“Aunt Helen, I can truly say he has never, and will never extend to me
more than common politeness. Neither will any other man. Surely you
know enough of masculine human nature to see there is no danger of a
man losing his heart to a plain woman like me. Love in fancy and song
is a pretty myth, embracing unity of souls, congeniality of tastes, and
such like commodities. In workaday reality it is the lowest of
passions, which is set alight by the most artistic nose and mouth, and
it matters not if its object is vile, low, or brainless to idiocy, so
long as it has these attributes.”
“Sybylla, Sybylla,” said auntie sadly, as if to herself. “In the first
flush of girlhood, and so bitter. Why is this?”
“Because I have been cursed with the power of seeing, thinking, and,
worse than all, feeling, and branded with the stinging affliction of
ugliness,” I replied.
“Now, Sybylla, you are going to think of yourself again. Something has
put you out. Be sensible for once in a way. What you have said of men’s
love may be true in a sense, but it is not always so, and Harry is not
that kind of man. I have known him all his life, and understand him,
and feel sure he loves you truly. Tell me plainly, do you intend to
accept him?”
“Intend to accept him!” I echoed. “I haven’t once thought of such a
possibility. I never mean to marry anyone.”
“Don’t you care for Harold? Just a little? Think.”
“How could I care for him?”
“For many, many reasons. He is young, and very kind and gentle. He is
one of the biggest and finest-looking men you could find. He is a man
whom no one could despise, for he has nothing despicable about him.
But, best of all, he is true, and that, I think, is the bedrock of all
virtues.”
“But he is so conceited,” I remarked.
“That does not make him any the less lovable. I know another young
person very conceited, and it does not prevent me from loving her
dearly,” here aunt Helen smiled affectionately at me. “What you
complain of in Harold will wear off presently—life has been very easy
for him so far, you see.”
“But, auntie, I’m sure he thinks he could have any girl for the
asking.”
“Well, he has a great number to choose from, for they all like him.”
“Yes, just for his money,” I said scornfully. “But I’ll surprise him if
he thinks he can get me for the asking.”
“Sybylla, never flirt. To play with a man’s heart, I think, is one of
the most horribly unwomanly actions our sex can be guilty of.”
“I would scorn to flirt with any man,” I returned with vigour. “Play
with a man’s heart! You’d really think they had such a thing, aunt
Helen, to hear you talk. Hurt their vanity for a few days is the most a
woman could do with any of them. I am sick of this preach, preach about
playing with men’s hearts. It is an old fable which should have been
abolished long ago. It does not matter how a woman is played with.”
“Sybylla, you talk at random. The shortcomings of men are no excuse for
you to be unwomanly,” said aunt Helen.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The 9th of November 1896
The Prince of Wales’s birthday up the country was celebrated as usual
thereaway by the annual horse-races on the Wyambeet course, about
fourteen miles from Caddagat.
The holding of these races was an elderly institution, and was followed
at night by a servants’ ball given by one of the squatters. Last year
it had been Beecham’s ball, the year before Bossier’s, and this year it
was to take place in the woolshed of James Grant of Yabtree. Our two
girls, the gardener, and Joe Slocombe the groom, were to be present, as
also were all the other employees about. Nearly every one in the
district—masters and men—attended the races. We were going, Frank
Hawden volunteering to stay and mind the house.
We started at nine o’clock. Grannie and uncle Boss sat in the front
seat of the buggy, and aunt Helen and I occupied the back. Uncle always
drove at a good round gallop. His idea was to have good horses, not
donkeys, and not to spare them, as there were plenty more to be had any
day. On this morning he went off at his usual pace. Grannie urged as
remonstrance that the dust was fearful when going at that rate. I
clapped my hands and exclaimed, “Go it, Mr Bossier! Well done, uncle
Jay-Jay! Hurrah for Clancy!”
Uncle first said he was glad to see I had the spirit of an Australian,
and then threatened to put my nose above my chin if I failed to behave
properly. Grannie remarked that I might have the spirit of an
Australian, but I had by no means the manners of a lady; while aunt
Helen ventured a wish that I might expend all my superfluous spirits on
the way, so that I would be enabled to deport myself with a little
decorum when arrived at the racecourse.
We went at a great pace; lizards and goannas scampered out of the way
in dozens, and, clambering trees, eyed us unblinkingly as we passed.
Did we see a person or vehicle a tiny speck ahead of us—in a short time
they were as far away in the background.
“Please, uncle, let me drive,” I requested.
“Couldn’t now. Your grannie can’t sit in the back-seat—neither could
I—and look like a tame cockatoo while you sat in front. You ask Harry
to let you drive him. I bet he’ll consent; he’s sure to be in a sulky
with a spare seat on spec. We’re sure to overtake him in a few
minutes.”
There was a vehicle in the distance which proved to be from Five-Bob
Downs, but as we overhauled it, it was the drag, and not a sulky.
Harold occupied the driver’s seat, and the other occupants were all
ladies. I noticed the one beside him was wearing a very big hat, all
ruffles, flowers, and plumes.
“Shall I pull up and get you a seat?” inquired uncle Jay-Jay.
“No, no, no.”
The boss of Five-Bob drew to his side of the road, and when we had
passed uncle began to tease:
“Got faint-hearted, did you? The flower-garden on that woman’s hat
corked your chances altogether. Never mind, don’t you funk; I’ll see
that you have a fair show. I’ll get you a regular cart-wheel next time
I go to town, and we’ll trim it up with some of old Barney’s tail. If
that won’t fetch him, I’m sure nothing will.”
Before we got to the racecourse Barney went lame through getting a
stone in his hoof; this caused a delay which enabled the Five-Bob trap
to catch us, and we pulled rein a little distance apart at the same
time, to alight.
Mr Beecham’s groom went to his horses’ heads while Harold himself
assisted his carriageful of ladies to set foot on the ground. Aunt
Helen and grannie went to talk to them, but I stayed with uncle Jay-Jay
while he took the horses out. Somehow I was feeling very disappointed.
I had expected Harold Beecham to be alone. He had attended on me so
absolutely everywhere I had met him lately, that I had unconsciously
grown to look upon him as mine exclusively; and now, seeing he would
belong to his own party of ladies for the day, things promised to be
somewhat flat without him.
“I told that devil of a Joe to be sure and turn up as soon as I
arrived. I wanted him to water the horses, but I can’t see him
anywhere—the infernal, crawling, doosed idiot!” ejaculated uncle
Julius.
“Never mind, uncle, let him have his holiday. I suppose he’d like to
have time to spoon with his girl. I can easily water the horses.”
“That would suit Joe, I have no doubt; but I don’t pay him to let you
water the horses. I’ll water ’em myself.”
He led one animal, I took the other, and we went in the direction of
water a few hundred yards away.
“You run along to your grannie and the rest of them, and I’ll go by
myself,” said uncle, but I kept on with the horse.
“You mustn’t let a five-guinea hat destroy your hopes altogether,” he
continued, with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. “If you stick to
your guns you have a better show than anyone to bag the boss of
Five-Bob.”
“I am at a loss to interpret your innuendo, Mr Bossier,” I said
stiffly.
“Now, little woman, you think you are very smart, but you can’t deceive
me. I’ve seen the game you and Harry have been up to this last month.
If it had been any other man, I would have restricted your capers long
ago.”
“Uncle—” I began.
“Now, Sybylla, none of your crammers. There is no harm in being a bit
gone on Harry. It’s only natural, and just what I’d expect. I’ve known
him since he was born, and he’s a good all-round fellow. His head is
screwed on the right way, his heart is in the right place, and his
principles are tip-top. He could give you fal-de-rals and rubbish to no
end, and wouldn’t be stingy either. You’ll never get a better man.
Don’t you be put out of the running so cheaply: hold your own and win,
that’s my advice to you. There is nothing against him, only temper—old
Nick himself isn’t a patch on him for temper.”
“Temper!” I exclaimed. “He is always so quiet and pleasant.”
“Yes, he controls it well. He’s a fellow with a will like iron, and
that is what you want, as I find you have none of your own. But be
careful of Harry Beecham in a temper. He is like a raging lion, and
when his temper dies away is a sulking brute, which is the vilest of
all tempers. But he is not vindictive, and is easy managed, if you
don’t mind giving in and coaxing a little.”
“Now, uncle, you have had your say, I will have mine. You seem to think
I have more than a friendly regard for Mr Beecham, but I have not. I
would not marry him even if I could. I am so sick of every one thinking
I would marry any man for his possessions. I would not stoop to marry a
king if I did not love him. As for trying to win a man, I would scorn
any action that way; I never intend to marry. Instead of wasting so
much money on me in presents and other ways, I wish you would get me
something to do, a profession that will last me all my life, so that I
may be independent.”
