Now of all this absurd man's absurd ideas, his fondest, and consequently his most absurd, was that, fundamentally, the nature of both blacks and whites is the same. He contended that education and opportunity are alone responsible for the difference. He said he would prove it.
Taking from the nearest tribe a little half-caste girl, perhaps eight years of age, he sent her south to school, and, cutting off all communication with her people, sat himself down to watch results.
After the child had been enjoying the advantages of every luxury for ten years, he went down to ascertain what progress she had made, and was astounded at the result. In place of the half-wild urchin he remembered, he found a well-mannered, accomplished girl, able to hold her own anywhere. She received him with an air of abandon that staggered him, and he was pleased beyond measure. He said he would go down to the Club and show the scoffers there that one theory, at least, had proved successful.
On reaching it he discovered a strange generation, and was not a little chagrined to find himself and his theories almost forgotten. The younger men watched him meandering about the rooms, and said to each other, "Who is this old bore Pennethorne, and what forgotten part of the interior does he come from?"
So delighted was he with the success of his scheme that he sent the girl to Europe for a year, he himself returning to the Back-blocks. It must be remembered here that her colour was not pure black, but a sort of dirty brown, that she was by no means ill-looking, and that she had been perfectly educated.
Then came the situation he should have foreseen, "When her education was completed, what was to be done with her?" In the loneliness of his station he thought and thought, but could come to no conclusion. She would know enough to make a perfect governess; but then, perhaps, no one would care to give her employment. It was impossible that she should go back to the tribe, and it was equally unlikely that any suitable man would ask her hand in marriage. He began to realize what a white elephant he had raised up for himself.
One cold winter's night, when the rain was beating down and the wind whistling round the station-house, it flashed through his mind that it would be by no means unpleasant to exchange his grumpy old housekeeper for a younger woman—one who could make the evenings pleasant with music and intellectual conversation. But it would have this drawback—it would mean matrimony.
All this time his protégée was writing him charming letters from Rome and Naples, commenting shrewdly on all the wonders she was seeing. Sometimes on the run he would read these letters, and think out certain schemes all by himself.
On her return he went down to Sydney for the special purpose of meeting her. He found a pretty little woman in a neat dark blue travelling dress awaiting him. Her white cuffs and collar contrasted charmingly with her dark complexion. She received him very nicely, and he noticed that she had picked up the little mannerisms of the better-class Englishwomen she had met. They drove to the Australian, and a week later were married by special licence.
Most men who remembered him said he was a very big fool; the rest said that they would give their opinions when they saw how events turned out.