SYBIL, THE SQUATTER'S GIRL
"By Jove! What a stunning girl. She's a peach!" whispered a Yeomanry
subaltern to his Australian friend as a beautiful girl entered the
spacious dining-room of Shepheard's Hotel in Cairo.
"Why, that's Sybil Graham--haven't seen her since she was a kid. My
word, she is a beauty now," said the Australian officer.
"Who is she?"
"One of our squatter's girls. That's her father and mother with her.
They've got miles of land, plenty of sheep and heaps of tin. He'll be
a lucky fellow who gets her."
"You know, old chap, I never thought you produced women like that in
Australia. No offence, you know. What I really mean is that the sun,
the want of what we call society, and the lack of cultured institutions
such as we have at home, must be a great handicap in bringing up a
girl."
"Young man, you're talking through your hat," was the blunt reply. "We
have ladies in Australia just as we have at home. And can you guess
what we haven't got?"
"No."
"Snobs! No time for all your damned conventions--'At Home' scandals
and Society calls. These girls of the bush are natural, jolly,
unconventional, but not loose. So far and no farther is their attitude
to mankind. And they've got an independence of character which knocks
you fellows sick when you meet them. They don't want any of these
insidious palavers and hollow attentions, and they'll tell a man pretty
quick what they think. My word! can't they choke a Johnny off."
"But, my dear fellow, all my friends who have visited Australia say
they haven't got manners, and all have a cockney twang. When they open
their mouths they always spoil the picture."
"I expect your friends have been dealing with the Pitt Street toughs or
Manly larrikins. By the way you speak, I don't suppose they have ever
been in the bush or visited some of our squatters' homes. Do you know
that some of these squatters are descendants of some of the finest
families in England. Apart from that, you will find better ladies on a
squatter's veranda than you will in Park Lane. I have been in London,
young fellow; in fact, I'm English, although I've been a long time in
Australia. So don't say I'm biased. But I am speaking from an
intimate knowledge of the people--not from a superficial glance which a
hen-brained tourist gets. It isn't affectation, trinkets, dresses and
a Society drawl that makes a lady. That's your standard. Society at
home--at least, in certain circles, is the most hollow and unhappy
creation I know. Everyone is in it, because they've got to be, but
every real white man or woman knows that it's the rottenest show on
earth. We don't stand for all that sort of thing out there. They
accept folks for what they are worth--I mean, if a person is decent,
law-abiding, cheerful and ambitious, the door of the Premier, squatter
and merchant is open to him."
"Look here, old chap, you can't chuck convention overboard entirely;
it's impossible."
"Rot! You speak as if Australia was a primitive land, without schools
and culture. You're entirely mistaken. We can educate and create a
most charming and distinctive type. I grant you that some of our
people may be narrow-visioned and have one-eyed views. I admit you
will find a few folks who think Britain is a land of peers, publicans
and paupers. But haven't you got in Britain the same narrow folks, the
same crude, ill-informed men and women who ignorantly air their views
to the disgust of every Colonial?"
"Yes, there's something in that, I agree. We have got them, but I've
heard Australian officers talk as if Australia was the only place on
God's earth," the subaltern ejaculated a little warmly.
"You condemn a nation for a few. Young man, you haven't travelled far
enough. And you make me tired to hear you talk in that way. You're a
nice fellow spoiled, I reckon. Why, where I live there's dozens of
English public school men working as cockies and jackaroos. They
wouldn't go back home if you paid them. They like the life. Everybody
makes them at home, and many of them have married our Australian girls.
These women can milk, bake, ride, drive, sew and rear the most charming
children. And they can meet you in a drawing-room with a natural grace
that is their own. Intellectually, too, they are pleasant to meet, for
the loneliness has given them time to think and read. Look at that
girl there, doesn't she look a lady?"
"Yes."
"Isn't she absolutely perfect?"
"Well, yes."
"Does her dress fit?"
"Decidedly."
"Do you think her table manners are awkward?"
"No."
"Isn't there something easy and natural, no false pose, a sort of
innate grace of mind and body?"
"Certainly, but is this not some strange exception, just as you find in
many parts?"