“No mistake, you’re a rum youngster. You can be my companion till
further orders. That’s a profession that will last you a goodish
while.”
With this I had to be contented, as I saw he considered what I had said
as a joke.
I left uncle and went in quest of grannie, who, by this, was beyond the
other side of the course, fully a quarter of a mile away. Going in her
direction I met Joe Archer, one of the Five-Bob jackeroos, and a great
chum of mine. He had a taste for literature, and we got on together
like one o’clock. We sat on a log under a stringybark-tree and
discussed the books we had read since last we met, and enjoyed
ourselves so much that we quite forgot about the races or the flight of
time until recalled from book-land by Harold Beecham’s voice.
“Excuse me, Miss Melvyn, but your grannie has commissioned me to find
you as we want to have lunch, and it appears you are the only one who
knows the run of some of the tucker bags.”
“How do you do, Mr Beecham? Where are they going to have lunch?”
“Over in that clump of box-trees,” he replied, pointing in the
direction of a little rise at a good distance.
“How are you enjoying yourself?” he asked, looking straight at me.
“Treminjous intoirely, sor,” I replied.
“I suppose you know the winner of every race,” he remarked, quizzically
watching Joe Archer, who was blushing and as uneasy as a schoolgirl
when nabbed in the enjoyment of an illicit love-letter.
“Really, Mr Beecham, Mr Archer and I have been so interested in
ourselves that we quite forgot there was such a thing as a race at
all,” I returned.
“You’d better see where old Boxer is. He might kick some of the other
horses if you don’t keep a sharp look-out,” he said, turning to his
jackeroo.
“Ladies before gentlemen,” I interposed. “I want Mr Archer to take me
to grannie, then he can go and look after old Boxer.”
“I’ll escort you,” said Beecham.
“Thank you, but I have requested Mr Archer to do so.”
“In that case, I beg your pardon, and will attend to Boxer while Joe
does as you request.”
Raising his hat he walked swiftly away with a curious expression on his
usually pleasant face.
“By Jove, I’m in for it!” ejaculated my escort. “The boss doesn’t get
that expression on his face for nothing. You take my tip for it, he
felt inclined to seize me by the scruff of the neck and kick me from
here to Yabtree.”
“Go on!”
“It’s a fact. He did not believe in me not going to do his bidding
immediately. He has a roaring derry on disobedience. Everyone has to
obey him like winkie or they can take their beds up and trot off quick
and lively.”
“Mr Beecham has sufficient sense to see I was the cause of your
disobedience,” I replied.
“That’s where it is. He would not have cared had it been some other
lady, but he gets mad if any one dares to monopolize you. I don’t know
how you are going to manage him. He is a pretty hot member sometimes.”
“Mr Archer, you presume! But throwing such empty banter aside, is Mr
Beecham really bad-tempered?”
“Bad-tempered is a tame name for it. You should have seen the dust he
raised the other day with old Benson. He just did perform.”
I was always hearing of Harold Beecham’s temper, and wished I could see
a little of it. He was always so imperturbably calm, and unfailingly
good-tempered under the most trying circumstances, that I feared he had
no emotions in him, and longed to stir him up.
Grannie greeted me with, “Sybylla, you are such a tiresome girl. I
don’t know how you have packed these hampers, and we want to have
lunch. Where on earth have you been?”
Miss Augusta Beecham saluted me warmly with a kiss, and presented me to
her sister Sarah, who also embraced me. I went through an introduction
to several ladies and gentlemen, greeted my acquaintances, and then set
to work in dead earnest to get our provisions laid out—the Five-Bob
Downs party had theirs in readiness. Needless to say, we were combining
forces. I had my work completed when Mr Beecham appeared upon the scene
with two young ladies. One was a bright-faced little brunette, and the
other a tall light blonde, whom, on account of her much trimmed hat, I
recognized as the lady who had been sitting on the box-seat of the
Beecham drag that morning.
Joe Archer informed me in a whisper that she was Miss Blanche Derrick
from Melbourne, and was considered one of the greatest beauties of that
city.
This made me anxious to examine her carefully, but I did not get an
opportunity of doing so. In the hurry to attend on the party, I missed
the honour of an introduction, and when I was at leisure she was
sitting at some distance on a log, Harold Beecham shading her in a most
religious manner with a dainty parasol. In the afternoon she strolled
away with him, and after I had attended to the remains of the feast, I
took Joe Archer in tow. He informed me that Miss Derrick had arrived at
Five-Bob three days before, and was setting her cap determinedly at his
boss.
“Was she really very handsome?” I inquired.
“By Jove, yes!” he replied. “But one of your disdainful haughty
beauties, who wouldn’t deign to say good-day to a chap with less than
six or seven thousand a year.”
I don’t know why I took no interest in the races. I knew nearly all the
horses running. Some of them were uncle’s; though he never raced horses
himself, he kept some swift stock which he lent to his men for the
occasion.
Of more interest to me than the races was the pair strolling at a
distance. They were fit for an artist’s models. The tall, broad,
independent figure of the bushman with his easy gentlemanliness, his
jockey costume enhancing his size. The equally tall majestic form of
the city belle, whose self-confident fashionable style spoke of nothing
appertaining to girlhood, but of the full-blown rose—indeed, a splendid
pair physically!
Then I thought of my lack of beauty, my miserable five-feet-one-inch
stature, and I looked at the man beside me, small and round-shouldered,
and we were both dependent children of indigence. The contrast we
presented to the other pair struck me hard, and I laughed a short
bitter laugh.
I excused myself to my companion, and acceded to the request of several
children to go on a flower- and gum-hunting expedition. We were a long
time absent, and returning, the little ones scampered ahead and left me
alone. Harold Beecham came to meet me, looking as pleasant as ever.
“Am I keeping grannie and uncle waiting?” I inquired.
“No. They have gone over an hour,” he replied.
“Gone! How am I to get home? She must have been very angry to go and
leave me. What did she say?”
“On the contrary, she was in great fiddle. She said to tell you not to
kill yourself with fun, and as you are not going home, she left me to
say good night. I suppose she kisses you when performing that
ceremony,” he said mischievously.
“Where am I going tonight?”
“To Five-Bob Downs, the camp of yours truly,” he replied.
“I haven’t got a dinner dress, and am not prepared. I will go home.”
“We have plenty dinner dresses at Five-Bob without any more. It is Miss
Melvyn we want,” he said.
“Oh, bother you!” I retorted. “Men are such stupid creatures, and never
understand about dress or anything. They think you could go to a ball
in a wrapper.”
“At all events, they are cute enough to know when they want a young
lady at their place, no matter how she’s dressed,” he said
good-humouredly.
On reaching the racecourse I was surprised to see aunt Helen there.
From her I learnt that grannie and uncle Jay-Jay had really gone home,
but Mr Beecham had persuaded them to allow aunt Helen and me to spend
the night at Five-Bob Downs, our host promising to send or take us home
on the morrow. Now that I was to have aunt Helen with me I was
delighted at the prospect, otherwise I would have felt a little out of
it. With aunt Helen, however, I was content anywhere, and built a
castle in the air, wherein one day she and I were always to live
together—for ever! Till death!
Going home aunt Helen occupied a front seat with Harold and Miss
Derrick, and I was crammed in at the back beside Miss Augusta, who
patted my hand and said she was delighted to see me.
A great concourse of young men and women in vehicles and on horseback,
and in expectation of great fun, were wending their way to
Yabtree—nearly every trap containing a fiddle, concertina, flute, or
accordion in readiness for the fray.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Same Yarn—continued
Every station hand from Five-Bob, male and female, had gone to the ball
at Yabtree. Harold and his overseer had to attend to the horses, while
the jackeroos started a fire in the kitchen, opened windows and doors
which had been locked all day, and saw to the comfort of the gentlemen
guests.
Aunt Helen and I shared the one bedroom. As we had not fresh dresses to
put on we had to make the best of our present toilet.
I unplaited my hair (shook the dust out of it) and wore it flowing. We
washed and dusted ourselves, and wore as adornment—roses. Crimson and
cream roses paid the penalty of peeping in the window. Aunt Helen
plucked some of them, which she put in my hair and belt, and pinned
carefully at my throat, and then we were ready. Miss Beecham assured us
there was nothing to be done, as the maids had set the table and
prepared the viands for a cold meal before leaving in the morning, so
we proceeded to the drawing-room to await the arrival of the other
visitors. They soon made their appearance. First, two stout old
squatters with big laughs and bigger corporations, then Miss Augusta
Beecham, next Joe Archer the overseer, and the two other jackeroos.
