inquire into the state of things, Deb calmly asserted that all was well. In despair she tried a lady help, in the person of Miss Keane, dying to return to her dear family from relations who did not want her, on any terms. Whatever we ask her to do, we must do ourselves, said Deb to grumbling Francis, who seemed never willing to do anything, and, of course, we shall have to get a washwoman and a charwoman to scrub, but it will be cheaper in the end, and, oh, anything rather than sticky door handles and greasy spoons, and those awful voices hailing one and all over the house. But it was not cheaper, nor was the arrangement satisfactory in any way after the first fortnight. Miss Keane, spoiled at Redford, as they had been, was as unfit for crude housework, and she aggravated her incompetence by weeping over it. She had not gathered from Deb's letters that the change in the family fortunes was as great as it is now proved to be, and Deb had not anticipated the effect of adversity upon one so easily depressed. She had no heart, poor thing, she struggled and muddled, sowing for flowers for the barsers while the beds were unmade, and when she saw a certain look on Deb's face, wept and mourned and gave up hope. So they piqued still, although they did not defile the furniture with unwashed hands, and the plate and crockery with greasy dishcloths. With no knowledge of cookery, they lived too much on tin provisions, a diet as wasteful as it was unwholesome, feeding their wash and scrub women with the same, and their efforts to support the burden of their domestic responsibilities deprive them of outdoor exercise and mental rest and recreation. Kept them at two close quarters with one another, each rubbing her quivering prickles upon the irritable skins of the other two. Francis bore the strain with least good nature and self-control, and since she had to vent her ill humour on someone, naturally made Miss Keane her victim when it was a choice between her and Deb. The poor lady grew more and more disappointed, discouraged and tearful.  The doctor said she was completely run down and that rest and change of air were indispensable.  Then Deb tried to carry on alone. Any sort of registry office drudge would have been welcome now, but had become an expense that she did not continue. Moreover, the spectre of poverty looming so distinct and unmistakable in the house was a thing to hide, if possible, from anybody who could go outside and talk about it. The thing had become a living terror to herself. Its claws due moneylenders, so velvety and innocent when her willful ignorance made first acquaintance with them. But nobody, not even Mr. Thornycroft, not even Jim, certainly not Rose, could be allowed to play Perseus to this proud undromeda until she could free herself. They were not even to know that she was bound. Of course, she need not have been bound. It was her own fault. She should have managed better with the resources at her disposal than to bring herself to such a pass. And that so soon, either Mary or Rose, would certainly have done so in her place. But nature had not made her or Francis whose repacities had been one cause of the financial breakdown for the role of domestic economists. They had been dowered with their lovely faces for other purposes. That the fine plumage is for the sun was a fact well understood by Francis at any rate, and she was wild at the wrongs brought by sordid circumstances. Her fathers and sisters heedlessness upon herself. She thought only of herself. Deb was getting old, and she deserved to suffer any way. But what had Francis done to be deprived of her birthright, of all their chances of success in life? Eighteen and no coming out, beautiful and nobody to see it, marriageable, and out of the track of all the eligible men amongst whom she might have had her pick and choice. She had reason for her passionate rebelliousness against this state of things. Four, while a pretty face is theoretically its own fortune anywhere, we all see for ourselves how many are passed over simply her want of an attractive setting. It was quite on the cards that she might share the fate of those beauties in humble life, to whom romantic accidents do not occur. For all her golden hair and aristocratic profile, her figure of a silk and complexion of a wild rose. The fear of this future combined with the acute discomfort of the present to make her desperate. She cast about for a way of escape, a pathway to the sun. One only offered the landlord. He was an elderly landlord who had lately buried a frumpy old wife, and he was as deeply tainted with trade as Peter Breen. But he had retired long since from personal connection with breweries and public houses and a brewer in the social scale, was only just below a wholesale importer. If that, and he was manifestly rolling in money after the manner of his kind, half the streets around belonged to him, and his house towered up in the midst of his other houses. A great white block with a pillard portico, a young palace by comparison. Above all, he had no known children. From the first, he had taken an interest in his pretty girl tenants. He had liked a calling person to inquire if the seller kept dry, and the chimney had ceased smoking, and he had been most generous in offering improvements and repairs before they were even asked for. Deb had blighted these unbusiness-like obituers on her own account, and Frances herself had said the rudest things about them and him, but not lately. In the utter dullness and barrenness of her life, she had been glad to accept the civilities of anything in the shape of a man, to try her hand on