At this juncture we heard uncle Jay-Jay’s voice, so Mr Beecham went
towards the back, whence it proceeded, after he left me at the front
door.
“Oh, auntie, we got on splendidly! He’s not a bit of trouble. We’re as
chummy as though we had been reared together,” I exclaimed.
“Did you get him to talk?”
“Oh yes.”
“Did you really?” in surprise.
When I came to review the matter I was forced to confess that I had
done all the talking, and young Beecham the listening; moreover I
described him as the quietest man I had ever seen or heard of.
The judge did not come home with uncle Jay-Jay as expected so it was
not necessary for me to shelter Harold Beecham under my wing. Grannie
greeted him cordially as “Harold, my boy”, he was a great favourite
with her. She and uncle Julius monopolized him for the evening. There
was great talk of trucking sheep, the bad outlook as regarded the
season, the state of the grass in the triangle, the Leigh Spring, the
Bimbalong, and several other paddocks, and of the condition of the
London wool market. It did not interest me, so I dived into a book,
only occasionally emerging therefrom to smile at Mr Beecham.
He had come to Caddagat for a pair of bullocks which had been fattening
in grannie’s home paddock. Uncle gave him a start with them next
morning. When they came out on the road I was standing in a bed of
violets in a tangled corner of the garden, where roses climbed to kiss
the lilacs, and spiraea stooped to rest upon the wallflowers, and where
two tall kurrajongs stood like sentries over all. Harold Beecham
dismounted, and, leaning over the fence, lingered with me, leaving the
bullocks to uncle Jay-Jay. Uncle raved vigorously. Women, he asserted,
were the bane of society and the ruination of all men; but he had
always considered Harold as too sensible to neglect his business to
stand grinning at a pesky youngster in short skirts and a pigtail.
Which was the greatest idiot of the two he didn’t know.
His grumbling did not affect Harold in the least.
“Complimentary to both of us,” he remarked as he leisurely threw
himself across his great horse, and smiled his pleasant quiet smile,
disclosing two rows of magnificent teeth, untainted by contamination
with beer or tobacco. Raising his panama hat with the green fly-veil
around it, he cantered off. I wondered as I watched him if anything
ever disturbed his serenity, and desired to try. He looked too big and
quiet to be ruffled by such emotions as rage, worry, jealousy, or even
love. Returning to the house, I put aunt Helen through an exhaustive
catechism concerning him.
_Question._ Auntie, what age is Harold Beecham?
_Answer._ Twenty-five last December.
_Q._ Did he ever have any brothers or sisters?
_A._ No. His birth caused his mother’s death. Q. How long has his
father been dead?
_A._ Since Harold could crawl.
_Q._ Who reared him?
A. His aunts.
_Q._ Does he ever talk any more than that? A. Often a great deal less.
_Q._ Is he really very rich?
_A._ If he manages to pull through these seasons he will be second to
none but Tyson in point of wealth.
_Q._ Is Five-Bob a very pretty place?
_A._ Yes; one of the show places of the district. Q. Does he often come
to Caddagat?
_A._ Yes, he often drops in.
_Q._ What makes his hair so black and his moustache that light colour?
A. You’ll have to study science to find that out. I’m sure I can’t tell
you.
_Q._ Does he—?
“Now, Sybylla,” said auntie, laughing, “you are taking a suspicious
interest in my sunburnt young giant. Did I not tell you he was taking
time by the forelock when he brought the apples?”
“Oh, auntie, I am only asking questions because—”
“Yes, because, because, I understand perfectly. Because you are a girl,
and all the girls fall a victim to Harry’s charms at once. If you don’t
want to succumb meekly to your fate, ‘Heed the spark or you may dread
the fire.’ That is the only advice I can tender you.”
This was a Thursday, and on the following Sunday Harold Beecham
reappeared at Caddagat and remained from three in the afternoon until
nine at night. Uncle Julius and Frank Hawden were absent. The weather
had taken a sudden backward lurch into winter again, so we had a fire.
Harold sat beside it all the time, and interposed yes and no at the
proper intervals in grannie’s brisk business conversation, but he never
addressed one word to me beyond “Good afternoon, Miss Melvyn,” on his
arrival, and “Good night, Miss Melvyn,” when leaving.
I studied him attentively all the while. What were his ideas and
sentiments it were hard to tell: he never expressed any. He was
fearfully and wonderfully quiet. Yet his was an intelligent silence,
not of that wooden brainless description which casts a damper on
company, neither was it of the morose or dreaming order.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Principally Letters