After these appeared a couple of governesses, Mr, Mrs, and Miss Benson,
a clergyman, an auctioneer, a young friend of Harold’s from
Cootamundra, a horse-buyer, a wool-classer, Miss Sarah Beecham, and
then Miss Derrick brought herself and her dress in with great style and
airs. She was garbed in a sea-green silk, and had jewellery on her
neck, arms, and hair. Her self-confident mien was suggestive of the
conquest of many masculine hearts. She was a big handsome woman. Beside
her, I in my crushed white muslin dress was as overshadowed as a little
white handkerchief would be in comparison to a gorgeous shawl heavily
wrought in silks and velvet. She was given the best seat as though she
were a princess. She sat down with great indifference, twirled a
bracelet round her wrist, languidly opened her fan, and closed her eyes
as she wafted it slowly to and fro.
“By Jove, isn’t she a splendid creature?” enthusiastically whispered a
gentleman sitting beside me.
I looked at her critically. She was very big, and in a bony stiff way
was much developed in figure. She had a nice big nose, and a long
well-shaped face, a thin straight mouth, and empty light eyes. If my
attention had not been called to her I would not have noticed her one
way or the other, but being pointed to as a beauty, I weighed her
according to my idea of facial charm, and pronounced her one of the
most insipid-looking people I had set eyes upon.
She was the kind of woman with whom men become much infatuated. She
would never make a fool of herself by letting her emotions run away
with her, because she had no emotions, but lived in a sea of unruffled
self-consciousness and self-confidence. Any man would be proud to
introduce her as his wife to his friends whom he had brought home to
dinner. She would adorn the head of his table. She would never worry
him with silly ideas. She would never act with impropriety. She would
never become a companion to her husband. Bah, a man does not want his
wife to be a companion! There were myths and fables in the old day; so
there are now. The story that men like a companion as well as a wife is
an up-to-date one.
This train of thought was interrupted by our host, who appeared in the
doorway, clad from sole to neck in white. We steered for the
dining-room—twenty-two all told—thirteen men and nine representatives
of the other sex.
Aunt Helen got one seat of honour near the head of the table and Miss
Derrick another. I drifted to the foot among the unimportant younger
fry, where we had no end of fun and idle chatter. We had to wait on
ourselves, and as all formality was dispensed with, it was something
like a picnic.
The heat was excessive. Every window and door were open, and the balmy,
almost imperceptible, zephyrs which faintly rustled the curtains and
kissed our perspiration-beaded brows were rich with many scents from
the wide old flower-garden, which, despite the drought, brought forth a
wealth of blossom.
When done eating we had to wash the dishes. Such a scamper ensued back
and forwards to the kitchen, which rang with noise, and merriment.
Everyone was helping, hindering, laughing, joking, teasing, and
brimming over with fun and enjoyment. When we had completed this task,
dancing was proposed. Some of the elderly and more sensible people said
it was too hot, but all the young folks did not care a rap for the
temperature. Harold had no objections, Miss Derrick was agreeable, Miss
Benson announced herself ready and willing, and Joe Archer said he was
“leppin’” to begin, so we adjourned to the dancing-room and commenced
operations.
I played the piano for the first quadrille, and aunt Helen for the
second dance. It was most enjoyable. There was a table at one end of
the room on which was any amount of cherries, lollies, cake, dainties,
beers, syrups, and glasses, where all could regale themselves without
ceremony or bother every time the inclination seized them. Several
doors and windows of the long room opened into the garden, and,
provided one had no fear of snakes, it was delightful to walk amid the
flowers and cool oneself between dances.
A little exertion on such a night made us very hot. After the third
dance the two old squatters, the horse-buyer, the clergyman, and Mr
Benson disappeared. Judging from the hilarity of their demeanour and
the killing odour of their breaths when they returned an hour or so
later, during their absence they must have conscientiously sampled the
contents of every whisky decanter on the dining-room sideboard.
I could not dance, but had no lack of partners, as, ladies being in the
minority, the gentlemen had to occasionally put up with their own sex
in a dance.
“Let’s take a breeze now and have a song or two, but no more dancing
for a while,” said some of them; but Harold Beecham said, “One more
turn, and then we will have a long spell and a change of programme.”
He ordered Joe Archer to play a waltz, and the floor soon held several
whirling couples. Harold “requested the pleasure” of me—the first time
that night. I demurred. He would not take a refusal.
“Believe me, if I felt competent, Mr Beecham, I would not refuse. I
cannot dance. It will be no pleasure to you.”
“Allow me to be the best judge of what is a pleasure to me,” he said,
quietly placing me in position.
He swung me once round the room, and then through an open window into
the garden.
“I am sorry that I haven’t had more time to look after you today. Come
round into my room. I want to strike a bargain with you,” were his
words.
I followed him in the direction of a detached building in the garden.
This was Harold’s particular domain. It contained three rooms—one a
library and office, another an arsenal and deed-room, and the third,
into which he led me, was a sort of sitting-room, containing a piano,
facilities for washing, a table, easy-chairs, and other things. As we
entered I noticed the lamp, burning brightly on the table, gleamed on
the face of a clock on the wall, which pointed to half past ten.
We stood beside the table, some distance apart, and, facing me, he
said:
“It is no use of me making a long yarn about nothing. I’m sure you know
what I want to say better than I do myself. You always are wonderfully
smart at seeing through a fellow. Tell me, will it be yes or no?”
This was an experience in love. He did not turn red or white, or yellow
or green, nor did he tremble or stammer, or cry or laugh, or become
fierce or passionate, or tender or anything but just himself, as I had
always known him. He displayed no more emotion than had he been
inviting me to a picnic. This was not as I had pictured a man would
tell his love, or as I had read of it, heard of it, or wished it should
be. A curious feeling—disappointment, perhaps—stole over me. His
matter-of-fact coolness flabbergasted me.
“Is this not rather sudden? You have given me no intimation of your
intentions,” I stammered.
“I didn’t think it wise to dawdle any longer,” he replied. “Surely you
have known what I’ve been driving at ever since I first clapped eyes on
you. There’s plenty of time. I don’t want to hurry you, only I want you
to be engaged to me for safety.”
He spoke as usual in his slow twangy drawl, which would have proclaimed
his Colonial nationality anywhere. No word of love was uttered to me
and none requested from me.
I put it down to his conceit. I thought that he fancied he could win
any woman, and me without the least palaver or trouble. I felt annoyed.
I said aloud, “I will become engaged to you;” to myself I added, “Just
for a little while, the more to surprise and take the conceit out of
you when the time comes.”
Now that I understand his character I know that it was not conceit, but
just his quiet unpretending way. He had meant all his actions towards
me, and had taken mine in return.
“Thank you, Sybylla, that is all I want. We will talk about the matter
more some other time. I will go up to Caddagat next Sunday. You have
surprised me nearly out of my wits,” here he laughed. “I never dreamt
you would say yes so easily, just like any other girl. I thought I
would have a lot of trouble with you.”
He approached me and was stooping to kiss me. I cannot account for my
action or condemn it sufficiently. It was hysterical—the outcome of an
overstrung, highly excitable, and nervous temperament. Perhaps my
vanity was wounded, and my tendency to strike when touched was up in
arms. The calm air of ownership with which Harold drew near annoyed me,
or, as Sunday-school teachers would explain it, Satan got hold of me.
He certainly placed a long strong riding-whip on the table beneath my
hand! As Harold stooped with the intention of pressing his lips to
mine, I quickly raised the whip and brought it with all my strength
right across his face. The instant the whip had descended I would have
smashed my arm on the door-post to recall that blow. But that was
impossible. It had left a great weal on the healthy sun-tanned skin.
His moustache had saved his lips, but it had caught his nose, the left
cheek, had blinded the left eye, and had left a cut on the temple from
which drops of blood were rolling down his cheek and staining his white
coat. A momentary gleam of anger shot into his eyes and he gave a gasp,
whether of surprise, pain, or annoyance, I know not. He made a gesture
towards me. I half expected and fervently wished he would strike. The
enormity of what I had done paralysed me. The whip fell from my fingers
and I dropped on to a low lounge behind me, and placing my elbows on my
knees crouchingly buried my face in my hands; my hair tumbled softly
over my shoulders and reached the floor, as though to sympathetically
curtain my humiliation. Oh, that Harold would thrash me severely! It
would have infinitely relieved me. I had done a mean unwomanly thing in
thus striking a man, who by his great strength and sex was debarred
retaliation. I had committed a violation of self-respect and common
decency; I had given a man an ignominious blow in the face with a
riding-whip. And that man was Harold Beecham, who with all his strength
and great stature was so wondrously gentle—who had always treated my
whims and nonsense with something like the amused tolerance held by a
great Newfoundland for the pranks of a kitten.
The clock struck eleven.
“A less stinging rebuke would have served your purpose. I had no idea
that a simple caress from the man whose proposal of marriage you had
just accepted would be considered such an unpardonable familiarity.”