"No, my boy. You still seem to be unconvinced. Hang it all, there's
only one way to convince you. As they are rising from the table now,
get up and I'll introduce you."
"Hallo, Sybil, how are you?" said the Australian officer going forward.
"What--Jack Gordon!" she said, shaking hands. "I haven't seen you
since I was at school."
"How do, Jack?" said old Graham, in his blunt way. Then Mrs. Graham
accorded him the same warm welcome.
"Let me introduce Lieutenant Gore-Jones of the Yeomanry. Take him in
hand, Sybil. He's a good fellow spoiled."
"All right, Jack," said Sybil, smiling, and stepping towards the wide
veranda with her new-found friend. Gordon remained behind with the
parents to talk of old times.
"This _is_ a pleasure," said Jones as they sat down. "I never thought
of meeting such a charming person from down under."
Sybil frowned a little, then looking straight into his eyes said, "I
don't like honey, Mr. Jones, it's too sweet, and sweet things are often
sickly."
"I--I--I beg your pardon," he stammered, blushing a little.
"I'm afraid you expected to meet an aborigine, didn't you?" she said
more kindly, remembering the cue she had received from Jack Gordon.
"Not exactly--I'm afraid I have not met any Australians except the
troops."
"And what do you think of them? I'm rather interested, and like other
people's views."
"You're not super-sensitive, I hope," he remarked, "because some of
your fellows seem to be awfully touchy."
"Many Australians are; I'm not, now go on."
"Well, I like your men for their wonderful physique. They are as tough
as the oldest soldiers. But they're not very respectful, you know. I
mean, they don't salute; they stalk past with an air of equality and
even contempt. That's a bad sign in a soldier."
"Yes?" said Sybil, daintily lighting a neat cigarette and settling down
in her cosy chair.
"The officers, I hear, are excellent leaders, but, somehow, they don't
quite look the part--sort of mixed, don't you know. Somehow, their
build and clothes don't give them that distinctive touch which is the
hall-mark of the British officer. I suppose it's really a question of
breeding. They say in England it takes five generations to turn out a
gentleman. Americans seem the same as Australians. In fact, I've read
that all young and democratic countries are alike. Don't misunderstand
me, I'm not saying they are _not_ gentlemen. The life, I suppose,
knocks off the fine points."
"I see," said Sybil, turning her face towards him. "Then your
conception of a leader is a thin-waisted, well-corseted man, all hair
wash and side--a most perfect and arrogant dandy. I can't believe that
the tailor, manicurist and barber produce the leader. And you say that
our boys have not the fine touch about them. Do you think that really
counts in war? I think a Tommy wants a man to lead him whether he
looks a Caesar or Bill Sikes. You really infer that the Australian
blood is coarse and unrefined. Is that so, Mr. Jones?"
"Not exactly. But look over there. See these two Australian officers.
They seem ungainly in their clothes, and, apparently, feel awkward and
ill at ease in this show. They don't respect the polite conventions of
Society, and would turn the place into a sort of cowboy saloon if left
alone."
"What nonsense, Mr. Jones. And if I didn't feel that there was a hope
of you knowing us better, I would leave you. What I think you are
suffering from is the conservatism of the Britisher, a truly appalling
defect, as well as a lack of perception. I grant you that our
Australian tailors are absolutely the limit in turning out a man.
Still, I believe a man can die as gallantly in a flour sack as in a
Bond Street khaki suit. You say they seem ill at ease, and don't
lounge in their chairs as if to the manner born. You don't realise
that these men are men of action. Their life is spent in a hustling
way. They are workers, not idlers. Anything suggestive of luxurious
ease is interpreted by them as effeminate."
Her companion made as though to speak. But the girl went on:
"Now, look here, Mr. Jones, I'll lay an even bet with you that they'll
ride, jump and slice the lemon better than any of your troops in Cairo.
They're practical people, not dreamers who worry about etiquette and
the fine points. Now just you take a good look at their faces. You'll
note that they're bronzed, strong, with a cleft in the chin, and a
jaw-bone which speaks volumes. In fact, their whole make-up suggests a
sort of rude strength, which can face the rough and tumble of life.
