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CHAPTER ONE
I Remember, I Remember

“Boo, hoo! Ow, ow; Oh! oh! Me’ll die. Boo, hoo. The pain, the pain! Boo, hoo!”

“Come, come, now. Daddy’s little mate isn’t going to turn Turk like that, isshe? I’ll put some fat out of the dinner-bag on it, and tie it up in my hanky.Don’t cry any more now. Hush, you must not cry! You’ll make old Dart buck ifyou kick up a row like that.”

That is my first recollection of life. I was barely three. I can remember themajestic gum-trees surrounding us, the sun glinting on their straight whitetrunks, and falling on the gurgling fern-banked stream, which disappearedbeneath a steep scrubby hill on our left. It was an hour past noon on a longclear summer day. We were on a distant part of the run, where my father hadcome to deposit salt. He had left home early in the dewy morning, carrying mein front of him on a little brown pillow which my mother had made for thepurpose. We had put the lumps of rock-salt in the troughs on the other side ofthe creek. The stringybark roof of the salt-shed which protected the troughsfrom rain peeped out picturesquely from the musk and peppercorn shrubs by whichit was densely surrounded, and was visible from where we lunched. I refilledthe quart-pot in which we had boiled our tea with water from the creek, fatherdoused our fire out with it, and then tied the quart to the D of his saddlewith a piece of green hide. The green-hide bags in which the salt had beencarried were hanging on the hooks of the pack-saddle which encumbered the baypack-horse. Father’s saddle and the brown pillow were on Dart, the big greyhorse on which he generally carried me, and we were on the point of makingtracks for home.

Preparatory to starting, father was muzzling the dogs which had just finishedwhat lunch we had left. This process, to which the dogs strongly objected, wasrendered necessary by a cogent reason. Father had brought his strychnine flaskwith him that day, and in hopes of causing the death of a few dingoes, had putstrong doses of its contents in several dead beasts which we had come across.

Whilst the dogs were being muzzled, I busied myself in plucking ferns andflowers. This disturbed a big black snake which was curled at the butt of atree fern.

“Bitey! bitey!” I yelled, and father came to my rescue, despatching the reptilewith his stock-whip. He had been smoking, and dropped his pipe on the ferns. Ipicked it up, and the glowing embers which fell from it burnt my dirty littlefat fists. Hence the noise with which my story commences.

In all probability it was the burning of my fingers which so indeliblyimpressed the incident on my infantile mind. My father was accustomed to takeme with him, but that is the only jaunt at that date which I remember, and thatis all I remember of it. We were twelve miles from home, but how we reachedthere I do not know.

My father was a swell in those days—held Bruggabrong, Bin Bin East, and Bin BinWest, which three stations totalled close on 200,000 acres. Father was admittedinto swelldom merely by right of his position. His pedigree included nothingbeyond a grandfather. My mother, however, was a full-fledged aristocrat. Shewas one of the Bossiers of Caddagat, who numbered among their ancestry one ofthe depraved old pirates who pillaged England with William the Conqueror.

“Dick” Melvyn was as renowned for hospitality as joviality, and ourcomfortable, wide-veranda’ed, irregularly built, slab house in its shelterednook amid the Timlinbilly Ranges was ever full to overflowing. Doctors,lawyers, squatters, commercial travellers, bankers, journalists, tourists, andmen of all kinds and classes crowded our well-spread board; but seldom a femaleface, except mother’s, was to be seen there, Bruggabrong being a veryout-of-the-way place.

I was both the terror and the amusement of the station. Old boundary-riders anddrovers inquire after me with interest to this day.

I knew everyone’s business, and was ever in danger of publishing it at aninopportune moment.

In flowery language, selected from slang used by the station hands, and longwords picked up from our visitors, I propounded unanswerable questions whichbrought blushes to the cheeks of even tough old wine-bibbers.

Nothing would induce me to show more respect to an appraiser of the runs thanto a boundary-rider, or to a clergyman than a drover. I am the same to thisday. My organ of veneration must be flatter than a pancake, because to veneratea person simply for his position I never did or will. To me the Prince of Waleswill be no more than a shearer, unless when I meet him he displays somepersonality apart from his princeship—otherwise he can go hang.

Authentic record of the date when first I had a horse to myself has not beenkept, but it must have been early, as at eight I was fit to ride anything onthe place. Side-saddle, man-saddle, no-saddle, or astride were all the same tome. I rode among the musterers as gamely as any of the big sunburnt bushmen.

My mother remonstrated, opined I would be a great unwomanly tomboy. My fatherpoohed the idea.

“Let her alone, Lucy,” he said, “let her alone. The rubbishingconventionalities which are the curse of her sex will bother her soon enough.Let her alone!”

So, smiling and saying, “She should have been a boy,” my mother let me alone,and I rode, and in comparison to my size made as much noise with my stock-whipas any one. Accidents had no power over me, I came unscathed out of droves ofthem.

Fear I knew not. Did a drunken tramp happen to kick up a row, I was always thefirst to confront him, and, from my majestic and roly-poly height of two feetsix inches, demand what he wanted.

A digging started near us and was worked by a score of two dark-browed sons ofItaly. They made mother nervous, and she averred they were not to be trusted,but I liked and trusted them. They carried me on their broad shoulders, stuffedme with lollies and made a general pet of me. Without the quiver of a nerve Iswung down their deepest shafts in the big bucket on the end of a rope attachedto a rough windlass, which brought up the miners and the mullock.

My brothers and sisters contracted mumps, measles, scarlatina, andwhooping-cough. I rolled in the bed with them yet came off scot-free. I rompedwith dogs, climbed trees after birds’ nests, drove the bullocks in the dray,under the instructions of Ben, our bullocky, and always accompanied my fatherwhen he went swimming in the clear, mountain, shrub-lined stream which ran deepand lone among the weird gullies, thickly carpeted with maidenhair andnumberless other species of ferns.

My mother shook her head over me and trembled for my future, but father seemedto consider me nothing unusual. He was my hero, confidant, encyclopedia, mate,and even my religion till I was ten. Since then I have been religionless.

Richard Melvyn, you were a fine fellow in those days! A kind and indulgentparent, a chivalrous husband, a capital host, a man full of ambition andgentlemanliness.

Amid these scenes, and the refinements and pleasures of Caddagat, which lies ahundred miles or so farther Riverinawards, I spent the first years of mychildhood.

CHAPTER TWO
An Introduction to Possum Gully

I was nearly nine summers old when my father conceived the idea that he waswasting his talents by keeping them rolled up in the small napkin of anout-of-the-way place like Bruggabrong and the Bin Bin stations. Therefore hedetermined to take up his residence in a locality where he would have morescope for his ability.

When giving his reason for moving to my mother, he put the matter before herthus: The price of cattle and horses had fallen so of late years that it wasimpossible to make much of a living by breeding them. Sheep were the onlyprofitable article to have nowadays, and it would be impossible to run them onBruggabrong or either of the Bin Bins. The dingoes would work havoc among themin no time, and what they left the duffers would soon dispose of. As forbringing police into the matter, it would be worse than useless. They could notrun the offenders to earth, and their efforts to do so would bring down upontheir employer the wrath of the duffers. Result, all the fences on the stationwould be fired for a dead certainty, and the destruction of more than a hundredmiles of heavy log fencing on rough country like Bruggabrong was no picnic tocontemplate.

This was the feasible light in which father shaded his desire to leave. Thefact of the matter was that the heartless harridan, discontent, had laid herclaw-like hand upon him. His guests were ever assuring him he was buried andwasted in Timlinbilly’s gullies. A man of his intelligence, coupled with hiswonderful experience among stock, would, they averred, make a name and fortunefor himself dealing or auctioneering if he only liked to try. Richard Melvynbegan to think so too, and desired to try. He did try.

He gave up Bruggabrong, Bin Bin East and Bin Bin West, bought Possum Gully, asmall farm of one thousand acres, and brought us all to live near Goulburn.Here we arrived one autumn afternoon. Father, mother, and children packed inthe buggy, myself, and the one servant-girl, who had accompanied us, onhorseback. The one man father had retained in his service was awaiting ourarrival. He had preceded us with a bullock-drayload of furniture andbelongings, which was all father had retained of his household property. Justsufficient for us to get along with, until he had time to settle and purchasemore, he said. That was ten years ago, and that is the only furniture wepossess yet—just enough to get along with.

My first impression of Possum Gully was bitter disappointment—an impressionwhich time has failed to soften or wipe away.

How flat, common, and monotonous the scenery appeared after the rugged peaks ofthe Timlinbilly Range!

Our new house was a ten-roomed wooden structure, built on a barren hillside.Crooked stunted gums and stringybarks, with a thick underscrub of wild cherry,hop, and hybrid wattle, clothed the spurs which ran up from the back of thedetached kitchen. Away from the front of the house were flats, bearing evidenceof cultivation, but a drop of water was nowhere to be seen. Later, wediscovered a few round, deep, weedy waterholes down on the flat, which in rainyweather swelled to a stream which swept all before it. Possum Gully is one ofthe best watered spots in the district, and in that respect has stood to itsguns in the bitterest drought. Use and knowledge have taught us the full valueof its fairly clear and beautifully soft water. Just then, however, coming fromthe mountains where every gully had its limpid creek, we turned in disgust fromthe idea of having to drink this water.

I felt cramped on our new run. It was only three miles wide at its broadestpoint. Was I always, always, always to live here, and never, never, never to goback to Bruggabrong? That was the burden of the grief with which I sobbedmyself to sleep on the first night after our arrival.

Mother felt dubious of her husband’s ability to make a living off a thousandacres, half of which were fit to run nothing but wallabies, but father was fullof plans, and very sanguine concerning his future. He was not going to squathenlike on his place as the cockies around him did. He meant to deal in stockmaking of Possum Gully merely a depot on which to run some of his bargainsuntil reselling.

Dear, oh dear! It was terrible to think he had wasted the greater part of hislife among the hills where the mail came but once a week, and where the nearesttown, of 650 inhabitants, was forty-six miles distant. And the road had beenimpassable for vehicles. Here, only seventeen miles from a city like Goulburn,with splendid roads, mail thrice weekly, and a railway platform only eightmiles away, why, man, my fortune is made! Such were the sentiments to which hegave birth out of the fullness of his hopeful heart.

Ere the diggings had broken out on Bruggabrong, our nearest neighbour,excepting, of course, boundary-riders, was seventeen miles distant. PossumGully was a thickly populated district, and here we were surrounded by homesranging from half a mile to two and three miles away. This was a new experiencefor us, and it took us some time to become accustomed to the advantage anddisadvantage of the situation. Did we require an article, we found it handy,but decidedly the reverse when our neighbours borrowed from us, and, in thegreater percentage of cases, failed to return the loan.

CHAPTER THREE
A Lifeless Life

Possum Gully was stagnant—stagnant with the narrow stagnation prevalent in allold country places.

Its residents were principally married folk and children under sixteen. Theboys, as they attained manhood, drifted outback to shear, drove, or to take upland. They found it too slow at home, and besides there was not room enough forthem there when they passed childhood.

Nothing ever happened there. Time was no object, and the days slid quietly intothe river of years, distinguished one from another by name alone. An occasionalbirth or death was a big event, and the biggest event of all was the advent ofa new resident.