any material. All the armory of the born beauty was hers, and she knew as well how to use each weapon effectively as a blind kitten knows how to suck milk. They were easily successful with the old fool, who is ever more of a fool than the young fool, and when she found that, she found something to entertain her. She not only received Mr Ewing when he called, but talked to him at the gate when he went past, and he went past several times a day. Now when the situation at home had grown desperate, and she was looking all ways for means to save herself, his amusing infatuation became a matter for serious thought. Could she? She was a hard case, but even she wavered. He was probably sixty, and she was eighteen. Oh, she couldn't. But when, after Miss Keane's departure, Deb told her they could no longer afford higher help, and that she, Frances, must give up her lazy ways and take her share of that intolerable housework, then Frances changed her mind, beggars could not be choosers. Deb felt like the camel under the last straw, when the announcement of the proposed marriage was made to her. It was worse than Mary's, worse than Rose's, worse than any other misfortune that had befallen the family. She sat down and wept at the thought of what the Pennyquicks had come to. She rated Frances furiously. She reasoned with her. She pleaded with her. She tried to bribe her. But Frances was getting boxes of diamonds and sets of furs and lace and whatnot, and it was useless for Deb to attempt to outbid to give her of these things, or to part her sister from them. She loved the old man, Frances said. He certainly was a decently mannered, good-natured, rather fine-looking, and most generous old man, and he was going to take her everywhere and give her a good time. And she would never have to go shabby again, as long as she lived. And if Deb refused her a proper wedding, law or no law, she would run away with him, as Mary had run away with Bennett Goldsworthy and Rose with Peter Breen. Whether this dire threat prevailed, or the temptation of the money, or whether she could not any longer fight against fate, Deb gave in. After all, Frances was not to be judged as an ordinary girl. She was a hard-hearted, tough-fibred, prosaic little mix, for which reason Deb pitted the prospective husband more than she did her. And if she did not do this bad thing now, the chances were that she would do a worse thing later on. She was made to despot herself in the sunshine of the world. She was of the type of woman that must have men about her. She would get her rights, as she called them, somehow, by fair means or foul. Deb was sufficiently a woman of the world herself to recognise this, and the uselessness of thinking she could alter it. Well, money is a consolatory thing. She knew it spell you now, and there was that additional comfort, which, of course, she did not own to, the thought of where Mr Ewing would be when Mrs Ewing was in her prime. You dear old thing, the bride-elect patronised her elder sister. James is so pleased to have your consent, and he says he won't ask you to give me my share of what father left us. It would be but a drop in the bucket anyway. You are to keep it all yourself. Deb had had whole control of the fragrance of his once-large fortune left by Mr Pinnacleck to his four daughters, on behalf of any of them unmarried or underage. But Mary and Rose, although Peter had also protested against it, had been paid the value of their shares. Whence the due element in the present difficulties, and the unforeseen marriage of Francis at 18, threatened total bankruptcy to the remaining sister. Yet Deb said, with fierce determination, of course you will have what is your due, like the others. I'm sure he won't take it, Deb. He said he wouldn't. I don't care what he says. It concerns you and me, not him. I really should not miss it, dear. I am to have a thousand a year to draw a gates, for just nothing but my clothes and pocket money. I am glad to hear it, said Deb. You can give your own income to the poor. You really won't keep it. Is it likely I would keep what doesn't belong to me? Well, then, said Francis, her easy conscience satisfied. We can put it in to my trousseau. I must have a decent trousseau, mustn't I? Of course. Francis thought to it that she had a decent one. Now was the time, the only time, that she would want her money, and she did not spare it. She ordered right and left, and Deb seemed equally reckless. The bills were left for her to settle. Of course, made out in her name. Mr Ewing pressed for permission to pay them, and the cost of the wedding. And Miss Pennyquick could hardly forgive him the deadly insult. He also desired that she should occupy her villa rent-free, and she gave him notice on the spot. I shall not continue to keep house when I am alone, said she grandly. I intend to travel for a time. The wedding was quiet, but as decent as the trousseau. The other sisters were invited, and Bennett Goldworthy, who delighted in the connection, and received a thumping fee, to form their ceremony. Deb gave the bride away, but was also treated as the bride's maid, and had a diamond bracelet forced upon her. She sold it as soon as the donor's back was turned, together with every article or jewellery in her possession, every bit of silver plate, and all her furniture. The breakfast was very elegant, and served in a private room at one of the best hotels. The bride's handsome luggage had also been bought thither, and it was the meeting place of the family which so seldom met. There also, when she had parted from Francis, Deb parted from Mary, so silent and constrained, and