They get that from their fathers, who, like my dear old dad, were the
pioneers of Australia. These men landed poor and had to fight drought,
aborigines, bushrangers, misfortune after misfortune. They were up
against it all the time. They built their houses from the trees, dug
their wells, fenced their land, scraped their pennies to get the
shillings to buy their stock. In the midst of success, disease often
struck them bare. Yet they stuck to it. Gradually the hard times
passed away, and to-day many are wealthy. My dad is one. I'm not
proud of his money, but I am proud of the grit and courage that has
made him rich. These are just the qualities that the soldier must
have."
"Oh, certainly," interjected Jones, fascinated by the radiant glow on
the animated features of this most charming girl. His logic was being
battered to death. He felt his position weakening. It began to dawn
on him that he was a conservative Britisher, who had simply been
uttering the parrot talk of hide-bound Tories. "You know, Miss Graham,
you're beginning to make me feel that I should go to Australia."
"If we were there now I would just whisk you away in my car and show
you the Bush. I do love to convince people, especially folks from the
old land. Then, Mr. Jones, you would see how free, how charming life
is in the Bush. We have all got beautiful homes, plenty of horses,
motors, even electric light on some of the stations. In fact, I know
of one old squatter who can produce a butler and footmen in breeches.
You can have joy rides on motors, picnics miles from civilisation, and
dances with the jolliest band of girls and boys I've seen. Everything
is natural, all is delightful. I love Australia. I'm awfully proud of
it. And I'm proud of those boys over there and all the others who have
come to help the old land. Don't judge them by trivial things, Mr.
Jones. If they're unconventional, and not good at saluting, they'll
stick to any man who can lead them through. In fact, they can fight
just as the Tommies did at Waterloo and Mons."
"Well," said Jones with a gasp, "you're an absolute revelation. I have
never quite met your type before."
"I'm different--Australian, eh?"
"And very nice too. That's honey, as you call it. But I have said it
and you needn't protest," he said with boyish enthusiasm. "Do you
think the girls would be kind to me if I went to Australia?"
"They'd spoil you; they spoil all Englishmen."
"Why?"
"Because they like them. They don't pick holes in them as you pick
holes in us."
"I'm sorry, really I'm sorry. I had no intention to offend."
"You're a good fellow spoiled, as Jack Gordon said."
"Thanks," said Mr. Jones, secretly pleased.
"You know, Mr. Jones, I know a most charming Englishman. He was our
Jackaroo. A public school man, he landed at our door and asked for a
job. He had a glass eye and insisted on wearing that and a white
indiarubber collar when working round the show. They ragged him, but
he stood it all. When they went too far he simply took off his jacket
and punched them soft. No matter what dirty job he got, he did it and
never whined. He had no airs, and never trumpeted his family lineage
or his school. He was just a dear, lovable English gentleman, who'd
been a bit foolish at home. He is here in the Australian contingent;
in fact, he's coming to see me to-night. Ah! here he is," she
gleefully exclaimed, as a tall, well-built soldier, with a monocle,
casually stepped on to the veranda. "Come and be introduced?"
"What! To a Tommy," said the surprised subaltern.
"Yes--and a _gentleman_," Sybil emphasised.
"Hallo, dear boy!"
"Well, Sybil, what a surprise when I got your wire."
"Let me introduce Mr. Jones of the Yeomanry--Private Dufair."
Claud solemnly saluted. There was a twinkle in his eye as the
surprised subaltern started back, exclaiming, "What--Claud Dufair? You
were at Rugby with me!"
"The same, sir," said Claud, standing rigidly to attention, full of
suppressed mirth.
"Well, shake, old boy! How the devil are you? And, Tommy or no Tommy,
you must have a bottle of fizz with me to-morrow night. Now, I'm not
going to spoil sport. I've had an awful wigging from Miss Graham."
"My fiancée," interjected Claud.
"Lucky dog--put me down as your next-of-kin when you make your will.
Good night."
"Good night," said the happy couple, passing on to the shade of the
palms, where they renewed that love which is mightier than the sword.