When such a thing occurred it was customary for all the male heads of familiesto pay a visit of inspection, to judge if the new-comers were worthy ofadmittance into the bosom of the society of the neighbourhood. Should theirreport prove favourable, then their wives finished the ceremony of inaugurationby paying a friendly visit.

After his arrival at Possum Gully father was much away on business, and so onmy mother fell the ordeal of receiving the callers, male and female.

The men were honest, good-natured, respectable, common bushmen farmers. Toofriendly to pay a short call, they came and sat for hours yarning about nothingin particular. This bored my gentle mother excessively. She attempted toentertain them with conversation of current literature and subjects of the day,but her efforts fell flat. She might as well have spoken in French.

They conversed for hours and hours about dairying, interspersed with pointlessanecdotes of the man who had lived there before us. I found them very tame.

After graphic descriptions of life on big stations outback, and the dashingsnake yarns told by our kitchen-folk at Bruggabrong, and the anecdotes ofAfrican hunting, travel, and society life which had often formed our guests’subject of conversation, this endless fiddle-faddle of the price of farmproduce and the state of crops was very fatuous.

Those men, like everyone else, only talked shop. I say nothing in condemnationof it, but merely point out that it did not then interest us, as we were notliving in that shop just then.

Mrs Melvyn must have found favour in the eyes of the specimens of the lords ofcreation resident at Possum Gully, as all the matrons of the community hastenedto call on her, and vied with each other in a display of friendliness andgood-nature. They brought presents of poultry, jam, butter, and suchlike. Theycame at two o’clock and stayed till dark. They inventoried the furniture, gavemother cookery recipes, described minutely the unsurpassable talents of each oftheir children, and descanted volubly upon the best way of setting turkey hens.On taking their departure they cordially invited us all to return their visits,and begged mother to allow her children to spend a day with theirs.

We had been resident in our new quarters nearly a month when my parentsreceived an intimation from the teacher of the public school, two milesdistant, to the effect that the law demanded that they should send theirchildren to school. It upset my mother greatly. What was she to do?

“Do! Bundle the nippers off to school as quickly as possible, of course,” saidmy father.

My mother objected. She proposed a governess now and a good boarding-schoollater on. She had heard such dreadful stories of public schools! It wasterrible to be compelled to send her darlings to one; they would be ruined in aweek!

“Not they,” said father. “Run them off for a week or two, or a month at theoutside. They can’t come to any harm in that time. After that we will get agoverness. You are in no state of health to worry about one just now, and it isutterly impossible that I can see about the matter at present. I have severalspecs. on foot that I must attend to. Send the youngsters to school down herefor the present.”

We went to school, and in our dainty befrilled pinafores and light shoes wereregarded as great swells by the other scholars. They for the most part were thechildren of very poor farmers, whose farm earnings were augmented by road-work,wood-carting, or any such labour which came within their grasp. All the boyswent barefooted, also a moiety of the girls. The school was situated on a wildscrubby hill, and the teacher boarded with a resident a mile from it. He was aman addicted to drink, and the parents of his scholars lived in dailyexpectation of seeing his dismissal from the service.

It is nearly ten years since the twins (who came next to me) and I wereenrolled as pupils of the Tiger Swamp public school. My education was completedthere; so was that of the twins, who are eleven months younger than I. Also myother brothers and sisters are quickly getting finishedwards; but that is theonly school any of us have seen or known. There was even a time when fatherspoke of filling in the free forms for our attendance there. But mother—awoman’s pride bears more wear than a man’s—would never allow us to come tothat.

All our neighbours were very friendly; but one in particular, a JamesBlackshaw, proved himself most desirous of being comradely with us. He was asort of self-constituted sheik of the community. It was usual for him to takeall new-comers under his wing, and with officious good-nature endeavour to makethem feel at home. He called on us daily, tied his horse to the paling fencebeneath the shade of a sallie-tree in the backyard, and when mother was unableto see him he was content to yarn for an hour or two with Jane Haizelip, ourservant-girl.

Jane disliked Possum Gully as much as I did. Her feeling being much moredefined, it was amusing to hear the flat-out opinions she expressed to MrBlackshaw, whom, by the way, she termed “a mooching hen of a chap”.

“I suppose, Jane, you like being here near Goulburn, better than thatout-of-the-way place you came from,” he said one morning as he comfortablysettled himself on an old sofa in the kitchen.

“No jolly fear. Out-of-the-way place! There was more life at Bruggabrong in aday than you crawlers ’ud see here all yer lives,” she retorted with vigour,energetically pommelling a batch of bread which she was mixing.

“Why, at Brugga it was as good as a show every week. On Saturday evening allthe coves used to come in for their mail. They’d stay till Sunday evenin’.Splitters, boundary-riders, dogtrappers—every manjack of ’em. Some of us wuzalways good fer a toon on the concertina, and the rest would dance. We had funto no end. A girl could have a fly round and a lark or two there I tell you;but here,” and she emitted a snort of contempt, “there ain’t one bloomin’feller to do a mash with. I’m full of the place. Only I promised to stick tothe missus a while, I’d scoot tomorrer. It’s the dead-and-alivest hole I everseen.”

“You’ll git used to it by and by,” said Blackshaw.

“Used to it! A person ’ud hev to be brought up onder a hen to git used to thedullness of this hole.”

“You wasn’t brought up under a hen, or it must have been a big Bramer Pooter,if you were,” replied he, noting the liberal proportions of her figure as shehauled a couple of heavy pots off the fire. He did not offer to help her.Etiquette of that sort was beyond his ken.

“You oughter go out more and then you wouldn’t find it so dull,” he said, aftershe had placed the pots on the floor.

“Go out! Where ’ud I go to, pray?”

“Drop in an’ see my missus again when you git time. You’re always welcome.”

“Thanks, but I had plenty of goin’ to see your missus last time.”

“How’s that?”

“Why, I wasn’t there harf an hour wen she had to strip off her clean duds an’go an’ milk. I don’t think much of any of the men around here. They let thewomen work too hard. I never see such a tired wore-out set of women. It puts mein mind ev the time wen the black fellers made the gins do all the work. Why,on Bruggabrong the women never had to do no outside work, only on a great pinchwen all the men were away at a fire or a muster. Down here they do everything.They do all the milkin’, and pig-feedin’, and poddy-rarin’. It makes me feelfit to retch. I don’t know whether it’s because the men is crawlers or whetherit’s dairyin’. I don’t think much of dairyin’. It’s slavin’, an’ delvin’, an’scrapin’ yer eyeballs out from mornin’ to night, and nothink to show for yourpains; and now you’ll oblige me, Mr Blackshaw, if youll lollop somewhere elsefor a minute or two. I want to sweep under that sofer.”

This had the effect of making him depart. He said good morning and went off,not sure whether he was most amused or insulted.

CHAPTER FOUR
A Career Which Soon Careered To An End

While mother, Jane Haizelip, and I found the days long and life slow, fatherwas enjoying himself immensely.

He had embarked upon a lively career—that gambling trade known as dealing instock.

When he was not away in Riverina inspecting a flock of sheep, he was attendingthe Homebush Fat Stock Sales, rushing away out to Bourke, or tearing off downthe Shoalhaven to buy some dairy heifers.

He was a familiar figure at the Goulburn sale-yards every Wednesday, alwaysgoing into town the day before and not returning till a day, and often twodays, afterwards.

He was in great demand among drovers and auctioneers; and in the stock news hisname was always mentioned in connection with all the principal sales in thecolony.

It takes an astute, clear-headed man to keep himself off shore in stockdealing. I never yet heard of a dealer who occasionally did not temporarily, ifnot totally, go to the wall.

He need not necessarily be downright unscrupulous, but if he wishes to profithe must not be overburdened with niceties in the point of honour. That is whereRichard Melvyn fell through. He was crippled with too many Utopian ideas ofhonesty, and was too soft ever to come off anything but second-best in a deal.He might as well have attempted to make his fortune by scraping a fiddle up anddown Auburn Street, Goulburn. His dealing career was short and merry. Hisvanity to be considered a socialistic fellow, who was as ready to take a glasswith a swaggie as a swell, and the lavish shouting which this principleincurred, made great inroads on his means. Losing money every time he sold abeast, wasting stamps galore on letters to endless auctioneers, frequentlyremaining in town half a week at a stretch, and being hail-fellow to all thespongers to be found on the trail of such as he, quickly left him on the vergeof bankruptcy. Some of his contemporaries say it was grog that did it all.

Had he kept clear-headed he was a smart fellow, and gave promise of doing well,but his head would not stand alcohol, and by it he was undermined in no time.In considerably less than a twelvemonth all the spare capital in his coffersfrom the disposal of Bruggabrong and the Bin Bins had been squandered. He hadbecome so hard up that to pay the drovers in his last venture he was forced tosell the calves of the few milch-cows retained for household uses.

At this time it came to my father’s knowledge that one of our bishops had moneyheld in trust for the Church. On good security he was giving this out forusury, the same as condemned in the big Bible, out of which he took the text ofthe dry-hash sermons with which he bored his fashionable congregations in hiscathedral on Sundays.

Father took advantage of this Reverend’s inconsistency and mortgaged PossumGully. With the money thus obtained he started once more and managed to make ascant livelihood and pay the interest on the bishop’s loan. In four or fiveyears he had again reached loggerheads. The price of stock had fallen so thatthere was nothing to be made out of dealing in them.

Richard Melvyn resolved to live as those around him—start a dairy; run it withhis family, who would also rear poultry for sale.

As instruments of the dairying trade he procured fifty milch-cows, the calvesof which had to be “poddied”, and a hand cream-separator.

I was in my fifteenth year when we began dairying; the twins Horace and Gertiewere, as you already know, eleven months younger. Horace, had there been anyone to train him, contained the makings of a splendid man; but having no one tobring him up in the way he should go, he was a churlish and trying bully, andthe issue of his character doubtful.

Gertie milked thirteen cows, and I eighteen, morning and evening. Horace andmother, between them, milked the remaining seventeen.

Among the dairying fraternity little toddlers, ere they are big enough to holda bucket, learn to milk. Thus their hands become inured to the motion, and itdoes not affect them. With us it was different. Being almost full grown when westarted to milk, and then plunging heavily into the exercise, it had a painfuleffect upon us. Our hands and arms, as far as the elbows, swelled, so that oursleep at night was often disturbed by pain.

Mother made the butter. She had to rise at two and three o’clock in themorning, in order that it would be cool and firm enough to print for market.

Jane Haizelip had left us a year previously, and we could afford no one to takeher place. The heavy work told upon my gentle, refined mother. She grew thinand careworn, and often cross. My father’s share of the work was to break inthe wild cows, separate the milk, and take the butter into town to the grocer’sestablishment where we obtained our supplies.

Dick Melvyn of Bruggabrong was not recognizable in Dick Melvyn, dairy farmerand cocky of Possum Gully. The former had been a man worthy of the name. Thelatter was a slave of drink, careless, even dirty and bedraggled in hispersonal appearance. He disregarded all manners, and had become far moreplebeian and common than the most miserable specimen of humanity around him.The support of his family, yet not, its support. The head of his family, yetfailing to fulfil the obligations demanded of one in that capacity. He seemedto lose all love and interest in his family, and grew cross and silent, utterlywithout pride and pluck. Formerly so kind and gentle with animals, now he wasthe reverse.