Harold’s voice fell clearly, calmly, cuttingly on the silence. He moved
away to the other end of the room and I heard the sound of water.
A desire filled me to tell him that I did not think he had attempted a
familiarity, but that I had been mad. I wished to say I could not
account for my action, but I was dumb. My tongue refused to work, and I
felt as though I would choke. The splash of the water came from the
other end of the room. I knew he must be suffering acute pain in his
eye. A far lighter blow had kept me sleepless a whole night. A fear
possessed me that I might have permanently injured his sight. The
splash of water ceased. His footfall stopped beside me. I could feel he
was within touching distance, but I did not move.
Oh, the horrible stillness! Why did he not speak? He placed his hand
lightly on my head.
“It doesn’t matter, Syb. I know you didn’t mean to hurt me. I suppose
you thought you couldn’t affect my dark, old, saddle-flap-looking phiz.
That is one of the disadvantages of being a big lumbering concern like
I am. Jump up. That’s the girl.”
I arose. I was giddy, and would have fallen but for Harold steadying me
by the shoulder. I looked up at him nervously and tried to ask his
forgiveness, but I failed.
“Good heavens, child, you are as white as a sheet! I was a beast to
speak harshly to you.” He held a glass of water to my lips and I drank.
“Great Jupiter, there’s nothing to worry about! I know you hadn’t the
slightest intention of hurting me. It’s nothing—I’ll be right in a few
moments. I’ve often been amused at and have admired your touch-me-not
style. You only forgot you had something in your hand.”
He had taken it quite as a matter of fact, and was excusing me in the
kindest possible terms.
“Good gracious, you mustn’t stew over such a trifling accident! It’s
nothing. Just tie this handkerchief on for me, please, and then we’ll
go back to the others or there will be a search-party after us.”
He could have tied the handkerchief just as well himself—it was only
out of kindly tact he requested my services. I accepted his kindness
gratefully. He sank on his knee so that I could reach him, and I tied a
large white handkerchief across the injured part. He could not open his
eye, and hot water poured from it, but he made light of the idea of it
paining. I was feeling better now, so we returned to the ballroom. The
clock struck the half-hour after eleven as we left the room. Harold
entered by one door and, I by another, and I slipped into a seat as
though I had been there some time.
There were only a few people in the room. The majority were absent—some
love-making, others playing cards. Miss Beecham was one who was not
thus engaged. She exclaimed at once:
“Good gracious, boy, what have you done to yourself?”
“Looks as if he had been interviewing a belligerent tramp,” said aunt
Helen, smilingly.
“He’s run into the clothes-line, that’s what he’s done,” said Miss
Augusta confidently, after she had peeped beneath the bandage.
“You ought to get a bun for guessing, aunt Gus,” said Harold laughing.
“I told them to put the clothes-lines up when they had done with them.
I knew there would be an accident.”
“Perhaps they were put up high enough for ordinary purposes,” remarked
her nephew.
“Let me do something for you, dear.”
“No, thank you, aunt Gus. It is nothing,” he said carelessly, and the
matter dropped.
Harold Beecham was not a man to invite inquiry concerning himself.
Seeing I was unobserved by the company, I slipped away to indulge in my
foolish habit of asking the why and the wherefore of things. Why had
Harold Beecham (who was a sort of young sultan who could throw the
handkerchief where he liked) chosen me of all women? I had no charms to
recommend me—none of the virtues which men demand of the woman they
wish to make their wife. To begin with, I was small, I was erratic and
unorthodox, I was nothing but a tomboy—and, cardinal disqualification,
I was ugly. Why, then, had he proposed matrimony to me? Was it merely a
whim? Was he really in earnest?
The night was soft and dark; after being out in it for a time I could
discern the shrubs dimly silhouetted against the light. The music
struck up inside again. A step approached me on the gravelled walk
among the flowers, and Harold called me softly by name. I answered him.
“Come,” he said, “we are going to dance; will you be my partner?”
We danced, and then followed songs and parlour games, and it was in the
small hours when the merry goodnights were all said and we had retired
to rest. Aunt Helen dropped to sleep in a short time; but I lay awake
listening to the soft distant call of the mopokes in the scrub beyond
the stables.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
My Unladylike Behaviour Again
Joe Archer was appointed to take us home on the morrow. When our host
was seeing us off—still with his eye covered—he took opportunity of
whispering to me his intention of coming to Caddagat on the following
Sunday.
Early in the afternoon of that day I took a book, and, going down the
road some distance, climbed up a broad-branched willow-tree to wait for
him.
It was not long before he appeared at a smart canter. He did not see me
in the tree, but his horse did, and propping, snorted wildly, and gave
a backward run. Harold spurred him, he bucked spiritedly. Harold now
saw me and sang out:
“I say, don’t frighten him any more or he’ll fling me, saddle and all.
I haven’t got a crupper or a breastplate.”
“Why haven’t you, then? Hang on to him. I do like the look of you while
the horse is going on like that.”
He had dismounted, and had thrown the bridle rein over a post of the
fence.
“I came with nothing but a girth, and that loose, as it was so hot; and
I was as near as twopence to being off, saddle and all. You might have
been the death of me,” he said good-humouredly.
“Had I been, my fortune would have been made,” I replied.
“How do you make that out? You’re as complimentary as ever.”
“Everyone would be wanting to engage me as the great noxious
weed-killer and poisonous insect exterminator if I made away with you,”
I answered. I gave him an invitation to take a seat with me, and
accepting, he swung up with easy grace. There was any amount of
accommodation for the two of us on the good-natured branches of the old
willow-tree.
When he had settled himself, my companion said, “Now, Syb, I’m ready
for you. Fire away. But wait a minute, I’ve got something here for you
which I hope you’ll like.”
As he searched in his pockets, I noticed that his eye had quite
recovered, though there was still a slight mark on his cheek. He handed
me a tiny morocco case, which on being opened disclosed a costly ring.
I have about as much idea of the prices of things as a turkey would
have. Perhaps that ring cost thirty pounds or possibly fifty guineas,
for all I know. It was very heavy, and had a big diamond supported on
either side by a large sapphire, and had many small gems surrounding
it.
“Let me see if it fits,” he said, taking my hand; but I drew it away.
“No; don’t you put it on. That would make us irrevocably engaged.”
“Isn’t that what we intend to be?” he said in a tone of surprise.
“Not just yet; that is what I want to say to you. We will have three
months’ probation to see how we get on. At the end of that time, if we
manage to sail along smoothly, we’ll have the real thing; until then we
will not be any more than we have been to each other.”
“But what am I to do in the meantime?” he asked, with amusement curving
the corners of his mouth.
“Do! Do the usual thing, of course; but don’t pay me any special
attentions, or I’ll be done with you at once.”
“What’s your idea for this?”
“It is no use making fools of ourselves; we might change our minds.”
“Very well; so be it,” he said laughing. “I might have known you would
have things arranged different from any other girl. But you’ll take the
ring and wear it, won’t you? Let me put it on.”
“No; I won’t let you put a finger on me till the three months are up.
Then, if we definitely make up our minds, you can put it on; but till
then, don’t for the life of you hint by word or sign that we have any
sort of an arrangement between us. Give me the ring and I’ll wear it
sometimes.”
He handed it to me again, and I tried it on. It was a little large.
Harold took it, and tried to put it on one of his fingers. It would fit
on none but the very top of his little finger. We laughed heartily at
the disparity in the size of our hands.
“I’ll agree to your bargain,” he said. “But you’ll be really engaged to
me all the same.`
“Yes; under those conditions. Then it will not matter if we have a
tiff. We can part, and no one will be the wiser.”
On my suggesting that it was now time to go to the house, he swung
himself down by a branch and turned to assist me. Descending from that
tree was a feat which presented no difficulties to me when no one was
by, but now it seemed an awkward performance.
“Just lead your horse underneath, so that I can get on to his back,
thence to the ground quite easily,” I said.
“No fear! Warrigal wouldn’t stand that kind of dodge. Won’t I do? I
don’t think your weight will quite squash me,” he returned, placing
himself in leap-frog position, and I stepped on to his back and slid
from there to the ground quite easily.
That afternoon, when leaving the house, I had been followed by one of
the dogs, which, when I went up the willow-tree, amused himself chasing
water lizards along the bank of the creek. He treed one, and kept up a
furious barking at the base of its refuge. The yelping had disturbed
grannie where she was reading on the veranda, and coming down the road
under a big umbrella to see what the noise was about, as luck would
have it she was in the nick of time to catch me standing on Harold
Beecham’s back. Grannie frequently showed marked displeasure regarding
what she termed my larrikinism, but never before had I seen her so
thoroughly angry. Shutting her umbrella, she thrust at me with it,
saying, “shame! shame! You’ll come to some harm yet, you immodest,
bold, bad hussy! I will write to your mother about you. Go home at
once, miss, and confine yourself in your room for the remainder of the
day, and don’t dare eat anything until tomorrow. Spend the time in
fasting, and pray to God to make you better. I don’t know what makes
you so forward with men. Your mother and aunt never gave me the
slightest trouble in that way.”
