Was E'er a Rose Without Its Thorn?
I arose from bed next morning with three things in my head--a pair of
swollen eyes, a heavy pain, and a fixed determination to write a book. Nothing less than a book. A few hours' work in the keen air of a late autumn morning removed the swelling from my eyes and the pain from my temples, but the idea of relieving my feelings in writing had taken firm root in my brain. It was not my first attempt in this direction. Two years previously I had purloined paper and sneaked out of bed every night at one or two o'clock to write a prodigious novel in point of length and detail, in which a full-fledged hero and heroine performed the duties of a hero and heroine in the orthodox manner. Knowing our circumstances, my grandmother was accustomed, when writing to me, to enclose a stamp to enable me to reply. These I saved, and with them sent my book to the leading Sydney publisher. After waiting many weeks I received a polite memo to the effect that the story showed great ability, but the writer's inexperience was too much in evidence for publication. The writer was to study the best works of literature, and would one day, no doubt, take a place among Australian novelists.
This was a very promising opinion of the work of a child of thirteen, more encouraging than the great writers got at the start of their literary career; but it seemed to even my childish intelligence that the memo was a stereotyped affair that the publisher sent in answer to all the MSS. of fameless writers submitted to him, and also sent in all probability without reading as much as the name of the story. After that I wrote a few short stories and essays; but now the spirit moved me to write another book--not with any hope of success, as it was impossible for me to study literature as advised. I seldom saw a book, and could only spare time in tiny scraps to read them when I did.
However, the few shillings I had obtained at odd times I spent on paper, and in secret robbed from much-needed rest a few hours weekly wherein to write. This made me very weary and slow in the daytime, and a sore trial to my mother. I was always forgetting things I should not have forgotten, because my thoughts were engaged in working out my story. The want of rest told upon me. I continually complained of weariness, and my work was a drag to me.
My mother knew not what to make of it. At first she thought I was lazy
and bad, and punished me in various ways; but while my book occupied my
mind I was not cross, gave her no impudence, and did not flare up. Then
she began to fear I must be ill, and took me to a doctor, who said I was
much too precocious for my years, and would be better when the weather
got warmer. He gave me a tonic, which I threw out the window. I heard no
more of going out as nurse-girl: father had joined a neighbour who had
taken a road contract, and by this means the pot was kept, if not quite, at least pretty near, boiling.
Life jogged along tamely, and, as far as I could see, gave promise of
going to the last slip-rails without a canter, until one day in July 1896
mother received a letter from her mother which made a pleasant change in
my life, though, like all sweets, that letter had its bitter drop. It ran
as follows:--
My dear daughter, Lucy,
Only a short letter this time. I am pressed for time, as four or five
strangers have just come and asked to stay for the night, and as one of
the girls is away, I have to get them beds. I am writing about Sybylla. I
am truly grieved to hear she is such a source of grief and annoyance to
you. The girl must surely be ill or she would never act as you describe. She is young yet, and may settle down better by and by. We can only entrust her to the good God who is ever near. Send her up to me as soon as you can. I will pay all expenses. The change will do her good, and if her conduct improves, I will keep her as long as you like. She is young to mention in regard to marriage, but in another year she will be as old as I was when I married, and it might be the makings of her if she married early. At any rate she will be better away from Possum Gully, now that she is growing into womanhood, or she may be in danger of forming ties beneath her. She might do something good for herself up here: not that I would ever be a matchmaker in the least degree, but Gertie will soon be coming on, and Sybylla, being so very plain, will need all the time she can get.
Your loving mother,
L. Bossier.