His cruelty to the young cows and want of patience with them I can neverforget. It has often brought upon me the threat of immediate extermination forvolunteering scathing and undesired opinions on his conduct.

The part of the dairying that he positively gloried in was going to town withthe butter. He frequently remained in for two or three days, as often as notspending all the money he got for the butter in a drunken spree. Then he wouldreturn to curse his luck because his dairy did not pay as well as those of someof our neighbours.

The curse of Eve being upon my poor mother in those days, she was unable tofollow her husband. Pride forbade her appealing to her neighbours, so on medevolved the duty of tracking my father from one pub to another and bringinghim home.

Had I done justice to my mother’s training I would have honoured my paternalparent in spite of all this, but I am an individual ever doing things Ioughtn’t at the time I shouldn’t.

Coming home, often after midnight, with my drunken father talking maudlinconceited nonsense beside me, I developed curious ideas on the fifthcommandment. Those journeys in the spring-cart through the soft faint starlightwere conducive to thought. My father, like most men when under the influence ofliquor, would allow no one but himself to handle the reins, and he was often soincapable that he would keep turning the horse round and round in the oneplace. It is a marvel we never met with an accident. I was not nervous, butquite content to take whatever came, and our trusty old horse fulfilled hisduty, ever faithfully taking us home along the gum-tree-lined road.

My mother had taught me from the Bible that I should honour my parents, whetherthey were deserving of honour or not.

Dick Melvyn being my father did not blind me to the fact that he was adespicable, selfish, weak creature, and as such I despised him with therelentlessness of fifteen, which makes no allowance for human frailty andweakness. Disgust, not honour, was the feeling which possessed me when Istudied the matter.

Towards mother I felt differently. A woman is but the helpless tool of man—acreature of circumstances.

Seeing my father beside me, and thinking of his infant with its mother, eatingher heart out with anxiety at home, this was the reasoning which tookpossession of me. Among other such inexpressible thoughts I got lost, grewdizzy, and drew back appalled at the spirit which was maturing within me. Itwas a grim lonely one, which I vainly tried to hide in a bosom which was notbig or strong enough for its comfortable habitation. It was as a climbing plantwithout a pole—it groped about the ground, bruised itself, and became hungrysearching for something strong to which to cling. Needing a master-hand totrain and prune, it was becoming rank and sour.

CHAPTER FIVE
Disjointed Sketches And Grumbles

It was my duty to “rare the poddies”. This is the most godless occupation inwhich it has been my lot to engage. I did a great amount of thinking whilefeeding them—for, by the way, I am afflicted with the power of thought, whichis a heavy curse. The less a person thinks and inquires regarding the why andthe wherefore and the justice of things, when dragging along through life, thehappier it is for him, and doubly, trebly so, for her.

Poor little calves! Slaves to the greed of man! Bereft of the mothers withwhich Nature has provided them, and compelled to exist on milk from theseparator, often thick, sour, and icy cold.

Besides the milking I did, before I went to school every morning, for which Ihad to prepare myself and the younger children, and to which we had to walk twomiles. I had to feed thirty calves and wash the breakfast dishes. On returningfrom school in the afternoon, often in a state of exhaustion from walking inthe blazing sun, I had the same duties over again, and in addition boots toclean and home lessons to prepare for the morrow. I had to relinquish my pianopractice for want of time.

Ah, those short, short nights of rest and long, long days of toil! It seems tome that dairying means slavery in the hands of poor people who cannot affordhired labour. I am not writing of dairy-farming, the genteel and artisticprofession as eulogized in leading articles of agricultural newspapers and astaught in agricultural colleges. I am depicting practical dairying as I havelived it, and seen it lived, by dozens of families around me.

It takes a great deal of work to produce even one pound of butter fit formarket. At the time I mention it was 3d. and 4d. per lb., so it was much workand small pay. It was slaving and delving from morning till night—Sundays,week-days, and holidays, all alike were work-days to us.

Hard graft is a great leveller. Household drudgery, woodcutting, milking, andgardening soon roughen the hands and dim the outside polish. When the body iswearied with much toil the desire to cultivate the mind, or the cultivation ithas already received, is gradually wiped out. Thus it was with my parents. Theyhad dropped from swelldom to peasantism. They were among and of the peasantry.None of their former acquaintances came within their circle now, for the ironungodly hand of class distinction has settled surely down upon Australiansociety—Australia’s democracy is only a tradition of the past.

I say naught against the lower life. The peasantry are the bulwarks of everynation. The life of a peasant is, to a peasant who is a peasant with apeasant’s soul, when times are good and when seasons smile, a grand life. It ishonest, clean, and wholesome. But the life of a peasant to me is purgatory.Those around me worked from morning till night and then enjoyed theirwell-earned sleep. They had but two states of existence—work and sleep.

There was a third part in me which cried out to be fed. I longed for the arts.Music was a passion with me. I borrowed every book in the neighbourhood andstole hours from rest to read them. This told upon me and made my physicalburdens harder for me than for other children of my years around me. That thirdwas the strongest part of me. In it I lived a dream-life with writers, artists,and musicians. Hope, sweet, cruel, delusive Hope, whispered in my ear that lifewas long with much by and by, and in that by and by my dream-life would bereal. So on I went with that gleaming lake in the distance beckoning me to comeand sail on its silver waters, and Inexperience, conceited, blind Inexperience,failing to show the impassable pit between it and me.

To return to the dairying.

Old and young alike we earned our scant livelihood by the heavy sweat of ourbrows. Still, wedid gain an honest living. We were not ashamed to lookday in the face, and fought our way against all odds with the stubbornindependence of our British ancestors. But when 1894 went out without rain, and’95, hot, dry, pitiless ’95, succeeded it, there came a time when it wasimpossible to make a living.

The scorching furnace-breath winds shrivelled every blade of grass, dust andthe moan of starving stock filled the air, vegetables became a thing of thepast. The calves I had reared died one by one, and the cows followed in theirfootsteps.

I had left school then, and my mother and father and I spent the days inlifting our cows. When our strength proved inadequate, the help of neighbourshad to be called in, and father would give his services in return. Only a fewof our more well-to-do neighbours had been able to send their stock away, orhad any better place to which to transfer them. The majority of them were in astight a plight as ourselves. This cow-lifting became quite a trade, the wholeday being spent in it and in discussing the bad prospect ahead if the droughtcontinued.

Many an extra line of care furrowed the brows of the disheartened bushmen then.Not only was their living taken from them by the drought, but there is nothingmore heartrending than to have poor beasts, especially dairy cows, so familiar,valued, and loved, pleading for food day after day in their piteous dumb waywhen one has it not to give.

We shore ourselves of all but the bare necessaries of life, but even they for afamily of ten are considerable, and it was a mighty tussle to get both endswithin cover of meeting. We felt the full force of the heavy hand ofpoverty—the most stinging kind of poverty too, that which still holds up itshead and keeps an outside appearance. Far more grinding is this than thepoverty inherited from generations which is not ashamed of itself, and has notas an accompaniment the wounded pride and humiliation which attacked us.

Some there are who argue that poverty does not mean unhappiness. Let those trywhat it is to be destitute of even one companionable friend, what it means tobe forced to exist in an alien sphere of society, what it is like to be unableto afford a stamp to write to a friend; let them long as passionately as I havelonged for reading and music, and be unable to procure it because of poverty;let poverty force them into doing work against which every fibre of their beingrevolts, as it has forced me, and then see if their lives will be happy.

My school life had been dull and uneventful. The one incident of any note hadbeen the day that the teacher, better known as old Harris, “stood up” to theinspector. The latter was a precise, collar-and-cuffs sort of little man. Hegave one the impression of having all his ideas on the subjects he thoughtworthy of attention carefully culled and packed in his brain-pan, and neatlylabelled, so that he might without fluster pounce upon any of them at amoment’s warning. He was gentlemanly and respectable, and discharged his dutiespunctiliously in a manner reflecting credit on himself and his position, but,comparing the mind of a philanthropist to the Murrumbidgee in breadth, his, incomparison, might be likened to the flow of a bucket of water in a dray-rut.

On the day in question—a precious hot one it was—he had finished examining usin most subjects, and was looking at our copy-books. He looked up from them,ahemed! and fastidiously straightened his waistcoat.

“Mr Harris!

“Yes, sir.”

“Comparisons are odious, but, unfortunately, I am forced to draw one now.”

“Yes, sir.”

“This writing is much inferior to that of town scholars. It is very shaky andirregular. Also, I notice that the children seem stupid and dull. I don’t likeputting it so plainly, but, in fact, ah, they seem to be possessed with theproverbial stupidity of country people. How do you account for this?”

Poor old Harris! In spite of his drunken habits and inability to properlydischarge his duties, he had a warm heart and much fellowshiply humanity inhim. He understood and loved his pupils, and would not have aspersions castupon them. Besides, the nip he had taken to brace himself to meet the inspectorhad been two or three, and they robbed him of the discretion which otherwisemight have kept him silent.

“Si-r-r-r, I can and will account for it. Look you at every one of thosechildren. Every one, right down to this little tot,” indicating a little girlof five, “has to milk and work hard before and after school, besides walk on anaverage two miles to and from school in this infernal heat. Most of the elderboys and girls milk on an average fourteen cows morning and evening. You trythat treatment for a week or two, my fine gentleman, and then see if your fistdoesn’t ache and shake so that you can’t write at all. See if you won’t look atrifle dozy. Stupidity of country people be hanged! If you had to work frommorning till night in the heat and dust, and get precious little for it too, Ibet you wouldn’t have much time to scrape your finger-nails, read sciencenotes, and look smart.” Here he took off his coat and shaped up to hissuperior.

The inspector drew back in consternation.

“Mr Harris, you forget yourself!”

At this juncture they went outside together. What happened there we never knew.That is all we heard of the matter except the numerous garbled accounts whichwere carried home that afternoon.

A DROUGHT IDYLL

“Sybylla, what are you doing? Where is your mother?”

“I’m ironing. Mother’s down at the fowl-house seeing after some chickens. Whatdo you want?”

It was my father who addressed me. Time, 2 o’clock p.m. Thermometer hung in theshade of the veranda registering 105 1/2 degrees.

“I see Blackshaw coming across the flat. Call your mother. You bring theleg-ropes—I’ve got the dog-leg. Come at once; we’ll give the cows another lift.Poor devils—might as well knock ’em on the head at once, but there might berain next moon. This drought can’t last for ever.”

I called mother, got the leg-ropes, and set off, pulling my sun-bonnet closelyover my face to protect my eyes from the dust which was driving from the westin blinding clouds. The dog-leg to which father had referred was three polesabout eight or ten feet long, strapped together so they could be stood up. Itwas an arrangement father had devised to facilitate our labour in lifting thecows. A fourth and longer pole was placed across the fork formed by the three,and to one end of this were tied a couple of leg-ropes, after being placedround the beast, one beneath the flank and one around the girth. On the otherend of this pole we would put our weight while one man would lift with the tailand another with the horns. New-chum cows would sulk, and we would have greatwork with them; but those used to the performance would help themselves, and upthey’d go as nice as a daisy. The only art needed was to draw the pole backquickly before the cows could move, or the leg-ropes would pull them overagain.