She pushed me from her in anger, and I turned and strode housewards
without a word or glancing behind. I could hear grannie deprecating my
conduct as I departed, and Harold quietly and decidedly differing from
her.
From the time of my infancy punishment of any description never had a
beneficial effect upon me. But dear old grannie was acting according to
her principles in putting me through a term of penance, so I shut
myself in my room as directed, with goodwill towards her at my heart. I
was burning with shame. Was I bold and immodest with men, as accused of
being? It was the last indiscretion I would intentionally have been
guilty of. In associating with men I never realize that the trifling
difference of sex is sufficient to be a great wall between us. The fact
of sex never for an instant enters my head, and I find it as easy to be
chummy with men as with girls: men in return have always been very
good, and have treated me in the same way.
On returning from her walk grannie came to my room, brought me some
preachy books to read, and held out to me the privilege of saying I was
sorry, and being restored to my usual place in the society of the
household.
“Grannie, I cannot say I am sorry and promise to reform, for my
conscience does not reproach me in the least. I had no evil—not even a
violation of manners—in my intentions; but I am sorry that I vexed
you,” I said.
“Vexing me is not the sinful part of it. It is your unrepentant heart
that fills me with fears for your future. I will leave you here to
think by yourself. The only redeeming point about you is, you do not
pretend to be sorry when you are not.”
The dear old lady shook her head sorrowfully as she departed.
The afternoon soon ran away, as I turned to my bookcase for
entertainment and had that beautiful ring to admire.
I heard them come in to tea, and I thought Harold had gone till I heard
uncle Jay-Jay address him:
“Joe Archer told me you ran into a clothes-line on race-night, and ever
since then mother has kept up a daddy of a fuss about ours. We’ve got
props about a hundred feet long, and if you weren’t in the know you’d
think we had a telegraph wire to old St Peter up above.”
I wondered what Harold thought of the woman he had selected as his
future wife being shut up for being a “naughty girl”. The situation
amused me exceedingly.
About nine o’clock he knocked at my window and said:
“Never mind, Syb. I tried to get you off, but it was no go. Old people
often have troublesome straitlaced ideas. It will blow over by
tomorrow.”
I did not answer; so he passed on with firm regular footfall, and
presently I heard his horse’s hoof-beats dying away in the darkness,
and the closing and locking of doors around me as the household retired
for the night.
During the following fortnight I saw Harold a good many times at
cricket-matches, hare-drives, and so forth, but he did not take any
particular notice of me. I flirted and frolicked with my other young
men friends, but he did not care. I did not find him an ardent or a
jealous lover. He was so irritatingly cool and matter-of-fact that I
wished for the three months to pass so that I might be done with him,
as I had come to the conclusion that he was barren of emotion or
passion of any kind.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Sweet Seventeen
Monday arrived—last day of November and seventeenth anniversary of my
birth—and I celebrated it in a manner which I capitally enjoyed.
It was the time of the annual muster at Cummabella—a cattle-station
seventeen miles eastward from Caddagat—and all our men were there
assisting. Word had been sent that a considerable number of beasts
among those yarded bore the impress of the Bossier brand on their
hides; so on Sunday afternoon uncle Jay-Jay had also proceeded thither
to be in readiness for the final drafting early on Monday morning. This
left us manless, as Frank Hawden, being incapacitated with a dislocated
wrist, was spending a few weeks in Gool-Gool until he should be fit for
work again.
Uncle had not been gone an hour when a drover appeared to report that
twenty thousand sheep would pass through on the morrow. Grass was
precious. It would not do to let the sheep spread and dawdle at their
drovers’ pleasure. There was not a man on the place; grannie was in a
great stew; so I volunteered my services. At first she would not hear
of such a thing, but eventually consented. With many injunctions to
conduct myself with proper stiffness, I started early on Monday
morning. I was clad in a cool blouse, a holland riding-skirt, and a big
straw hat; was seated on a big bay horse, was accompanied by a
wonderful sheep-dog, and carried a long heavy stock-whip. I sang and
cracked my stock-whip as I cantered along, quite forgetting to be
reserved and proper. Presently I came upon the sheep just setting out
for their day’s tramp, with a black boy ahead of them, of whom I
inquired which was the boss. He pointed towards a man at the rear
wearing a donkey-supper hat. I made my way through the sheep in his
direction, and asked if he were in charge of them. On being answered in
the affirmative, I informed him that I was Mr Bossier’s niece, and, as
the men were otherwise engaged, I would see the sheep through.
“That’s all right, miss. I will look out that you don’t have much
trouble,” he replied, politely raising his hat, while a look of
amusement played on his face.
He rode away, and shouted to his men to keep the flock strictly within
bounds and make good travelling.
“Right you are, boss,” they answered; and returning to my side he told
me his name was George Ledwood, and made some remarks about the great
drought and so on, while we rode in the best places to keep out of the
dust and in the shade. I asked questions such as whence came the sheep?
whither were they bound? and how long had they been on the road? And
having exhausted these orthodox remarks, we fell a-talking in dead
earnest without the least restraint. I listened with interest to
stories of weeks and weeks spent beneath the sun and stars while
crossing widths of saltbush country, mulga and myall scrubs, of
encounters with blacks in Queensland, and was favoured with a graphic
description of a big strike among the shearers when the narrator had
been boss-of-the-board out beyond Bourke. He spoke as though well
educated, and a gentleman—as drovers often are. Why, then, was he on
the road? I put him down as a scapegrace, for he had all the winning
pleasant manner of a ne’er-do-well.
At noon—a nice, blazing, dusty noon—we halted within a mile of Caddagat
for lunch. I could have easily ridden home for mine, but preferred to
have it with the drovers for fun. The men boiled the billy and made the
tea, which we drank out of tin pots, with tinned fish and damper off
tin plates as the completion of the menu, Mr Ledwood and I at a little
distance from the men. Tea boiled in a billy at a bush fire has a
deliciously aromatic flavour, and I enjoyed my birthday lunch
immensely. Leaving the cook to collect the things and put them in the
spring-cart, we continued on our way, lazily lolling on our horses and
chewing gum-leaves as we went.
When the last of the sheep got off the Caddagat run it was nearing two
o’clock.
Mr Ledwood and I shook hands at parting, each expressing a wish that we
might meet again some day.
I turned and rode homewards. I looked back and saw the drover gazing
after me. I waved my hand; he raised his hat and smiled, displaying his
teeth, a gleam of white in his sun-browned face. I kissed my hand to
him; he bowed low; I whistled to my dog; he resumed his way behind the
crawling sheep; I cantered home quickly and dismounted at the front
gate at 2.30 p.m., a dusty, heated, tired girl.
Grannie came out to question me regarding the sex, age, condition, and
species of the sheep, what was their destination, whether they were in
search of grass or were for sale, had they spread or eaten much grass,
and had the men been civil?
When I had satisfactorily informed her on all these points, she bade me
have something to eat, to bathe and dress, and gave me a holiday for
the remainder of the day.
My hair was grey with dust, so I washed all over, arrayed myself in a
cool white dress, and throwing myself in a squatter’s chair in the
veranda, spread my hair over the back of it to dry. Copies of Gordon,
Kendall, and Lawson were on my lap, but I was too physically content
and comfortable to indulge in even these, my sworn friends and
companions. I surrendered myself to the mere joy of being alive. How
the sunlight blazed and danced in the roadway—the leaves of the
gum-trees gleaming in it like a myriad gems! A cloud of white, which I
knew to be cockatoos, circled over the distant hilltop. Nearer they
wheeled until I could hear their discordant screech. The thermometer on
the wall rested at 104 degrees despite the dense shade thrown on the
broad old veranda by the foliage of creepers, shrubs, and trees. The
gurgling rush of the creek, the scent of the flower-laden garden, and
the stamp, stamp of a horse in the orchard as he attempted to rid
himself of tormenting flies, filled my senses. The warmth was
delightful. Summer is heavenly, I said—life is a joy.
Aunt Helen’s slender fingers looked artistic among some pretty
fancy-work upon which she was engaged. Bright butterflies flitted round
the garden, and thousands of bees droned lazily among the flowers. I
closed my eyes—my being filled with the beauty of it all.
I could hear grannie’s pen fly over the paper as she made out a list of
Christmas supplies on a table near me.
“Helen, I suppose a hundredweight of currants will be sufficient?”
“Yes; I should think so.”
“Seven dozen yards of unbleached calico be enough?”
