CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Boast Not Thyself of Tomorrow
We felt the loss of the Beechams very, very much. It was sad to think
of Five-Bob—pleasant, hospitable Five-Bob—as shut up, with no one but a
solitary caretaker there pending the settling of the Beecham
insolvency; with flowers running to seed unheeded in the wide old
garden, grass yellowing on the lawns, fruit wasting in wain-loads in
the great orchard, kennels, stables, fowl-houses, and cow-yards empty
and deserted. But more than all, we missed the quiet, sunburnt,
gentlemanly, young giant whose pleasant countenance and strapping
figure were always welcome at Caddagat.
Fortunately, Christmas preparations gave us no rest for the soles of
our feet, and thus we had little time to moon about such things: in
addition, uncle Jay-Jay was preparing for a trip, and fussed so that
the whole place was kept in a state of ferment.
We had fun, feasting, and company to no end on Christmas Day. There
were bank clerks and young fellows out of offices from Gool-Gool,
jackeroos and governesses in great force from neighbouring holdings,
and we had a merry time.
On Boxing Day uncle Jay-Jay set out on a tour to New Zealand, intending
to combine business with pleasure, as he meant to bring back some stud
stock if he could make a satisfactory bargain. Boxing Day had fallen on
a Saturday that year, and the last of our guests departed on Sunday
morning. It was the first time we had had any quietude for many weeks,
so in the afternoon I went out to swing in my hammock and meditate upon
things in general. Taking with me a bountiful supply of figs, apricots,
and mulberries, I laid myself out for a deal of enjoyment in the cool
dense shade under the leafy kurrajong- and cedar-trees.
To begin with, Harold Beecham was gone, and I missed him at every turn.
I need not worry about being engaged to be married, as four years was a
long, long time. Before that Harold might take a fancy to someone else,
and leave me free; or he might die, or I might die, or we both might
die, or fly, or cry, or sigh, or do one thing or another, and in the
meantime that was not the only thing to occupy my mind: I had much to
contemplate with joyful anticipation.
Towards the end of February a great shooting and camping party,
organized by grannie, was to take place. Aunt Helen, grannie, Frank
Hawden, myself, and a number of other ladies and gentlemen, were going
to have ten days or a fortnight in tents among the blue hills in the
distance, which held many treasures in the shape of lyrebirds, musk,
ferns, and such scenery as would make the thing perfection. After this
auntie and I were to have our three months’ holiday in Sydney, where,
with Everard Grey in the capacity of showman, we were to see everything
from Manly to Parramatta, the Cyclorama to the Zoo, the theatres to the
churches, the restaurants to the jails, and from Anthony Hordern’s to
Paddy’s Market. Who knows what might happen then? Everard had promised
to have my talents tested by good judges. Might it not be possible for
me to attain one of my ambitions—enter the musical profession? joyful
dream! Might I not be able to yet assist Harold in another way than
matrimony?
Yes, life was a pleasant thing to me now. I forgot all my wild
unattainable ambitions in the little pleasures of everyday life. Such a
thing as writing never entered my head. I occasionally dreamt out a
little yarn which, had it appeared on paper, would have brimmed over
with pleasure and love—in fact, have been redolent of life as I found
it. It was nice to live in comfort, and among ladies and
gentlemen—people who knew how to conduct themselves properly, and who
paid one every attention without a bit of fear of being twitted with
“laying the jam on”.
I ate another fig and apricot, a mulberry or two, and was interrupted
in the perusal of my book by the clatter of galloping hoofs approaching
along the road. I climbed on to the fence to see who it could be who
was coming at such a breakneck pace. He pulled the rein opposite me,
and I recognized a man from Dogtrap. He was in his shirt-sleeves; his
horse was all in a lather, and its scarlet nostrils were wide open, and
its sides heaving rapidly.
“I say, miss, hunt up the men quickly, will you?” he said hurriedly.
“There’s a tremenjous fire on Wyambeet, and we’re short-handed. I’m
goin’ on to knock them up at Bimbalong.”
“Hold hard,” I replied. “We haven’t a man on the place, only Joe
Slocombe, and I heard him say he would ride down the river and see what
the smoke was about; so he will be there. Mr Hawden and the others have
gone out for the day. You go back to the fire at once; I’ll rouse them
up at Birribalong.”
“Right you are, miss. Here’s a couple of letters. My old moke flung a
shoe and went dead lame at Dogtrap; an’ wile I was saddlun another, Mrs
Butler stuffed ’em in me pocket.”
He tossed them over the fence, and, wheeling his mount, galloped the
way he had come. The letters fell, address upwards, on the ground—one
to myself and one to grannie, both in my mother’s handwriting. I left
them where they lay. The main substance of mother’s letters to me was a
hope that I was a better girl to my grannie than I had been to her—a
sentiment which did not interest me.
“Where are you off to?” inquired grannie, as I rushed through the
house.