On this afternoon we had six cows to lift. We struggled manfully, and got fiveon their feet, and then proceeded to where the last one was lying, backdownwards, on a shadeless stony spot on the side of a hill. The men slewed herround by the tail, while mother and I fixed the dog-leg and adjusted the ropes.We got the cow up, but the poor beast was so weak and knocked about that sheimmediately fell down again. We resolved to let her have a few minutes’ spellbefore making another attempt at lifting. There was not a blade of grass to beseen, and the ground was too dusty to sit on. We were too overdone to make morethan one-worded utterances, so waited silently in the blazing sun, closing oureyes against the dust.

Weariness! Weariness!

A few light wind-smitten clouds made wan streaks across the white sky, haggardwith the fierce relentless glare of the afternoon sun. Weariness was writtenacross my mother’s delicate careworn features, and found expression in myfather’s knitted brows and dusty face. Blackshaw was weary, and said so, as hewiped the dust, made mud with perspiration, off his cheeks. I was weary—mylimbs ached with the heat and work. The poor beast stretched at our feet wasweary. All nature was weary, and seemed to sing a dirge to that effect in thefurnace-breath wind which roared among the trees on the low ranges at our backand smote the parched and thirsty ground. All were weary, all but the sun. Heseemed to glory in his power, relentless and untiring, as he swung boldly inthe sky, triumphantly leering down upon his helpless victims.

Weariness! Weariness!

This was life—my life—my career, my brilliant career! I was fifteen—fifteen! Afew fleeting hours and I would be old as those around me. I looked at them asthey stood there, weary, and turning down the other side of the hill of life.When young, no doubt they had hoped for, and dreamed of, better things—had evenknown them. But here they were. This had been their life; this was theircareer. It was, and in all probability would be, mine too. My life—my career—mybrilliant career!

Weariness! Weariness!

The summer sun danced on. Summer is fiendish, and life is a curse, I said in myheart. What a great dull hard rock the world was! On it were a few barrennarrow ledges, and on these, by exerting ourselves so that the force wears offour finger-nails, it allows us to hang for a year or two, and then hurls us offinto outer darkness and oblivion, perhaps to endure worse torture than this.

The poor beast moaned. The lifting had strained her, and there were patches ofhide worn off her the size of breakfast-plates, sore and most harrowing to lookupon.

It takes great suffering to wring a moan from the patience of a cow. I turnedmy head away, and with the impatience and one-sided reasoning common tofifteen, asked God what He meant by this. It is well enough to heap sufferingon human beings, seeing it is supposed to be merely a probation for a betterworld, but animals—poor, innocent animals—why are they tortured so?

“Come now, we’ll lift her once more,” said my father. At it we went again; itis surprising what weight there is in the poorest cow. With great struggling wegot her to her feet once more, and were careful this time to hold her till shegot steady on her legs. Father and mother at the tail and Blackshaw and I atthe horns, we marched her home and gave her a bran mash. Then we turned to ourwork in the house while the men sat and smoked and spat on the veranda,discussing the drought for an hour, at the end of which time they went to helpsomeone else with their stock. I made up the fire and we continued our ironing,which had been interrupted some hours before. It was hot unpleasant work onsuch a day. We were forced to keep the doors and windows closed on account ofthe wind and dust. We were hot and tired, and our feet ached so that we couldscarcely stand on them.

Weariness! Weariness!

Summer is fiendish and life is a curse, I said in my heart.

Day after day the drought continued. Now and again there would be a few days ofthe raging wind before mentioned, which carried the dry grass off the paddocksand piled it against the fences, darkened the air with dust, and seemed topromise rain, but ever it dispersed whence it came, taking with it the fewclouds it had gathered up; and for weeks and weeks at a stretch, from horizonto horizon, was never a speck to mar the cruel dazzling brilliance of the metalsky.

Weariness! Weariness!

I said the one thing many times but, ah, it was a weary thing which took muchrepetition that familiarity might wear away a little of its bitterness!

CHAPTER SIX
Revolt

In spite of our pottering and lifting, with the exception of five, all our cowseventually died; and even these and a couple of horses had as much as theycould do to live on the whole of the thousand acres which, without reserve,were at their disposal. They had hardly any grass—it was merely the warmth andwater which kept them alive. Needless to say, we were on our beam-endsfinancially. However, with a little help from more fortunate relatives, andwith the money obtained from the sale of the cowhides and mother’s poultry, wemanaged to pay the interest on the money borrowed from the bishop, and keepbread in our mouths.

Unfortunately for us, at this time the bishop’s agent proved a scoundrel andabsconded. My father held receipts to show that to this agent he had regularlypaid the interest of the money borrowed; but through some finicking point oflaw, because we had not money to contend with him, his lordship the bishop nowrefused to acknowledge his agent and one-time pillar of the cathedral, and,having law on his side, served a writ on us. In the face of our misfortunesthis was too much: we begged for time, which plea he answered by putting in thebailiff and selling everything we possessed. Our five cows, two horses, ourmilk separator, plough, cart, dray, buggy, even our cooking utensils, books,pictures, furniture, father’s watch—our very beds, pillows, and blankets. Not athing besides what we stood up in was left us, and this was money for thepayment of which my father held receipts.

But for the generosity of our relatives we would have been in a pretty plight.They sent us sufficient means to buy in everything, and our neighbours came toour rescue with enthusiasm and warm-hearted genuine sympathy. The bailiff—agentleman to the core—seeing how matters stood, helped us to the utmost of hispower.

Our goods were disposed of on the premises, and the neighbours arranged a mocksale, at which the bailiff winked. Our friends had sent the money, and theneighbours did the bidding—none bidding against each other—and thus ourbelongings went for a mere trifle. Every cloud has its silver lining, and theblack cloud of poverty has a very bright silver lining.

In poverty you can get at the real heart of people as you can never do if rich.People are your friends from pure friendship and love, not from spongingself-interestedness. It is worth being poor once or twice in a lifetime just toexperience the blessing and heartrestfulness of a little genuine reality in theway of love and friendship. Not that it is impossible for opulence to havegenuine friends, but rich people, I fear, must ever have at their heartcankering suspicion to hint that the friendship and love lavished upon them ismerely self-interestedness and sham, the implements of trade used by thefawning toadies who swarm around wealth.

In conjunction with the bishop’s name, the approaching sale of our goods hadbeen duly advertised in the local papers, and my father received severalletters of sympathy from the clergy deploring the conduct of the bishop. Theseletters were from men unknown to father, who were unaware that Richard Melvynwas being sold off for a debt already paid.

By the generosity of relatives and the goodness of neighbours as kind as everbreathed, our furniture was our own again, but what were we to do for a living?Our crops were withering in the fields for want of rain, and we had but fivecows—not an over-bright outlook. As I was getting to bed one night my mothercame into my room and said seriously, “Sybylla, I want to have a talk withyou.”

“Talk away,” I responded rather sullenly, for I expected a long sing-song aboutmy good-for-nothingness in general—a subject of which I was heartily tired.

“Sybylla, I’ve been studying the matter over a lot lately. It’s no use, wecannot afford to keep you at home. You’ll have to get something to do.”

I made no reply, and my mother continued, “I am afraid we will have to break upthe home altogether. It’s no use; your father has no idea of making a living. Iregret the day I ever saw him. Since he has taken to drink he has no more ideaof how to make a living than a cat. I will have to give the little ones to someof the relatives; the bigger ones will have to go out to service, and so willyour father and I. That’s all I can see ahead of us. Poor little Gertie is tooyoung to go out in the world (she was not twelve months younger than I); shemust go to your grandmother, I think.”

I still made no reply, so my mother inquired, “Well, Sybylla, what do you thinkof the matter?”

“Do you think it absolutely necessary to break up the home?” I said.

“Well, you suggest something better if you are so clever,” said mother,crossly. “That is always the way; if I suggest a thing it is immediately putdown, yet there is never any one to think of things but me. What would you do?I suppose you think you could make a living on the place for us yourself.”

“Why can’t we live at home? Blackshaw and Jansen have no bigger places than we,and families just as large, and yet they make a living. It would be terriblefor the little ones to grow up separated; they would be no more to each otherthan strangers.”

“Yes; it is all very well for you to talk like that, but how is your father tostart again with only five cows in the world? It’s no use, you never talksense. You’ll find my way is always the best in the end.”

“Would it not be easier,” I replied, “for our relations to each give a littletowards setting us up again, than to be burdened with the whole responsibilityof rearing a child? I’m sure they’d much prefer it.”

“Yes, perhaps it would be better, but I thinkyou will have to get yourown living. What would they say about having to support such a big girl as youare?”

“I will go and earn my own living, and when you get me weeded out of the familyyou will have a perfect paradise. Having no evil to copy, the children willgrow up saints,” I said bitterly.

“Now, Sybylla, it is foolish to talk like that, for you know that you take nointerest in your work. If you’d turn to and help me rear poultry and makedresses—and why don’t you take to cooking?”

“Take to cooking!” I retorted with scorn. “The fire that a fellow has to endureon that old oven would kill a horse, and the grit and dirt of clearing it upgrinds on my very nerves. Besides, if I ever do want to do any extra fancycooking, we either can’t afford the butter or the currants, or else the eggsare too scarce! Cook, be grannied!”

“Sybylla! Sybylla, you are getting very vulgar!”

“Yes, I once was foolish enough to try and be polite, but I’ve given it up. Mystyle of talk is quite good enough for my company. What on earth does it matterwhether I’m vulgar or not. I can feed calves and milk and grind out my dayshere just as well vulgar as unvulgar,” I answered savagely.

“There, you see you are always discontented about your home. It’s no use; theonly thing is for you to earn your own living.”

“I will earn my own living.”

“What will you do? Will you be examined for a pupil-teacher? That is a verynice occupation for girls.”

“What chance would I have in a competitive exam. against Goulburn girls? Theyall have good teachers and give up their time to study. I only have old Harris,and he is the most idiotic old animal alive; besides, I loathe the very thoughtof teaching. I’d as soon go on the wallaby.”

“You are not old enough to be a general servant or a cook; you have notexperience enough to be a housemaid; you don’t take to sewing, and there is nochance of being accepted as a hospital nurse: you must confess there is nothingyou can do. You are really a very useless girl for your age.”

“There are heaps of things I could do.”

“Tell me a few of them.”

I was silent. The professions at which I felt I had the latent power to excel,were I but given a chance, were in a sphere far above us, and to mention myfeelings and ambitions to my matter-of-fact practical mother would bring uponme worse ridicule than I was already forced to endure day by day.

“Mention a few of the things you could do.”

I might as well have named flying as the professions I was thinking of. Musicwas the least unmentionable of them, so I brought it forward.

“Music! But it would take years of training and great expense before you couldearn anything at that! It is quite out of the question. The only thing for youto do is to settle down and take interest in your work, and help make a livingat home, or else go out as a nurse-girl, and work your way up. If you have anyability in you it would soon show. If you think you could do such strokes, andthe home work is not good enough for you, go out and show the world what awonderful creature you are.”