“Yes; plenty.”
“Which tea-service did you order?”
“Number two.”
“Do you or Sybylla want anything extra?”
“Yes; parasols, gloves, and some books.”
“Books! Can I get them at Hordern’s?”
“Yes.”
Grannie’s voice faded on my ears, my thoughts ran on uncle Jay-Jay. He
had promised to be home in time for my birthday spread, and I was sure
he had a present for me. What would it be?—something nice. He would be
nearly sure to bring someone home with him from Cummabella, and we
would have games and fun to no end. I was just seventeen, only
seventeen, and had a long, long life before me wherein to enjoy myself.
Oh, it was good to be alive! What a delightful place the world was!—so
accommodating, I felt complete mistress of it. It was like an orange—I
merely had to squeeze it and it gave forth sweets plenteously. The
stream sounded far away, the sunlight blazed and danced, grannie’s
voice was a pleasant murmur in my ear, the cockatoos screamed over the
house and passed away to the west. Summer is heavenly and life is a
joy, I reiterated. Joy! Joy! There was joy in the quit! quit! of the
green-and-crimson parrots, which swung for a moment in the rose-bush
over the gate, and then whizzed on into the summer day. There was joy
in the gleam of the sun and in the hum of the bees, and it throbbed in
my heart. Joy! Joy! A jackass laughed his joy as he perched on the
telegraph wire out in the road. Joy! joy! Summer is a dream of delight
and life is a joy, I said in my heart. I was repeating the one thing
over and over—but ah! it was a measure of happiness which allowed of
much repetition. The cool murmur of the creek grew far away, I felt my
poetry books slip off my knees and fall to the floor, but I was too
content to bother about them—too happy to need their consolation, which
I had previously so often and so hungrily sought. Youth! Joy! Warmth!
The clack of the garden gate, as it swung to, awoke me from a pleasant
sleep. Grannie had left the veranda, and on the table where she had
been writing aunt Helen was filling many vases with maidenhair fern and
La France roses. A pleasant clatter from the dining-room announced that
my birthday tea was in active preparation. The position of the yellow
sunbeams at the far end of the wide veranda told that the dense shadows
were lengthening, and that the last of the afternoon was wheeling
westward. Taking this in, in an instant I straightened the piece of
mosquito-netting, which, to protect me from the flies, someone—auntie
probably—had spread across my face, and feigned to be yet asleep. By
the footsteps which sounded on the stoned garden walk, I knew that
Harold Beecham was one of the individuals approaching.
“How do you do, Mrs Bell? Allow me to introduce my friend, Archie
Goodchum. Mrs Bell, Mr Goodchum. Hasn’t it been a roaster today?
Considerably over 100 degrees in the shade. Terribly hot!”
Aunt Helen acknowledged the introduction, and seated her guests,
saying:
“Harry, have you got an artistic eye? If so, you can assist me with
these flowers. So might Mr Goodchum, if he feels disposed.”
Harold accepted the proposal, and remarked:
“What is the matter with your niece? It is the first time I ever saw
her quiet.”
“Yes; she is a noisy little article—a perfect whirlwind in the
house—but she is a little tired this afternoon; she has been seeing
those sheep through today.”
“Don’t you think it would be a good lark if I get something and tickle
her?” said Goodchum.
“Yes, do,” said Harold; “but look out for squalls. She is a great
little fizzer.”
“Then she might be insulted.”
“Not she,” interposed auntie. “No one will enjoy the fun more than
herself.”
I had my eyes half open beneath the net, so saw him cautiously approach
with a rose-stem between his fingers. Being extremely sensitive to
tickling, so soon as touched under the ear I took a flying leap from
the chair somewhat disconcerting my tormentor.
He was a pleasant-looking young fellow somewhere about twenty, whose
face was quite familiar to me.
He smiled so good-humouredly at me that I widely did the same in
return, and he came forward with extended hand, exclaiming, “At last!”
The others looked on in surprise, Harold remarking suspiciously, “You
said you were unacquainted with Miss Melvyn, but an introduction does
not seem necessary.”
“Oh, yes it is,” chirped Mr Goodchum. “I haven’t the slightest idea of
the young lady’s name.”
“Don’t know each other!” ejaculated Harold; and grannie, who had
appeared upon the scene, inquired stiffly what we meant by such capers
if unacquainted.
Mr Goodchum hastened to explain.
“I have seen the young lady on several occasions in the bank where I am
employed, and I had the good fortune to be of a little service to her
one day when I was out biking. Her harness, or at least the harness on
the horse she was driving, broke, and I came to the rescue with my
pocket-knife and some string, thereby proving, if not ornamental, I was
useful. After that I tried hard to find out who she was, but my
inquiries always came to nothing. I little dreamt who Miss Melvyn was
when Harry, telling me she was a Goulburn girl, asked if I knew her.”
“Quite romantic,” said aunt Helen, smiling; and a great thankfulness
overcame me that Mr Goodchum had been unable to discover my identity
until now. It was right enough to be unearthed as Miss Melvyn,
grand-daughter of Mrs Bossier of Caddagat, and great friend and
intimate of the swell Beechams of Five-Bob Downs station. At Goulburn I
was only the daughter of old Dick Melvyn, broken-down farmer-cockatoo,
well known by reason of his sprees about the commonest pubs in town.
Mr Goodchum told us it was his first experience of the country, and
therefore he was enjoying himself immensely. He also mentioned that he
was anxious to see some of the gullies around Caddagat, which, he had
heard, were renowned for the beauty of their ferns. Aunt Helen,
accordingly, proposed a walk in the direction of one of them, and
hurried off to attend to a little matter before starting. While waiting
for her, Harold happened to say it was my birthday, and Mr Goodchum
tendered me the orthodox wishes, remarking, “It is surely pardonable at
your time of life to ask what age you have attained today?”
“Seventeen.”
“Oh! oh! ‘sweet seventeen, and never been kissed’; but I suppose you
cannot truthfully say that, Miss Melvyn?”
“Oh yes, I can.”
“Well, you won’t be able to say it much longer,” he said, making a
suggestive move in my direction. I ran, and he followed, grannie
reappearing from the dining-room just in time to see me bang the garden
gate with great force on my pursuer.
“What on earth is the girl doing now?” I heard her inquire.
However, Mr Goodchum did not execute his threat; instead we walked
along decorously in the direction of the nearest ferns, while Harold
and aunt Helen followed, the latter carrying a sun-bonnet for me.
After we had climbed some distance up a gully aunt Helen called out
that she and Harold would rest while I did the honours of the fern
grots to my companion.
We went on and on, soon getting out of sight of the others.
“What do you say to my carving our names on a gum-tree, the bark is so
nice and soft?” said the bank clerk; and I seconded the proposal.
“I will make it allegorical,” he remarked, setting to work.
He was very deft with his penknife, and in a few minutes had carved S.
P. M. and A. S. G., encircling the initials by a ring and two hearts
interlaced.
“That’ll do nicely,” he remarked, and turning round, “Why, you’ll get a
sunstroke; do take my hat.”
I demurred, he pressed the matter, and I agreed on condition he allowed
me to tie his handkerchief over his head. I was wearing his hat and
tying the ends of a big silk handkerchief beneath his chin when the
cracking of a twig caused me to look up and see Harold Beecham with an
expression on his face that startled me.
“Your aunt sent me on with your hood,” he said jerkily.
“You can wear it—I’ve been promoted,” I said flippantly, raising my
head-gear to him and bowing. He did not laugh as he usually did at my
tricks, but frowned darkly instead.
“We’ve been carving our names—at least, I have,” remarked Goodchum.
Harold tossed my sun-bonnet on the ground, and said shortly, “Come on,
Goodchum, we must be going.”
“Oh, don’t go, Mr Beecham. I thought you came on purpose for my
birthday tea. Auntie has made me a tremendous cake. You must stay. We
never dreamt of you doing anything else.”
“I’ve changed my mind,” he replied, striding on at such a pace that we
had difficulty in keeping near him. As we resumed our own head-wear,
Goodchum whispered, “A bulldog ant must have stung the boss. Let’s ask
him.”
On reaching the house we found other company had arrived in the persons
of young Mr Goodjay from Cummabella, his sister, her governess, and a
couple of jackeroos. They were seated on the veranda, and uncle
Jay-Jay, attired in his shirt-sleeves, was appearing through the
dining-room door with half a dozen bottles of home-made ginger ale in
his arms. Dumping them down on the floor, he produced a couple of tots
from his shirt-pockets, saying, “Who votes for a draw of beer? Everyone
must feel inclined for a swig. Harry, you want some; you don’t look as
though the heat was good for your temper. Hullo, Archie! Got up this
far. Take a draw out of one of these bottles. If there had been a dozen
pubs on the road, I’d have drunk every one of ’em dry today. I never
felt such a daddy of a thirst on me before.”
