Betty Wayside

THE waterside suburbs of Sydney, hugging the southern shores of its
famous harbour, are the pick of the city. The three Points, rocky
tongues projecting into the harbour waters, and dropping in gentle
slopes to the rocks and the seaweed, are the preserves of the rich,
but behind them, and one degree removed, like second cousins, lie the
eastern suburbs, packed with houses, lined with shops, and clamorous
with the traffic that supplies the needs of the multitude.

Paddington is the chief of these, and Crystal Street lies in the
heart of Paddington where a sudden dip in the land gives a tantalising
glimpse of the harbour waters and the ships. On one side of the street
the houses are built high, on the other they are built low, the ground
slipping from under their feet as it begins its descent to the water's
edge. It was on this lower slope that the Wayside's cottage was built.
If second thoughts are best, then Cremona Cottage was the finest in
the street, but proverbs sometimes confound their makers.

The first builder had begun the cottage in wood, and at a later date
another had finished it in brick. This discrepancy was not apparent to
the casual eye, for layers of paint, added through the years, had
covered the front with a skin of uniform colour. The two main rooms,
one of wood, and the other or brick, were surprisingly large and airy.
Behind these were two more rooms as long as the others, but as narrow
as a ship's cabin. Owing to the drop in the ground the floor here was
supported on piles ten feet high. When you opened the back door, it
seemed that the builders had forgotten the kitchen, for you were on a
landing with a rail that stood level with the top branches of the fig-
tree. Then you discovered it in the yard below at the bottom of a
wooden staircase.

And it stood apart from the house, conscious that it was more than a
kitchen and something less than a dining-room. It may seem trivial to
mention that the door of the kitchen opened directly opposite the
stairs from above, but this was of considerable importance to
strangers, for the ladder-like stairs were so steep and worn with age
that unwary visitors, gathering momentum in the descent, took the last
three steps at a run, and slid into the hospitable mouth of the
kitchen as if impelled by sudden hunger. They had another and more
tragic aspect, dating from Betty's childhood. Beside, the house was a
long brick room, its roof on a level with the street and containing
two large windows and a door that was always shut. It was here Mr.
Wayside worked when he was in the humour.

Owing to the peculiar habits of Mr. Wayside, this story begins at
daybreak on an April morning, for it was his custom in fine weather to
salute the dawn, brew himself a cup of tea, and potter about the
garden till the world was astir. Then, having breakfasted and read the
newspaper, he retired to a couch in the workshop and slept soundly
till noon.

This morning, when he opened the door above the stairs, and slowly
descended into the garden, the sun had not yet risen, but a wonderful
shining brightness in the east marked its approach. Mr. Wayside
watched with adoration this celestial, virginal light spread
imperceptibly over the upper reaches of the sky, blotting out the
stars in its noiseless approach. The cocks, immemorial heralds of the
dawn, threw their strident notes into the air with a ferocious energy.
As if in answer to their call, a direct shaft from the sun struck the
leaden belt of clouds in the west. They flushed an adorable rosy red,
hanging like curtains that had caught fire; the bright light leaped to
the horizon, and the day had come. There was the indescribable
freshness of the morning in the air, something that touches the
earliest springs of life, and the old man watched the sky with a rapt
gaze that turned to a sombre look, for the call of the dawn had grown
fainter across the years. Having paid homage to the day, for an hour
he paced the asphalt paths in a tranquil reverie.