“Mother, you are unjust and cruel!” I exclaimed. “You do not understand one atall. I never thought I could do strokes. I cannot help being constituted sothat grimy manual labour is hateful to me, for it is hateful to me, and I hateit more and more every day, and you can preach and preach till you go black inthe face, and still I’ll hate it more than ever. If I have to do it all mylife, and if I’m cursed with a long life, I’ll hate it just as much at the endas I do now. I’m sure it’s not any wish of mine that I’m born with inclinationsfor better things. If I could be born again, and had the designing of myself,I’d be born the lowest and coarsest-minded person imaginable, so that I couldfind plenty of companionship, or I’d be born an idiot, which would be betterstill.”

“Sybylla!” said my mother in a shocked tone. “It is a wonder God doesn’t strikeyou dead; I never heard—”

“I don’t believe there is a God,” I said fiercely, “and if there is, He’s notthe merciful being He’s always depicted, or He wouldn’t be always torturing mefor His own amusement.”

“Sybylla, Sybylla! That I should ever have nurtured a child to grow up likethis! Do you know that—”

“I only know that I hate this life. I hate it, I hate it, I hate it,” I saidvehemently.

“Talk about going out to earn your own living! Why, there’s not a woman livingwould have you in her house above a day. You are a perfect she-devil. Oh God!”And my mother began to cry. “What have I done to be cursed with such a child?There is not another woman in the district with such a burden put upon her.What have I done? I can only trust that my prayers to God for you will softenyour evil heart.”

“If your prayers are answered, it’s more than ever mine were,” I retorted.

“Your prayers!” said my mother, with scorn. “The horror of a child notyet sixteen being so hardened. I don’t know what to make of you, you never cryor ask forgiveness. There’s dear little Gertie now, she is often naughty, butwhen I correct her she frets and worries and shows herself to be a human beingand not a fiend.”

So saying my mother went out of the room.

“I’ve asked forgiveness once too often, to be sat upon for my pains,” I calledout.

“I believe you’re mad. That is the only feasible excuse I can make for yourconduct,” she said as a parting shot.

“Why the deuce don’t you two get to bed and not wrangle like a pair of cats inthe middle of the night, disturbing a man’s rest?” came in my father’s voicefrom amid the bedclothes.

My mother is a good woman—a very good woman—and I am, I think, not quite allcriminality, but we do not pull together. I am a piece of machinery which, notunderstanding, my mother winds up the wrong way, setting all the wheels of mycomposition going in creaking discord.

She wondered why I did not cry and beg forgiveness, and thereby give evidenceof being human. I was too wrought up for tears. Ah, that tears might have cometo relieve my overburdened heart! I took up the home-made tallow candle in itstin stick and looked at my pretty sleeping sister Gertie (she and I shared theone bed). It was as mother had said. If Gertie was scolded for any of hershortcomings, she immediately took refuge in tears, said she was sorry,obtained forgiveness, and straightaway forgot the whole matter. She came withinthe range of mother’s understanding, I did not; she had feelings, motherthought, I had none. Did my mother understand me, she would know that I amcapable of more depths of agony and more exquisite heights of joy in one daythan Gertie will experience in her whole life.

Was I mad as mother had said? A fear took possession of me that I might be. Icertainly was utterly different to any girl I had seen or known. What was thehot wild spirit which surged within me? Ah, that I might weep! I threw myselfon my bed and moaned. Why was I not like other girls? Why was I not likeGertie? Why were not a new dress, everyday work, and an occasional picnicsufficient to fill my mind? My movements awakened Gertie.

“What is the matter, dear Sybylla? Come to bed. Mother has been scolding you.She is always scolding some one. That doesn’t matter. You say you are sorry,and she won’t scold any more. That’s what I always do. Do get into bed. You’llbe tired in the morning.”

“What does it matter if I will be. I wish I would be dead. What’s the good of ahateful thing like I am being alive. No one wants or cares for me.”

“I love you, Sybylla, better than all the rest. I could not do without you,”and she put her pretty face to mine and kissed me.

What a balm to the tempest-tossed soul is a little love, though it may befleeting and fickle! I was able to weep now, with wild hot tears, and with mysister’s arms around me I fell asleep without undressing further.

CHAPTER SEVEN
Was E’er a Rose Without Its Thorn?

I arose from bed next morning with three things in my head—a pair of swolleneyes, a heavy pain, and a fixed determination to write a book. Nothing lessthan a book. A few hours’ work in the keen air of a late autumn morning removedthe swelling from my eyes and the pain from my temples, but the idea ofrelieving my feelings in writing had taken firm root in my brain. It was not myfirst attempt in this direction. Two years previously I had purloined paper andsneaked out of bed every night at one or two o’clock to write a prodigiousnovel in point of length and detail, in which a full-fledged hero and heroineperformed the duties of a hero and heroine in the orthodox manner. Knowing ourcircumstances, my grandmother was accustomed, when writing to me, to enclose astamp to enable me to reply. These I saved, and with them sent my book to theleading Sydney publisher. After waiting many weeks I received a polite memo tothe effect that the story showed great ability, but the writer’s inexperiencewas too much in evidence for publication. The writer was to study the bestworks of literature, and would one day, no doubt, take a place among Australiannovelists.

This was a very promising opinion of the work of a child of thirteen, moreencouraging than the great writers got at the start of their literary career;but it seemed to even my childish intelligence that the memo was a stereotypedaffair that the publisher sent in answer to all the MSS. of fameless writerssubmitted to him, and also sent in all probability without reading as much asthe name of the story. After that I wrote a few short stories and essays; butnow the spirit moved me to write another book—not with any hope of success, asit was impossible for me to study literature as advised. I seldom saw a book,and could only spare time in tiny scraps to read them when I did.

However, the few shillings I had obtained at odd times I spent on paper, and insecret robbed from much-needed rest a few hours weekly wherein to write. Thismade me very weary and slow in the daytime, and a sore trial to my mother. Iwas always forgetting things I should not have forgotten, because my thoughtswere engaged in working out my story. The want of rest told upon me. Icontinually complained of weariness, and my work was a drag to me.

My mother knew not what to make of it. At first she thought I was lazy and bad,and punished me in various ways; but while my book occupied my mind I was notcross, gave her no impudence, and did not flare up. Then she began to fear Imust be ill, and took me to a doctor, who said I was much too precocious for myyears, and would be better when the weather got warmer. He gave me a tonic,which I threw out the window. I heard no more of going out as nurse-girl:father had joined a neighbour who had taken a road contract, and by this meansthe pot was kept, if not quite, at least pretty near, boiling.

Life jogged along tamely, and, as far as I could see, gave promise of going tothe last slip-rails without a canter, until one day in July 1896 motherreceived a letter from her mother which made a pleasant change in my life,though, like all sweets, that letter had its bitter drop. It ran as follows:—

My dear daughter, Lucy,

Only a short letter this time. I am pressed for time, as four or five strangershave just come and asked to stay for the night, and as one of the girls isaway, I have to get them beds. I am writing about Sybylla. I am truly grievedto hear she is such a source of grief and annoyance to you. The girl mustsurely be ill or she would never act as you describe. She is young yet, and maysettle down better by and by. We can only entrust her to the good God who isever near. Send her up to me as soon as you can. I will pay all expenses. Thechange will do her good, and if her conduct improves, I will keep her as longas you like. She is young to mention in regard to marriage, but in another yearshe will be as old as I was when I married, and it might be the makings of herif she married early. At any rate she will be better away from Possum Gully,now that she is growing into womanhood, or she may be in danger of forming tiesbeneath her. She might do something good for herself up here: not that I wouldever be a matchmaker in the least degree, but Gertie will soon be coming on,and Sybylla, being so very plain, will need all the time she can get.

Your loving mother,
L. Bossier.

My mother gave me this letter to read, and, when I had finished perusing it,asked me would I go. I replied coldly:

“Yes. Paupers and beggars cannot be choosers, and grandmother might as wellkeep me at Caddagat as at Possum Gully”—for my grandmother contributed greatlyto the support of our family.

As regards scenery, the one bit of beauty Possum Gully possessed was itswattles. Bowers of grown and scrubs of young ones adorned the hills and gulliesin close proximity to the house, while groves of different species graced theflats. Being Sunday, on this afternoon I was at liberty for a few hours; and onreceiving the intelligence contained in the letter, I walked out of the houseover a low hill at the back into a gully, where I threw myself at the foot of awattle in a favourite clump, and gave way to my thoughts.

So mother had been telling my grandmother of my faults—my grandmother whom Iloved so dearly. Mother might have had enough honour and motherly protection tohave kept the tale of my sins to herself. Though this intelligence angered, itdid not surprise me, being accustomed to mother telling every neighbour what agreat trial I was to her—how discontented I was, and what little interest Itook in my work. It was the last part of the letter which finished up myfeelings. Oh heavens! Surely if my mother understood the wild pain, the daysand hours of agony pure and complete I have suffered on account of myappearance, she would never have shown me that letter.

I was to be given more time on account of being ugly—I was not a valuablearticle in the marriage market, sweet thought! My grandmother is one of thegood old school, who believed that a girl’s only proper sphere in life wasmarriage; so, knowing her sentiments, her purpose to get me married neithersurprised nor annoyed me. But I was plain. Ah, bosh! Oh! Ah! I cannot expresswhat kind of a feeling that fact gave me. It sank into my heart and cut like acruel jagged knife—not because it would be a drawback to me in the marriageline, for I had an antipathy to the very thought of marriage. Marriage to meappeared the most horribly tied-down and unfair-to-women existence going. Itwould be from fair to middling if there was love; but I laughed at the idea oflove, and determined never, never, never to marry.

The other side of the letter—the part which gave me joy—was the prospect ofgoing to Caddagat.

Caddagat, the place where I was born! Caddagat, whereat, enfolded ingrandmotherly love and the petting which accrued therefrom, I spent some of myfew sweet childish days. Caddagat, the place my heart fondly enshrines as home.Caddagat, draped by nature in a dream of beauty. Caddagat, Caddagat! Caddagatfor me, Caddagat for ever! I say.

Too engrossed with my thoughts to feel the cold of the dull winter day, Iremained in my position against the wattle-tree until Gertie came to inform methat tea was ready.

“You know, Sybylla, it was your turn to get the tea ready; but I set the tableto save you from getting into a row. Mother was looking for you, and said shesupposed you were in one of your tantrums again.”

Pretty little peacemaker! She often did things like that for me.

“Very well, Gertie, thank you. I will set it two evenings running to make upfor it—if I’m here.”

“If you are here! What do you mean?”

“I am going away,” I replied, watching her narrowly to see if she cared, for Iwas very hungry for love.

“Going to run away becauses mother is always scolding you?”

“No, you little silly! I’m going up to Caddagat to live with grannie.”

“Always?”

“Yes.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“Honour bright?”

“Yes; really and truly and honour bright.”

“Won’t you ever come back again?”

“I don’t know aboutnever coming back again; but I’m going up foralways, as far as a person can lay out ahead of her. Do you care?”

Yes she cared. The childish mouth quivered, the pretty blue-eyed face fell, theready tears flowed fast. I noticed every detail with savage comfort. It wasmore than I deserved, for, though I loved her passionately, I had ever been toomuch wrapped in self to have been very kind and lovable to her.

“Who will tell me stories now?”

