“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 leapfrog position, and I stepped onto 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 houseward 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 toward 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 clothesline 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 sheepdog, 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 toward 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 traveling.
“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 favored 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 flavor, 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 hors
es 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 someday.
I turned and rode homeward. 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 gray 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 fancywork 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 a hundred 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-humoredly 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 pocketknife 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, granddaughter 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 kn
own 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 sunbonnet 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 honors 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.
My Brilliant Career Page 16