from Rose, overdressed for her station in her rich gown and Brussels lace, but nevertheless sniffed at the condescending to buy her still more wealthy sister, and from the uncongenial brothers in law, to whom she was so discouragingly polite. Their expressed anxiety to be friend, and to see more of her was gently but firmly ignored. I will write, she said. I will see you again soon. I will let you know my plans. Goodbye. And they went. There were no friends to go, for she had insisted on inviting none, for fear at the link's eyes and the destructive influence upon her plans of Mr. Thornicraft and Jim. She gained the one end she had schemed for throughout, to get past the risks of the public marriage and back to her struggle in obscurity, unmolested, unpitted, unshamed. The ur-cards wrote, and Mr. Thornicraft, when he sent his present, but she had bluffed them with her implied misrepresentations, and hurt their feelings by not wanting them at the wedding. Jim was easily snubbed. Mr. Thornicraft, though he did not mention it, was ill at the time. So she got rid of all possible hindrances, and then professing to go traveling, went nobody knew where, and was virtually lost for years.  She could only think of her own exciting affairs. Partly they were unsatisfactory, no doubt. All her rights were not hers, even now. No, not by a long way. But, oh, how much better was this, than the drab and shabby and barren existence for ever left behind. She was bound, indeed, yet she was free, freer than another might have been in her place, and far, far less bound. One must expect to pay some tax to fortune for such extraordinary gifts, and Frances was not the one to pay it in heart's blood. She was philosophically prepared to pay it in her own coin, and be done with it, and then give herself to the enjoyment of the pleasures of her loft. Her first enjoyment was in her beautiful going away dress, gray cloth and chinchilla fur, with flushes of pink as delicate as the rose of her cheeks, and in her knowledge of the effect she made in that dream of a costume. There was no hiding her light under a bushel any more. The highway and the middle of it, for her now, her proud husband strutting there beside her, and every passerby turning to look at and to admire her. There was joy in the occupancy of the best suite of rooms, in the best hotel at every place she stopped, as during her gay and well-filled bridal holiday. Joy in the dainty meals, so long unknown, in the obstrequest servants, in the plentiful theatres, in the ever-ready carriage that took her to them, in the having one's hair done to perfection by an expert maid, in sweeping forth with one's silks and laces trailing, and one's diamonds on. These were the delights for which her little soul had so long yearned. She now pursued them greedily. She could not rest if she were not doing something to display herself, and feed her craving for what is known as seeing the world. Her husband was almost as obstrequest as a servant, doubtless because from the first she took the beauties a high hand with him, as well as the attitude of the superior, naturally assumed by youth towards age, and he enjoyed the sensation she made almost as much as she did. Visibly he swelled and primed himself when his venerable contemporaries cast the eye of surprise, not to say of envy, upon the conjunction of his complacent figure, and that of the bride who might have been his granddaughter. He toiled for that pleasure, and to make pleasure for her, as no old gentleman should toil. He gave her everything she asked for, including his own ease and consequence, his own vital health and strength. But the honeymoon waned, and the novelty wore off, and prudence and old habits resumed this way. He grew tired of incessant gating about, alarmed at his symptoms of physical over-strain, weary for his armchair and his club, and his men friends and his masculine occupations. She, on the other hand, insatiable for admiration and excitement still, was weary of his constant company. It became the killjoy of her festive days, growing from a necessary bore to an intolerable irritation, as the dimensions of her little cord of younger galleads enlarged about her. Therefore she had no objection to his halting on the toilsome path, so long as he allowed her to go on alone. It was not a case of allowing, however, he might object and did, but he was no much for her, either in diplomacy or in fight, and her cajoleries were usually sufficient for her ends, without calling out the reserves behind them. In any contest between selfishness and uns selfishness, the result is a foregone conclusion. So she began to go about with miscellaneous escorts, to play the combined parts of frisky matron and society beauty, an intoxicating experience, while the supporter of that proud physician played the humble role of tooth-comber stone, unseen and unconsidered in the basement of the fabric. He attended to his investments and increasing infirmities, and made secret visits to a married daughter, wife of a big hotel keeper, who hated her young stepmother and whose existence Francis ignored. One day Guthrie Carey, after several voyages to other ports, appeared again in Melbourne. He had just landed and was strolling along Collins Street, when he encountered a vision of blubbliness that almost took away his breath. What? It is not, Miss Francis, surely? It is not, small she, all her beauty at its conscience best, as she recognised his, which was that of a man of in, splendid in his strong prime, and she told him who she was, and a few other things, as they stood on the pavement, she so graceful in a mature