It was a habit of mine to relate stories to her out of my own fertileimagination. In return for this she kept secret the fact that I sat up andwrote when I should have been in bed. I was obliged to take some means ofinducing her to keep silence, as she—even Gertie, who firmly believed in me—onwaking once or twice at unearthly hours and discovering me in pursuit of mynightly task, had been so alarmed for my sanity that I had the greatest work toprevent her from yelling to father and mother on the spot. But I bound her tosecrecy, and took a strange delight in bringing to her face with my stories thelaughter, the wide-eyed wonder, or the tears—just as my humour dictated.

“You’ll easily get someone else to tell you stories.”

“Not like yours. And who will take my part when Horace bullies me?”

I pressed her to me.

“Gertie, Gertie, promise me you will love me a little always, and never, neverforget me. Promise me.”

And with a weakly glint of winter sunshine turning her hair to gold, and withher head on my shoulder, Gertie promised—promised with the soluble promise of abutterfly-natured child.

SELF-ANALYSIS

N.B.—This is dull and egotistical. Better skip it. That’s my advice—S. P. M.

As a tiny child I was filled with dreams of the great things I was to do whengrown up. My ambition was as boundless as the mighty bush in which I havealways lived. As I grew it dawned upon me that I was a girl—the makings of awoman! Only a girl—merely this and nothing more. It came home to me as a greatblow that it was only men who could take the world by its ears and conquertheir fate, while women, metaphorically speaking, were forced to sit with tiedhands and patiently suffer as the waves of fate tossed them hither and thither,battering and bruising without mercy. Familiarity made me used to this yoke; Irecovered from the disappointment of being a girl, and was reconciled to thatpart of my fate. In fact, I found that being a girl was quite pleasant until ahideous truth dawned upon me—I was ugly! That truth has embittered my wholeexistence. It gives me days and nights of agony. It is a sensitive sore thatwill never heal, a grim hobgoblin that nought can scare away. In conjunctionwith this brand of hell I developed a reputation of cleverness. Worse andworse! Girls! girls! Those of you who have hearts, and therefore a wish forhappiness, homes, and husbands by and by, never develop a reputation of beingclever. It will put you out of the matrimonial running as effectually as thoughit had been circulated that you had leprosy. So, if you feel that you areafflicted with more than ordinary intelligence, and especially if you are plainwith it, hide your brains, cramp your mind, study to appear unintellectual—itis your only chance. Provided a woman is beautiful allowance will be made forall her shortcomings. She can be unchaste, vapid, untruthful, flippant,heartless, and even clever; so long as she is fair to see men will stand byher, and as men, in this world, are “the dog on top”, they are the power totruckle to. A plain woman will have nothing forgiven her. Her fate is such thatthe parents of uncomely female infants should be compelled to put them to deathat their birth.

The next unpleasant discovery I made in regard to myself was that I waswoefully out of my sphere. I studied the girls of my age around me, andcompared myself with them. We had been reared side by side. They had had equaladvantages; some, indeed, had had greater. We all moved in the one little, dullworld, but they were not only in their world, they were of it; I was not. Theirdaily tasks and their little pleasures provided sufficient oil for the lamp oftheir existence—mine demanded more than Possum Gully could supply. They weretotally ignorant of the outside world. Patti, Melba, Irving, Terry, Kipling,Caine, Corelli, and even the name of Gladstone, were only names to them.Whether they were islands or racehorses they knew not and cared not. With me itwas different. Where I obtained my information, unless it was born in me, I donot know. We took none but the local paper regularly, I saw few books, had thepleasure of conversing with an educated person from the higher walks of lifeabout once in a twelvemonth, yet I knew of every celebrity in literature, art,music, and drama; their world was my world, and in fancy I lived with them. Myparents discouraged me in that species of foolishness. They had been fond ofliterature and the higher arts, but now, having no use for them, had lostinterest therein.

I was discontented and restless, and longed unendurably to be out in the streamof life. “Action! Action! Give me action!” was my cry. My mother did her bestwith me according to her lights. She energetically preached at me. All the oldsaws and homilies were brought into requisition, but without avail. It was likeusing common nostrums on a disease which could be treated by none but a specialphysician.

I was treated to a great deal of harping on that tiresome old string,“Whatsoever your hand findeth to do, do it with all your might.” It was dailydinned into my cars that the little things of life were the noblest, and thatall the great people I mooned about said the same. I usually retorted to theeffect that I was well aware that it was noble, and that I could write as goodan essay on it as any philosopher. It was all very well for great people topoint out the greatness of the little, empty, humdrum life. Why didn’t theyadopt it themselves?

“The toad beneath the harrow knows
Exactly where each tooth-point goes.
The butterfly upon the road
Preaches contentment to the toad.”

I wasn’t anxious to patronize the dull kind of tame nobility of the toad; Ilonged for a few of the triumphs of the butterfly, decried though they are ashollow bubbles. I desired life while young enough to live, and quoted as mymotto:

“Though the pitcher that goes to the sparkling rill
Too oft gets broken at last,
There are scores of others its place to fill
When its earth to the earth is cast.
Keep that pitcher at home, let it never roam,
But lie like a useless clod;
Yet sooner or later the hour will come
When its chips are thrown to the sod.

“Is it wise, then, say, in the waning day,
When the vessel is crack’d and old,
To cherish the battered potter’s clay
As though it were virgin gold?
Take care of yourself, dull, boorish elf,
Though prudent and sage you seem;
Your pitcher will break on the musty shelf,
And mine by the dazzling stream.”

I had sense sufficient to see the uselessness of attempting to be other than Iwas. In these days of fierce competition there was no chance forme—opportunity, not talent, was the main requisite. Fate had thought fit todeny me even one advantage or opportunity, thus I was helpless. I set to workto cut my coat according to my cloth. I manfully endeavoured to squeeze myspirit into “that state of life into which it has pleased God to call me”. Icrushed, compressed, and bruised, but as fast as I managed it on one side itburst out on another, and defied me to cram it into the narrow box of PossumGully.

“The restless throbbings and burnings
That hope unsatisfied brings,
The weary longings and yearnings
For the mystical better things,
Are the sands on which is reflected
The pitiless moving lake,
Where the wanderer falls dejected,
By a thirst he never can slake.”

In a vain endeavour to slake that cruel thirst my soul groped in strange darkplaces. It went out in quest of a God, and finding one not, grew weary.

By the unknown way that the atmosphere of the higher life penetrated to me, socame a knowledge of the sin and sorrow abroad in the world—the cry of themillions oppressed, downtrodden, God-forsaken! The wheels of social mechanismneeded readjusting—things were awry. Oh, that I might find a cure and give itto my fellows! I dizzied my brain with the problem; I was too much for myself.A man with these notions is a curse to himself, but a woman—pity help a womanof that description! She is not merely a creature out of her sphere, she is acreature without a sphere—a lonely being!

Recognizing this, I turned and cursed God for casting upon me a burden greaterthan I could bear—cursed Him bitterly, and from within came a whisper thatthere was nothing there to curse. There was no God. I was an unbeliever. It wasnot that I sought after or desired atheism. I longed to be a Christian, andfought against unbelief. I asked the Christians around me for help.Unsophisticated fool! I might as well have announced that I was a harlot. Myrespectability vanished in one slap. Some said it was impossible to disbelievein the existence of a God: I was only doing it for notoriety, and they washedtheir hands of me at once.

Not believe in God! I was mad!

If there really was a God, would they kindly tell me how to find Him?

Pray! pray!

I prayed, often and ardently, but ever came that heart-stilling whisper thatthere was nothing to pray to.

Ah, the bitter, hopeless heart-hunger of godlessness none but an atheist canunderstand! Nothing to live for in life—no hope beyond the grave. It plunged meinto fits of profound melancholy.

Had my father occupied one of the fat positions of the land, no doubt as hisdaughter my life would have been so full of pleasant occupation and pleasurethat I would not have developed the spirit which torments me now. Or had I afriend—one who knew, who had suffered and understood, one in whom I could losemyself, one on whom I could lean—I might have grown a nicer character. But inall the wide world there was not a soul to hold out a hand to me, and I saidbitterly, “There is no good in the world.” In softer moods I said, “Ah, thetangle of it! Those who have the heart to help have not the power, and thosewho have the power have not the heart.”

Bad, like a too-strong opponent in a game of chess, is ever at the elbow ofgood to checkmate it like a weakly managed king.

I am sadly lacking in self-reliance. I needed some one to help me over therough spots in life, and finding them not, at the age of sixteen I was as ranka cynic and infidel as could be found in three days’ march.

CHAPTER EIGHT
Possum Gully Left Behind. Hurrah! Hurrah!

If a Sydney man has friends residing at Goulburn, he says they are up thecountry. If a Goulburn man has friends at Yass, he says they are up thecountry. If a Yass man has friends at Young, he says they are up the country,and so on. Caddagat is “up the country”.

Bound thither on the second Wednesday in August 1896, I bought a ticket at theGoulburn railway station, and at some time about 1 a.m. took my seat in asecond class carriage of the mail-train on its way to Melbourne. I had three orfour hours to travel in this train when I would have to change to a branch linefor two hours longer. I was the only one from Goulburn in that carriage; allthe other passengers had been in some time and were asleep. One or two openedtheir eyes strugglingly, stared glumly at the intruder, and then went to sleepagain. The motion of the train was a joy to me, and sleep never entered myhead. I stood up, and pressing my forehead to the cold window-pane, vainlyattempted, through the inky blackness of the foggy night, to discern theobjects which flew by.

I was too full of pleasant anticipation of what was ahead of me to think ofthose I had left behind. I did not regret leaving Possum Gully. Quite thereverse; I felt inclined to wave my arms and yell for joy at being freed fromit. Home! God forbid that my experiences at Possum Gully should form the onlyfood for my reminiscences of home. I had practically grown up there, but myheart refused absolutely to regard it as home. I hated it then, I hate it now,with its narrowing, stagnant monotony. It has and had not provided me with onesolitary fond remembrance—only with dreary, wing-clipping, mind-starvingrecollections. No, no; I was not leaving home behind, I was flying homewardnow. Home, home to Caddagat, home to ferny gullies, to the sweet sad rush ofmany mountain waters, to the majesty of rugged Borgongs; home to dear oldgrannie, and uncle and aunt, to books, to music; refinement, company, pleasure,and the dear old homestead I love so well.

All in good time I arrived at the end of my train journey, and was taken incharge by a big red-bearded man, who informed me he was the driver of themail-coach, and had received a letter from Mrs Bossier instructing him to takecare of me. He informed me also that he was glad to do what he termed “thatsame”, and I would be as safe under his care as I would be in God’s pocket.

My twenty-six miles’ coach drive was neither pleasant nor eventful. I was theonly passenger, and so had my choice of seats. The weather being cold and wet,I preferred being inside the box and curled myself up on the seat, to beinterrupted every two or three miles by the good-natured driver inquiring if Iwas “all serene”.

At the Halfway House, where a change of the team of five horses was affected, Ihad a meal and a warm, and so tuned myself up for the remainder of the way. Itgot colder as we went on, and at 2.30 p.m. I was not at all sorry to see theiron roofs of Gool-Gool township disclosing to my view. We first went to thepost office, where the mail-bags were delivered, and then returned and pulledrein in front of the Woolpack Hotel. A tall young gentleman in a mackintosh andcap, who had been standing on the veranda, stepped out on the street as thecoach stopped, and lifting his cap and thrusting his head into the coach,inquired, “Which is Miss Melvyn?”

