WATTLE BLOSSOMS

Southern Cross, Volume 1, Issue 18, 29 July 1893, Page 14

WATTLE BLOSSOMS

She was a plain little body, with no claims to any other beauty than that which -abides for ever with a kind heart and gentle thoughts; and her mind and heart were one. Like a brooding hen, with her world beneath her wing, she would have, been con*, tent to live for those children of her dreams that were never to be born. Still a young girl, she hoped for life, waiting in patient apprenticeship till freedom and sweet bondage should come at once, tlil she could understand love, and live so that she should die in the attained peace that rises from natural fulfilment. ■And in the long twilight of morning expectancy Maggie Wyatt tended another woman’s children on the banks .of the Australian Murray, just where 1 it. ceases to foam and fret, where it promises to widen and grow deep, so that it may bear burdens, even- as those do who drink its waters until-another cup is offered them. She loved the children, and was patient with them. It pleased her to learn their ways : their mother trusted her, for she looked calm and sweet. To one who might have known her she would have been sweeter, as sweet even as the golden wattle that crowned that spring. But among the men there none knew her worth; they were busy with other things. Nor indeed, had she seen among them even the semblance of her dream. Yet the shadow of it came at last, and worked with the others of her long year among- the hills.. He was a tall young fellow of 19, neither handsome nor ugly, but quick and strong to learn what work came to him. As yet, for all his youthful fancies of great precocious knowledge, he had not even the capability of learning the hearts of women. That was, perhaps, to come, but now he loped the horses and the lonely mountains, and the aspect of the quiet streams and the colours of bright birds. But soon the others saw and smiled. “ Maggie is very fond of Jack Seaton,” they said. But it never occurred to Jack for one moment. He was so busy in his new country. They lived under the same roof, for he was learning the ways of the sheep that browsed upon the hills above them. So he often heard her voice as she spoke to the children. But he never knew how beautiful a voice it was. And sometimes when she spoke to him or answered he saw her eyes. But he never saw then* beauty, though the beauty that grew into them was for him alone. No others ever said they were lovely. If he had looked upon them in some far year when he had learnt good and evil and was very tired, he might have known. But now he was but an ignorant child. One day, it was Sunday and summer, he asked her whether she would walk with him to the shed where they sheared the sheep. It lay through two gates, and was half a mile away. She walked exalted but with downcast eyes, trying to believe that she was with her lover, and not being satisfied to know that she was with Love. Jack talked of horses and the past shearing, and the tricks of sheep, and the sea, and of England. She knew he was only a boy, and, though she was a full year younger, she felt so strangely old. For the woman who loves is as old as the race; she has borne the world’s children. But Jack was very young still. They went through the woolshed gate and in the back door. They sat down in the heavy shadow that was shot with blazing sunrays that pierc® 1 the worn and broken roof. Outside the fight beat upon brown grass and the barren sheepyards. Stray locks of wool grew odorous in the heat. Just where they sat was the mark of

a snake that had crawled jby a week ago. For the dust lay heavy there. Then a puff of wattle scent grew about them ; the cooler hills had breathed' upon the plain> - “'How beautiful the wattle smells!” said Maggie 5 . - ;. “ I smell the sheep yolk,” answered Jack, with a smile. And he talked of his dog. As they went back she broke a tiny branch of wattle and gave it him. He smelt it and dropped it as he opened the garden gate for her. Then he went to .his. robmy. and wrote; letters home. She sat by the river all the' afternoon with the children But her eyes were bn the river. Would her life-stream ever broaden ? “ Perhaps.”‘Ahe said and smiled. < But the summer passed and the winter, and Maggie went hack to town to live with her sister. It struck her to the very heart to see how little Jack troubled. It pleased her so that hor heart stopped beating when he he said he might soon see her in town. ‘‘ I will write and tell you where I live,” said Maggie. She wrote him a letter. She wrote him many, but only one was sent, and that was not answered for a long time. When Jack’s answer did come he had seen as, little in the timid writen word as he had seen in her timid eyes. For six months he heard no more. But then he went down- to the town, that was only forty miles away. ■ One afternoon as he sat under the verandah of his hotel he saw a young woman pass who was dressed in mourning. She looked at him absently as she went by, and it seemed to him that he vaguely remembered her face. He asked the townsman who passed near him. . “ It’s Miss Wyatt,” he was told. Next day he met the same girl in the street, and stopped. B-aising his hat, he said—- ;.“ I think you are Miss Wyatt ? Might I ask how your sister is ? I knew her at-Tumut.” She threw one quick glance at him, and then tears filled her eyes. “You are Mr Seaton?” she said. And it was Maggie’s very voice. “ Yes,” answered Jack. “Maggie is dead,” said the girl; and then she wept bitterly. “Walk with me a little way, Mr Seaton.” And, without saying anything at all, Jack went with her. They came at last to a little house set hack behind a rose garden. “ I cannot ask you in, but wait. Maggie left a letter for me to give yon.” And Jack leaned against the fence and waited. Maggie’s sister returned in a minute, and as she came down the path he saw Maggie again for a little space. “ She died a week ago. And, Mr Seaton, perhaps you didn’t know, but Maggie loved you very much.” Then, though he could not see the sister, he saw Maggie and heard her voice : “ How beautiful the wattle smells! ” “I am sorry, I am sorry!” said J ack. “ Don’t he sorry,” said her sister ; “good-bye!” And he read the letter in the road: “ I am dying, and so you won’t he angry with me, Jack. For J loved you. Good-bye. lam glad that you should know. — Maggie.” And then Jack remembered how beautiful she was. He wished he had kept that spray of watttle blossom which he had dropped by the gate he had opened to let her pass through. —Aiorley Roberts, in the Sketch.