“Good gracious, Julius!” exclaimed grannie, as he offered the governess
a pot full of beer, “Miss Craddock can’t drink out of that pint.”
“Those who don’t approve of my pints, let ’em bring their own,” said
that mischievous uncle Jay-Jay, who was a great hand at acting the
clown when he felt that way inclined.
I was dispatched for glasses, and after emptying the bottles uncle
proposed a game of tennis first, while the light lasted, and tea
afterwards. This proposition being carried with acclamation, we
proceeded to the tennis court. Harold came too—he had apparently
altered his intention of going home immediately.
There were strawberries to be had in the orchard, also some late
cherries, so uncle ordered me to go and get some. I procured a basket,
and willingly agreed to obey him. Mr Goodchum offered to accompany me,
but Harold stepped forward saying he would go, in such a resolute
tragic manner that Goodchum winked audaciously, saying waggishly,
“Behold, the hero descends into the burning mine!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Ah, For One Hour of Burning Love, ’Tis Worth an Age of Cold Respect!
We walked in perfect silence, Harold not offering to carry my little
basket. I did not dare lift my eyes, as something told me the face of
the big man would not be pleasant to look upon just then. I twirled the
ring he had given me round and round my finger. I occasionally put it
on, wearing the stones on the palm-side of my finger, so that it would
not be taken for other than one of two or three aunt Helen had lent me,
saying I was at liberty to use them while at Caddagat, if it gave me
any pleasure.
The Caddagat orchard contained six acres, and being a narrow enclosure,
and the cherries growing at the extreme end from the house, it took us
some time to reach them. I led the way to our destination—a secluded
nook where grape-vines clambered up fig-trees, and where the top of
gooseberry bushes met the lower limbs of cherry-trees. Blue and yellow
lupins stood knee-high, and strawberries grew wild among them. We had
not uttered a sound, and I had not glanced at my companion. I stopped;
he wheeled abruptly and grasped my wrist in a manner which sent the
basket whirling from my hand. I looked up at his face, which was
blazing with passion, and dark with a darker tinge than Nature and the
sun had given it, from the shapely swelling neck, in its soft
well-turned-down collar, to where the stiff black hair, wet with
perspiration, hung on the wide forehead.
“Unhand me, sir!” I said shortly, attempting to wrench myself free, but
I might as well have tried to pull away from a lion.
“Unhand me!” I repeated.
For answer he took a firmer hold, in one hand seizing my arm above the
elbow, and gripping my shoulder with the other so tightly that, through
my flimsy covering, his strong fingers bruised me so severely that in a
calmer moment I would have squirmed and cried out with pain.
“How dare you touch me!” He drew me so closely to him that, through his
thin shirt—the only garment on the upper part of his figure—I could
feel the heat of his body, and his big heart beating wildly.
At last! at last! I had waked this calm silent giant into life. After
many an ineffectual struggle I had got at a little real love or
passion, or call it by any name—something wild and warm and splendidly
alive that one could feel, the most thrilling, electric, and exquisite
sensation known.
I thoroughly enjoyed the situation, but did not let this appear. A
minute or two passed and he did not speak.
“Mr Beecham, I’ll trouble you to explain yourself. How dare you lay
your hands upon me?”
“Explain!” he breathed rather than spoke, in a tone of concentrated
fury. “I’ll make _you_ explain, and I’ll do what I like with you. I’ll
touch you as much as I think fit. I’ll throw you over the fence if
_you_ don’t explain to _my_ satisfaction.”
“What is there that I can explain?”
“Explain your conduct with other men. How dare you receive their
attentions and be so friendly with them!”
“How dare you speak to me like that! I reserve the right of behaving as
I please without your permission.”
“I won’t have a girl with my engagement ring on her finger going on as
you do. I think I have a right to complain, for I could get any amount
of splendid women in every way to wear it for me, and behave themselves
properly too,” he said fiercely.
I tossed my head defiantly, saying, “Loose your hold of me, and I’ll
quickly explain matters to my own satisfaction and yours, Harold
Beecham.”
He let me go, and I stepped a pace or two away from him, drew the
costly ring from my finger, and, with indifference and contempt, tossed
it to his feet, where the juice of crushed strawberries was staining
the ground, and facing him, said mockingly:
“Now, speak to the girl who wears your engagement ring, for I’ll
degrade myself by wearing it no more. If you think I think you as great
a catch as you think yourself, just because you have a little money,
you are a trifle mistaken, Mr Beecham, that is all. Ha ha ha! So you
thought you had a right to lecture me as your future slave! Just fancy!
I never had the slightest intention of marrying you. You were so
disgustingly conceited that I have been attempting to rub a little of
it out of you. Marry you! Ha ha! Because the social laws are so
arranged that a woman’s only sphere is marriage, and because they
endeavour to secure a man who can give them a little more ease, you
must not run away with the idea that it is yourself they are angling
for, when you are only the bothersome appendage with which they would
have to put up, for the sake of your property. And you must not think
that because some women will marry for a home they all will. I trust I
have explained to your satisfaction, Mr Beecham. Ha ha ha!”
The jealous rage had died out of his face and was succeeded by
trembling and a pallor so ghastly, that I began to have a little faith
in descriptions of love which I had hitherto ridiculed.
“Are you in earnest?” he asked in a deadly calm voice.
“Most emphatically I am.”
“Then all I can say is that I haven’t much respect for you, Miss
Melvyn. I always considered that there were three classes of women—one,
that would marry a blackfellow if he had money; another, that were
shameless flirts, and who amuse themselves by flirting and disgracing
the name of woman; and a third class that were pure and true, on whom a
man could stake his life and whom he could worship. I thought you
belonged to this class, but I have been mistaken. I know you always try
to appear heartless and worthless, but I fancied it was only your youth
and mischief, and imagined you were good underneath; but I have been
mistaken,” he repeated with quiet contempt.
His face had regained its natural colour, and the well-cut pleasant
mouth, clearly seen beneath the soft drooping moustache, had hardened
into a sullen line which told me he would never be first to seek
reconciliation—not even to save his life.
“Bah!” I exclaimed sarcastically. “It appears that we all labour under
delusions. Go and get a beautiful woman to wear your ring and your
name. One that will be able to say yes and no at the right time; one
who will know how to dress properly; one who wouldn’t for the world do
anything that other women did not also; one who will know where to buy
the best groceries and who will readily sell herself to you for your
wealth. That’s the sort of woman that suits men, and there are plenty
of them; procure one, and don’t bother with me. I am too small and
silly, and have nothing to recommend me. I fear it speaks little for
your sense or taste that you ever thought of me. Ta-ta, Mr Beecham,” I
said over my shoulder with a mocking smile, and walked away.
When about half-way down the orchard reflection pulled me up shortly
under an apple-tree.
I had said what I had said because, feeling bitter for the want of
love, and because full of pain myself, I rejoiced with a sort of
revenge to see the same feeling flash across another’s face. But now I
was cool, and, forgetting myself, thought of Harold.
I had led him on because his perpetually calm demeanour had excited in
me a desire to test if it were possible to disturb him. I had thought
him incapable of emotion, but he had proved himself a man of strong and
deep emotion; might he not also be capable of feeling—of love? He had
not been mean or nasty in his rage, and his anger had been righteous.
By accepting his proposal of marriage, I had given him the right of
expressing his objection to any of my actions of which he disapproved.
I on my part had the liberty of trying to please him or of dissolving
our engagement. Perhaps in some cases there was actually something more
than wounded vanity when a man’s alleged love was rejected or spurned.
Harold had seemed to suffer, to really experience keen disappointment.
I was clearly in the wrong, and had been unwomanly beyond a doubt, as,
granting that Harold Beecham was conceited, what right had I to
constitute myself his judge or to take into my own hands the
responsibility of correcting him? I felt ashamed of my conduct; I was
sorry to have hurt any one’s feelings. Moreover, I cannot bear to be at
ill-will with my fellows, and am ever the first to give in after having
quarrelled. It is easier than sulking, and it always makes the other
party so self-complacent that it is amusing as well as convenient,
and—and—and—I found I was very, very fond of Harold Beecham.
I crept noiselessly up the orchard. He had his back to me, and had
moved to where a post of the fence was peeping out among the greenery.
He had his elbow placed thereon, and his forehead resting on his hand.
His attitude expressed dejection. Maybe he was suffering the torture of
a broken ideal.
His right hand hung limply by his side. I do not think he heard me
approach.
My heart beat quickly, and a fear that he would snub me caused me to
pause. Then I nerved myself with the thought that it would be only fair
if he did. I had been rude to him, and he had a right to play
tit-for-tat if he felt so disposed. I expected my action to be spurned
or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need
not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been
known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle
caressing clasp.
“Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such
horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I
murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me;
I was serious and in earnest. This must have expressed itself in my
eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time,
seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable
expression as he said:
“Are you in earnest? Well, that is something more like the little
woman.”
“Yes, I’m in earnest. Can you forgive me?”
“There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t
remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.”
“But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let
us start afresh.”
“How do you mean to start afresh?”
“I mean for us to be chums again.”
“Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; “I want to be something more.”
“Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me,” I replied.
“How? What do you mean?”
“I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered
one word of love to me.”
“Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise.
“It’s a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you
didn’t care a pin.”
“Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet
awhile? And talk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and
myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I
have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my
ring again?”
“Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love
you enough to marry you, but I will try my best.”
“Don’t you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night
and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don’t care a
straw for me?” and a pained expression came upon his face.
“Oh, Harold, I’m afraid I very nearly love you, but don’t hurry me too
much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but
I won’t take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked
for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him.
“Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast
of a rage? I often do that, you know,” he said.
“Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage
again. I can’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who
have nothing in them to carry them away—they cramp and bore me.”
“But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it
yet. Would you not be frightened of me?”
“No fear,” I laughed; “I would defy you.”
“A tomtit might as well defy me,” he said with amusement.
“Well, big as you are, a tomtit having such superior facilities for
getting about could easily defy you,” I replied.
“Yes, unless it was caged,” he said.
“But supposing you never got it caged,” I returned.
“Syb, what do you mean?”
“What could I mean?”
“I don’t know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you
say.”
“Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful
when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.”
The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon,
and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold
and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The
players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their
coats. Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were
attacked on all sides by a flood of banter.
My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed
ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box,
saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I
hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see—nothing but a
doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but
uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry
about tramps and politics.
I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the
good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with
Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper:
“Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting.”
“Don’t talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as
much as you like. I don’t want you to be like a nun. I’m not quite so
selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how
young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don’t detest me
altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?”
“No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!”
“Good night,” he replied, taking both my hands in his. “You are the
best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other
birthdays together.”
“It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter
than he was this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it was:
“Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good
night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So
long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night,
Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye,
Miss Melvyn! Good night all!”
I sat long by my writing-table that night—thinking long, long thoughts,
foolish thoughts, sad ones, merry ones, old-headed thoughts, and the
sweet, sweet thoughts of youth and love. It seemed to me that men were
not so invincible and invulnerable as I had imagined them—it appeared
they had feeling and affections after all.
I laughed a joyous little laugh, saying, “Hal, we are quits,” when, on
disrobing for the night, I discovered on my soft white shoulders and
arms—so susceptible to bruises—many marks, and black.
It had been a very happy day for me.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Thou Knowest Not What a Day May Bring Forth
The next time I saw Harold Beecham was on Sunday the 13th of December.
There was a hammock swinging under a couple of trees in an enclosure,
half shrubbery, partly orchard and vegetable garden, skirting the road.
In this I was gently swinging to and fro, and very much enjoying an
interesting book and some delicious gooseberries, and seeing Harold
approaching pretended to be asleep, to see if he would kiss me. But no,
he was not that style of man. After tethering his horse to the fence
and vaulting himself over it, he shook me and informed me I was as
sound asleep as a log, and had required no end of waking.
My hair tumbled down. I accused him of disarranging it, and ordered him
to repair the damage. He couldn’t make out what was the matter with it,
only that “It looks a bit dotty.”
“Men are queer creatures,” I returned. “They have the most wonderful
brains in some ways, but in little things they are as stupid as owls.
It is no trouble to them to master geology, mineralogy, anatomy, and
other things, the very name of which gives me a headache. They can see
through politics, mature mighty water reservoir schemes, and manage
five stations at once, but they couldn’t sew on a button or fix one’s
hair to save their life.”
I cannot imagine how the news had escaped me, for the story with which
Harold Beecham surprised and startled me on that long hot afternoon had
been common talk for some time.
He had come to Caddagat purposely to explain his affairs to me, and
stated as his reason for not having done so earlier that he had waited
until the last moment thinking he might pull himself up.
Business to me is a great mystery, into which I haven’t the slightest
desire to penetrate. I have no brains in that direction,—so will not
attempt to correctly reproduce all that Harold Beecham told me on that
afternoon while leaning against a tree at my feet and looking down at
me as I reclined in the hammock.
There was great mention of bogus bonds, bad investments, liabilities
and assets and personal estates, and of a thing called an official
assignee—whatever that is—voluntary sequestration, and a jargon of such
terms that were enough to mither a Barcoo lawyer.
The gist of the matter, as I gathered it, was that Harold Beecham,
looked upon as such a “lucky beggar”, and envied as a pet of fortune,
had been visited by an unprecedented run of crushing misfortunes. He
had not been as rich and sound in position as the public had imagined
him to be. The failure of a certain bank two or three years previously
had given him a great shaking. The tick plague had ruined him as
regarded his Queensland property, and the drought had made matters
nearly as bad for him in New South Wales. The burning of his wool last
year, and the failure of the agents in whose hands he had placed it,
this had pushed him farther into the mire, and now the recent “going
bung” of a building society—his sole remaining prop—had run him
entirely ashore.
He had sequestrated his estate, and as soon as practicable was going
through the courts as an insolvent. The personal estate allowed him
from the debris of his wealth he intended to settle on his aunts, and
he hoped it might be sufficient to support them. Himself, he had the
same prospects as the boundary-riders on Five-Bob Downs.
I had nothing to say. Not that Harold was a much-to-be-pitied man when
one contrasted his lot with that of millions of his fellows as
deserving as he; but, on the other hand, considering he had been reared
in wealth and as the master of it since his birth, to be suddenly
rendered equal with a labourer was pretty hard lines.
“Oh, Harold, I am so sorry for you!” I managed to stammer at last.
“Don’t worry about me. There’s many a poor devil, crippled and ill,
though rolling in millions, who would give all his wealth to stand in
my boots today,” he said, drawing his splendid figure to its full
height, while a look of stern pride settled on the strong features.
Harold Beecham was not a whimpering cur. He would never tell anyone his
feelings on the subject; but such a sudden reverse of fortune, tearing
from him even his home, must have been a great blow to him.
“Syb, I have been expecting this for some years; now that it is done
with, it is a sort of grim relief. The worst of all is that I’ve had to
give up all hope of winning you. That is the worst of all. If you
didn’t care for me when I was thought to be in a position to give you
all that girls like, you could never look at me now that I’m a pauper.
I only hope you will get some fellow who will make you as happy as I
would have tried to had you let me.”
I sat and wondered at the marvellous self-containment of the man before
me. With this crash impending, just imagine the worry he must have gone
through! But never had the least suspicion that he was troubled found
betrayal on his brow.
“Good-bye, Syb,” he said; “though I’m a nobody now, if I could ever be
of use to you, don’t be afraid to ask me.”
I remember him wringing the limp hand I mechanically stretched out to
him and then slowly revaulting the fence. The look of him riding slowly
along with his broad shoulders drooping despondently waked me to my
senses. I had been fully engrossed with the intelligence of Harold’s
misfortune—that I was of sufficient importance to concern him in any
way had not entered my head; but it suddenly dawned on me that Harold
had said that I was, and he was not in the habit of uttering idle
nothings.
While fortune smiled on him I had played with his manly love, but now
that she frowned had let him go without even a word of friendship. I
had been poor myself, and knew what awaited him in the world. He would
find that they who fawned on him most would be first to turn their
backs on him now. He would be rudely disillusioned regarding the fables
of love and friendship, and would become cynical, bitter, and sceptical
of there being any disinterested good in human nature. Suffering the
cold heart-weariness of this state myself, I felt anxious at any price
to save Harold Beecham from a like fate. It would be a pity to let one
so young be embittered in that way.
There was a short cut across the paddocks to a point of the road where
he would pass; and with these thoughts flashing through my mind,
hatless and with flying hair, I ran as fast as I could, scrambling up
on the fence in a breathless state just as he had passed.
“Hal, Hal!” I called. “Come back, come back! I want you.”
He turned his horse slowly.
“Well, Syb, what is it?”
“Oh, Hal, dear Hal! I was thinking too much to say anything; but you
surely don’t think I’d be so mean as to care a pin whether you are rich
or poor—only for your own sake? If you really want me, I will marry you
when I am twenty-one if you are as poor as a crow.”
“It is too good to be true. I thought you didn’t care for me. Sybylla,
what do you mean?”
“Just what I say,” I replied, and without further explanation, jumping
off the fence I ran back as fast as I had come.
When half-way home I stopped, turned, looked, and saw Harold cantering
smartly homewards, and heard him whistling a merry tune as he went.
After all, men are very weak and simple in some ways.