Seeing I was the only occupant, he laughed the pleasantest of laughs,disclosing two wide rows of perfect teeth, and turning to the driver, said, “Isthat your only passenger? I suppose it is Miss Melvyn?”

“As I wasn’t present at her birth, I can’t swear, but I believe her to be thatsame, as sure as eggs is eggs,” he replied.

My identity being thus established, the young gentleman with the greatest ofcourtesy assisted me to alight, ordered the hotel groom to stow my luggage inthe Caddagat buggy, and harness the horses with all expedition. He thenconducted me to the private parlour, where a friendly little barmaid had somerefreshments on a tray awaiting me, and while warming my feet preparatory toeating I read the letter he had given me, which was addressed in mygrandmother’s handwriting. In it she told me that she and my aunt were onlyjust recovering from bad colds, and on account of the inclemency of the weatherthought it unwise to come to town to meet me; but Frank Hawden, the jackeroowould take every care of me, settle the hotel bill, and tip the coach-driver.Caddagat was twenty-four miles distant from Gool-Gool, and the latter part ofthe road was very hilly. It was already past three o’clock, and, being rainy,the short winter afternoon would close in earlier; so I swallowed my tea andcake with all expedition, so as not to delay Mr Hawden, who was waiting toassist me into the buggy, where the groom was in charge of the horses in theyard. He struck up a conversation with me immediately.

“Seeing your name on yer bags, an’ knowin’ you was belonging to the Bossiers, Iask if yer might be a daughter of Dick Melvyn, of Bruggabrong, out byTimlinbilly.”

“Yes, I am.”

“Well, miss, please remember me most kindly to yer pa; he was a good boss wasDick Melvyn. I hope he’s doin’ well. I’m Billy Haizelip, brother to Mary andJane. You remember Jane, I s’pose, miss?”

I hadn’t time to say more than promise to send his remembrances to my father,for Mr Hawden, saying we would be in the dark, had whipped his horses and wasbowling off at a great pace, in less than two minutes covering a rise which putGool-Gool out of sight. It was raining a little, so I held over us the bigumbrella, which grannie had sent, while we discussed the weather, to the effectthat rain was badly needed and was a great novelty nowadays, and it was to behoped it would continue. There had been but little, but the soil here away wasof that rich loamy description which little water turns to mud. It clogged thewheels and loaded the break-blocks; and the near side horse had a nasty way ofthrowing his front feet, so that he deposited soft red lumps of mud in our lapsat every step. But, despite these trifling drawbacks, it was delightful to bedrawn without effort by a pair of fat horses in splendid harness. It was agreat contrast to our poor skinny old horse at home, crawling along inmuch-broken harness, clumsily and much mended with string and bits of hide.

Mr Hawden was not at all averse to talking. After emptying our tongues of theweather, there was silence for some time, which he broke with, “So you are MrsBossier’s grand-daughter, are you?”

“Not remembering my birth, I can’t swear; but I believe myself to be that same,as sure as eggs is eggs,” I replied.

He laughed. “Very good imitation of the coach-driver. But Mrs Bossier’sgrand-daughter! Well, I should smile!”

“What at?”

“Your being Mrs Bossier’s grand-daughter.”

“I fear, Mr Hawden, there is a suspicion reverse of complimentary in yourremark.”

“Well, I should smile! Would you like to have my opinion of you?”

“Nothing would please me more. I would value your opinion above all things, andI’m sure—I feel certain—that you have formed a true estimate of me.”

At any other time his conceit would have brought upon himself a fine snubbing,but today I was in high feather, and accordingly very pleasant, and resolved toamuse myself by drawing him out.

“Well, you are not a bit like Mrs Bossier or Mrs Bell; they are both sogood-looking,” he continued.

“Indeed!”

“I was disappointed when I saw you had no pretensions to prettiness, as there’snot a girl up these parts worth wasting a man’s affections on, and I wasbuilding great hopes on you. But I’m a great admirer of beauty,” he twaddled.

“I am very sorry for you, Mr Hawden. I’m sure it would take quite a paragon tobe worthy of such affection as I’m sure yours would be,” I repliedsympathetically.

“Never mind. Don’t worry about it. You’re not a bad sort, and think a fellowcould have great fun with you.”

“I’m sure, Mr Hawden, you do me too much honour. It quite exhilarates me tothink that I meet with your approval in the smallest degree,” I replied withthe utmost deference. “You are so gentlemanly and nice that I was alarmed atfirst lest you might despise me altogether.”

“No fear. You needn’t be afraid of me; I’m not a bad sort of fellow,” hereplied with the greatest encouragement.

By his accent and innocent style I detected he was not a colonial, so I got himto relate his history. He was an Englishman by birth, but had been to America,Spain, New Zealand, Tasmania, etc.; by his own make out had ever been a man ofnote, and had played Old Harry everywhere.

I allowed him to gabble away full tilt for an hour on this subject, unconsciousthat I had taken the measure of him, and was grinning broadly to myself. Then Idiverted him by inquiring how long since the wire fence on our right had beenput up. It bore evidence of recent erection, and had replaced an old cockatoofence which I remembered in my childhood.

“Fine fence, is it not? Eight wires, a top rail, and very stout posts. HarryBeecham had that put up by contract this year. Twelve miles of it. It cost hima lot: couldn’t get any very low tenders, the ground being so hard on accountof the drought. Those trees are Five-Bob Downs—see, away over against therange. But I suppose you know the places better than I do.”

We were now within an hour of our destination. How familiar were many landmarksto me, although I had not seen them since I was eight years old.

A river ran on our right, occasionally a glimmer of its noisy waters visiblethrough the shrubbery which profusely lined its banks. The short evening wasdrawing to a close. The white mists brought by the rain were crawling slowlydown the hills, and settling in the hollows of the ranges on our left. AV-shaped rift in them, known as Pheasant Gap, came into view. Mr Hawden said itwas well named, as it swarmed with lyrebirds. Night was falling. The skreel ofa hundred curlews arose from the gullies—how I love their lonely wail!—and itwas quite dark when we pulled up before the front gate of Caddagat.

A score of dogs rushed yelping to meet us, the front door was thrown open,lights and voices came streaming out.

I alighted from the buggy feeling rather nervous. I was a pauper with a badcharacter. How would my grandmother receive me? Dear old soul, I had nothing tofear. She folded me in a great warm-hearted hug, saying, “Dear me, child, yourface is cold. I’m glad you’ve come. It has been a terrible day, but we’re gladto have the rain. You must be frozen. Get in to the fire, child, as fast as youcan. Get in to the fire, get in to the fire. I hope you forgive me for notgoing to meet you.” And there was my mother’s only sister, my tall gracefulaunt, standing beside her, giving me a kiss and cordial hand-clasp, and saying,“Welcome, Sybylla. We will be glad to have a young person to brighten up theold home once more. I am sorry I was too unwell to meet you. You must befrozen; come to the fire.”

My aunt always spoke very little and very quietly, but there was something inher high-bred style which went right home.

I could scarcely believe that they were addressing me. Surely they were makinga mistake. This reception was meant for some grand relative honouring them witha visit, and not for the ugly, useless, bad little pauper come to live upontheir bounty.

Their welcome did more than all the sermons I had ever heard put togethertowards thawing a little of the pitiless cynicism which encrusted my heart.

“Take the child inside, Helen, as fast as you can,” said grannie, “while I seethat the boy attends to the horses. The plaguey fellow can’t be trusted anyfurther than the length of his nose. I told him to tie up these dogs, and herethey are yelp-yelping fit to deafen a person.”

I left my wet umbrella on the veranda, and aunt Helen led me into thedining-room, where a spruce maid was making a pleasant clatter in laying thetable. Caddagat was a very old style of house, and all the front rooms openedonto the veranda without any such preliminary as a hall, therefore it wasnecessary to pass through the dining-room to my bedroom, which was a skillionat the back. While auntie paused for a moment to give some orders to the maid,I noticed the heavy silver serviette rings I remembered so well, and theold-fashioned dinner-plates, and the big fire roaring in the broad whitefireplace; but more than all, the beautiful pictures on the walls and a tablein a corner strewn with papers, magazines, and several very new-looking books.On the back of one of these I saw “Corelli”, and on another—great joy!—wasTrilby. From the adjoining apartment, which was the drawing-room, camethe sweet full tones of a beautiful piano. Here were three things for which Ihad been starving. An impulse to revel in them immediately seized me. I feltlike clearing the table at a bound, seizing and beginning to read both books,and rushing in to the piano and beginning to play upon it there and then, andexamine the pictures—all three things at once. Fortunately for the reputationof my sanity, however, aunt Helen had by this time conducted me to a prettylittle bedroom, and saying it was to be mine, helped me to doff my cape andhat.

While warming my fingers at the fire my eyes were arrested by a beautifulportrait hanging above the mantelpiece. It represented a lovely girl in theprime of youth and beauty, and attired in floating white dinner draperies.

“Oh, aunt Helen! isn’t she lovely? It’s you, isn’t it?”

“No. Do you not recognize it as your mother? It was taken just before hermarriage. I must leave you now, but come out as soon as you arrangeyourself—your grandmother will be anxious to see you.”

When aunt Helen left me I plastered my hair down in an instant without even aglance in the mirror. I took not a particle of interest in my attire, and wouldgo about dressed anyhow. This was one symptom which inclined my mother to thebelief of my possible insanity, as to most young girls dress is a greatdelight. I had tried once or twice to make myself look nice by dressingprettily, but, by my own judgment, considering I looked as ugly as ever, I hadgiven it up as a bad job.

The time which I should have spent in arranging my toilet passed in gazing atmy mother’s portrait. It was one of the loveliest faces imaginable. Thefeatures may not have been perfect according to rule of thumb, but theexpression was simply angelic—sweet, winning, gentle, and happy. I turned fromthe contemplation of it to another photograph—one of my father—in a silverframe on the dressing-table. This, too, was a fine countenance, possessed ofwell-cut features and refined expression. This was the prince who had won LucyBossier from her home. I looked around my pretty bedroom—it had been mymother’s in the days of her maidenhood. In an exclusive city boarding-school,and amid the pleasant surroundings of this home, her youth had been spent.

I thought of a man and his wife at Possum Gully. The man was blear-eyed,disreputable in appearance, and failed to fulfil his duties as a father and acitizen. The woman was work-roughened and temper-soured by endless care and anunavailing struggle against poverty. Could that pair possibly be identical withthis?

This was life as proved by my parents! What right had I to expect any betteryield from it? I shut my eyes and shuddered at the possibilities andprobabilities of my future. It was for this that my mother had yielded up heryouth, freedom, strength; for this she had sacrificed the greatest possessionof woman.

Here I made my way to the dining-room, where grannie was waiting for me andgave me another hug.

“Come here, child, and sit beside me near the fire; but first let me have alook at you,” and she held me at arm’s length.