self-possession, he staring at her, stupidly distraught, like a bewildered schoolboy. I had no idea, he mumbled, that I was married, alas, yes, with the sad shake of the head, we girls are fated, I think. Miss Deb? Oh, not Deb, she has escaped so far. Is she well? I have not seen her lately, but I am sure she is, she always is, she is not in Melbourne. No, I don't quite know where she is, she has got a wandering fit on, come and have some lunch with me, and I'll tell you all the news. They turned into a restaurant, and had a meal, which took a long time to get through. In the middle of the afternoon, they parted, on the understanding that he would dine with her later in her own house. At the end of the few days that were virtually filled with him, Mrs Ewing sat down in her fine boudoir to weep over her hard fate. Oh, why wasn't he the one to have the money? Oh, why do we meet again, now that it is too late? At the end of a few more days, she went to her old husband to ask him how he was. He said he was a bit troubled with his libago, but otherwise fairly well. What you want, said she, is a sea voyage. He thought not. He had never found the sea suit him, and travelling was a great fatigue, and it was the wrong time of year for it, anyhow. They had a good home, and it was the best place. But she knew better.  The sea voyage was decided on, not so much, because it would benefit his health, as because his young wife had not seen England and Europe, and was dying to do so. Then they discussed routes. The thing to do, said Mrs Ewing, is not to crowd up with that lot in the mail of steamers, where you can't do as you like, or have any special attentions, but to go in a smaller vessel, where you would be of some importance, and have your liberty, and plenty of space, and no tiresome rules and restrictions. My dear child, you don't know those second rate lines. I do. I assure you, you'd be very sorry for yourself if I let you travel by them. They are not your style at all. Yes, I was talking to Captain Kerry about it, and that was his advice, and he knows. On his ship they have accommodation for about six passengers, and he suggested that if we were quick about it, we might be able to secure the whole, so as to be exactly as if we were on a yacht of our own. They have a fair cook, but we could take any servants we liked, and make ourselves comfortable in our own way. Nobody to interfere with us. He doesn't go through the hot canal. He will be back from Sydney in three weeks. Just nice time to get ready in. Of course they went that way, and perhaps it is better to leave the rest of the story to the imagination of the reader, who, one hopes, for Guthrie Kerry's sake, is a common sense person, as well as a dispassionate student of human nature. End of chapter 18.


So these readers were sitting around kind of joking and laughing about how these biotechnologists were going to stick any gene into rice and I was here in part to learn as much as I could and to get ideas as to what the foundation might invest in. So I was sitting there too and I said, well, what's your favorite gene then? These guys say they can stick any gene into rice and make it do what they want it to do. If you guys, these breeders could do that, what would be your favorite gene? And Neil Rudker, who was a breeder of UC Davis at that particular time, kind of took the lead and he pointed to each one of them. He said, yeah, what's your favorite gene?  That's what my favorite gene would be, or drug tolerance. But finally we got around to Pete Jennings. And just a little bit of background, Pete Jennings was the actual Rockefeller Foundation employee who attended initially to Erie and then to Sewhats, but was really a Rockefeller Foundation employee for, well, until he retired from the foundation. He continued to work after that, but for 30-some years I think. And he had been the first breeder at Erie and actually made the initial cross that led to IR8. And he had then left Erie after several years, went to Sewhats and developed most of the rice varieties that are grown in Latin America today, or at least the breeding lines that led to those varieties. So Pete was already talking about, and so I was listening very intently to what he was going to say. And he said yellow embers burn, which didn't make any sense to me because I didn't know anything about why yellow embers burn would be an attractive or desirable trait. So I said, why? What is this? And I think some of the other breeders that were there kind of responded in the same way, yellow embers burn. And Pete went on to explain that he had recognized that vitamin A deficiency was a serious problem throughout Asia and particularly in rice-consuming populations because there was no pro-vitamin A but a carotene in rice. And particularly children, when they're being reamed, are fed a rule which is made up almost totally of rice and therefore often lack vitamin A and then suffer either the direct consequences, but it also makes them susceptible to diseases as well. So he explained that and made a lot of sense to me. And when I went back, my job was to begin thinking about how we put together programs to address each of these traits. But I've heard when he put his priorities together, yellow embers burn was very difficult for him to put into a system because there was no yield for a gone. His method required that. So he tried to develop a way of pricing what yellow embers burn might allow in the sense of not having to provide supplementation and fortification programs. So he was able to build that into his priorities and it did become one of our priority traits.