“Dear, oh, dear, what a little thing you are, and not a bit like any of yourrelations! I am glad your skin is so nice and clear; all my children hadbeautiful complexions. Goodness me, I never saw such hair! A plait thicker thanmy arm and almost to your knees! It is that beautiful bright brown like youraunt’s. Your mother’s was flaxen. I must see your hair loose when you are goingto bed. There is nothing I admire so much as a beautiful head of hair.”

The maid announced that dinner was ready, grannie vigorously rang a littlebell, aunt Helen, a lady, and a gentleman appeared from the drawing-room, andMr Hawden came in from the back. I discovered that the lady and gentleman werea neighbouring squatter and a new governess he was taking home. Grannie, seeingthem pass that afternoon in the rain, had gone out and prevailed upon them tospend the night at Caddagat.

Mr Hawden took no notice of me now, but showed off to the others for mybenefit. After dinner we had music and singing in the drawing-room. I wasenjoying it immensely, but grannie thought I had better go to bed, as I hadbeen travelling since about midnight last night. I was neither tired norsleepy, but knew it useless to protest, so bade every one good night andmarched off. Mr Hawden acknowledged my salute with great airs and stiffness,and aunt Helen whispered that she would come and see me by and by, if I wasawake.

Grannie escorted me to my room, and examined my hair. I shook it out for herinspection. It met with her approval in every way. She pronounced itbeautifully fine, silky, and wavy, and the most wonderful head of hair she hadseen out of a picture.

A noise arose somewhere out in the back premises. Grannie went out to ascertainthe cause of it and did not return to me, so I extinguished my lamp and satthinking in the glow of the firelight.

For the first time my thoughts reverted to my leave-taking from home. My fatherhad kissed me with no more warmth than if I had been leaving for a day only; mymother had kissed me very coldly, saying shortly, “It is to be hoped, Sybylla,that your behaviour to your grandmother will be an improvement upon what it hasever been to me.” Gertie was the only one who had felt any sorrow at partingwith me, and I knew that she was of such a disposition that I would beforgotten in a day or two. They would never miss me, for I had no place intheir affections. True, I was an undutiful child, and deserved none. Ipossessed no qualities that would win either their pride or love, but my heartcried out in love for them.

Would Gertie miss me tonight, as I would have missed her had our positions beenreversed? Not she. Would my absence from the noisy tea-table cause a blank? Ifeared not.

I thought of poor mother left toiling at home, and my heart grew heavy; Ifailed to remember my father’s faults, but thought of his great patience withme in the years agone, and all my old-time love for him renewed itself. Why,oh, why, would they not love me a little in return! Certainly I had neverstriven to be lovable. But see the love some have lavished upon them withoutstriving for it! Why was I ugly and nasty and miserable and useless—without aplace in the world?

CHAPTER NINE
Aunt Helen’s Recipe

“Dear me, Sybylla, not in bed yet, and tears, great big tears! Tell me what isthe cause of them.”

It was aunt Helen’s voice; she had entered and lit the lamp.

There was something beautifully sincere and real about aunt Helen. She neverfussed over any one or pretended to sympathize just to make out how nice shewas. She was real, and you felt that no matter what wild or awful rubbish youtalked to her it would never be retailed for any one’s amusement—and, betterthan all, she never lectured.

She sat down beside me, and I impulsively threw my arms around her neck andsobbed forth my troubles in a string. How there was no good in the world, nouse for me there, no one loved me or ever could on account of my hideousness.

She heard me to the end and then said quietly, “When you are fit to listen Iwill talk to you.”

I controlled myself instantly and waited expectantly. What would she say?Surely not that tame old yarn anent this world being merely a place ofprobation, wherein we were allowed time to fit ourselves for a beautiful worldto come. That old tune may be all very well for old codgers tottering on thebrink of the grave, but to young persons with youth and romance and good healthsurging through their veins, it is most boresome. Would she preach that it wasflying in the face of providence to moan about my appearance? it being one ofthe greatest blessings I had, as it would save me from countless temptations towhich pretty girls are born. That was another piece of old croaking of thejob’s comforter order, of which I was sick unto death, as I am sure there isnot an ugly person in the world who thinks her lack of beauty a blessing toher. I need not have feared aunt Helen holding forth in that strain. She alwayssaid something brave and comforting which made me ashamed of myself and myselfish conceited egotism.

“I understand you, Sybylla,” she said slowly and distinctly, “but you must notbe a coward. There is any amount of love and good in the world, but you mustsearch for it. Being misunderstood is one of the trials we all must bear. Ithink that even the most common-minded person in the land has inner thoughtsand feelings which no one can share with him, and the higher one’s organizationthe more one must suffer in that respect. I am acquainted with a great numberof young girls, some of them good and true, but you have a character containingmore than any three of them put together. With this power, if properly managed,you can gain the almost universal love of your fellows. But you are wild andwayward, you must curb and strain your spirit and bring it into subjection,else you will be worse than a person with the emptiest of characters. You willfind that plain looks will not prevent you from gaining thefriendshiplove of your fellows—the only real love there is. As for the hot fleetingpassion of the man for the maid, which is wrongfully designated love, I willnot tell you not to think of it, knowing that it is human nature to demand itwhen arriving at a certain age; but take this comfort: it as frequently passesby on the other side of those with well-chiselled features as those with facesof plainer mould.”

She turned her face away, sighed, and forgetful of my presence lapsed intosilence. I knew she was thinking of herself.

Love, notfriendship love, for anyone knowing her must give her love andrespect, but the other sort of love had passed her by.

Twelve years before I went to Caddagat, when Helen Bossier had been eighteenand one of the most beautiful and lovable girls in Australia, there had come toCaddagat on a visit a dashing colonel of the name of Bell, in the enjoyment ofa most extended furlough for the benefit of his health. He married aunt Helenand took her to some part of America where his regiment was stationed. I haveheard them say she worshipped Colonel Bell, but in less than a twelvemonth hetired of his lovely bride, and becoming enamoured of another woman, he tried toobtain a divorce. On account of his wife’s spotless character he was unable todo this; he therefore deserted her and openly lived with the other woman as hismistress. This forced aunt Helen to return to Caddagat, and her mother hadinduced her to sue for a judicial separation, which was easily obtained.

When a woman is separated from her husband it is the religion of the world atlarge to cast the whole blame on the wife. By reason of her youth and purityMrs Bell had not as much to suffer in this way as some others. But,comparatively speaking, her life was wrecked. She had been humiliated andoutraged in the cruellest way by the man whom she loved and trusted. He hadturned her adrift, neither a wife, widow, nor maid, and here she was, one ofthe most estimably lovable and noble women I have ever met.

“Come, Sybylla,” she said, starting up brightly, “I have a plan—will you agreeto it? Come and take one good long look at yourself in the glass, then I willturn it to the wall, and you must promise me that for three or four weeks youwill not look in a mirror. I will put as many as I can out of your way, and youmust avoid the remainder. During this time I will take you in hand, and youmust follow my directions implicitly. Will you agree? You will be surprisedwhat a nice-looking little girl I will make of you.”

Of course I agreed. I took a long and critical survey of myself in the glass.There was reflected a pair of hands, red and coarsened with rough work, a roundface, shiny and swollen with crying, and a small round figure enshrouded inmasses of hair falling in thick waves to within an inch or two of the knees. Avery ugly spectacle, I thought. Aunt Helen turned the face of the large mirrorflat against the wall, while I remarked despondently, “you can make me onlymiddling ugly, you must be a magician.”

“Come now, part of my recipe is that you must not think of yourself at all.I’ll take you in hand in the morning. I hope you will like your room; I havearranged it on purpose to suit you. And now good night, and happy dreams.”

I awoke next morning in very fine spirits, and slithering out of my bed withalacrity, revelled—literally wallowed—in the appointments of my room. My poorold room at Possum Gully was lacking in barest necessaries. We could not affordeven a wash-hand basin and jug; Gertie, the boys, and myself had to perform ourmorning ablutions in a leaky tin dish on a stool outside the kitchen door,which on cold frosty mornings was a pretty peppery performance: but this roomcontained everything dear to the heart of girlhood. A lovely bed, prettyslippers, dainty white China-matting and many soft skins on the floor, and inone corner a most artistic toilet set, and a wash-stand liberally supplied witha great variety of soap—some of it so exquisitely perfumed that I felt temptedto taste it. There were pretty pictures on the walls, and on a commodiousdressing-table a big mirror and large hand-glasses, with their faces to thewall at present. Hairpins, fancy combs, ribbons galore, and a prettywork-basket greeted my sight, and with delight I swooped down upon the mostexcruciatingly lovely little writing-desk. It was stuffed full with all kindsof paper of good quality—fancy, all colours, sizes, and shapes, plain, foreignnote, pens, ink, and a generous supply of stamps. I felt like writing a dozenletters there and then, and was on the point of giving way to my inclination,when my attention was arrested by what I considered the gem of the wholeturn-out. I refer to a nice little bookcase containing copies of all ourAustralian poets, and two or three dozen novels which I had often longed toread. I read the first chapters of four of them, and then lost myself inGordon, and sat on my dressing-table in my nightgown, regardless of cold, untilbrought to my senses by the breakfast-bell. I made great pace, scrambled intomy clothes helter-skelter, and appeared at table when the others had beenseated and unfolded their serviettes.

Aunt Helen’s treatment for making me presentable was the wearing of gloves anda shady hat every time I went outside; and she insisted upon me spending aproper time over my toilet, and would not allow me to encroach upon it with thecontents of my bookshelf.

“Rub off some of your gloomy pessimism and cultivate a little more healthygirlish vanity, and you will do very well,” she would say.

I observed these rites most religiously for three days. Then I contracted aslight attack of influenza, and in poking around the kitchen, doing one of thethings I oughtn’t at the time I shouldn’t, a servant-girl tipped a pot ofboiling pot-liquor over my right foot, scalding it rather severely. Aunt Helenand grannie put me to bed, where I yelled with pain for hours like a mad RedIndian, despite their applying every alleviative possible. The combined forcesof the burn and influenza made me a trifle dicky, so a decree went forth that Iwas to stay in bed until recovered from both complaints. This effectuallyprevented me from running in the way of any looking-glasses.

I was not sufficiently ill to be miserable, and being a pampered invalid wastherefore fine fun. Aunt Helen was a wonderful nurse. She dressed my footsplendidly every morning, and put it in a comfortable position many timesthroughout the day. Grannie brought me every dainty in the house, and sentspecial messengers to Gool-Gool for more. Had I been a professional glutton Iwould have been in paradise. Even Mr Hawden condescended so far as to expresshis regret concerning the accident, and favoured me with visits throughout eachday; and one Sunday his gallantry carried him to a gully where he plucked abouquet of maidenhair fern—the first of the season—and put them in a bowlbeside my bed. My uncle Julius, the only other member of the family besides theservants, was away “up the country” on some business or another, and was notexpected home for a month or so.

The Bossiers and Beechams were leaders of swelldom among the squattocracy upthe country, and firm and intimate friends. The Beechams resided at Five-BobDowns, twelve miles from Caddagat, and were a family composed of two maidenladies and their nephew, Harold. One of these ladies was aunt Helen’sparticular friend, and the other had stood in the same capacity to my mother indays gone by, but of late years, on account of her poverty, mother had been tooproud to keep up communication with her. As for Harold Beecham, he was nearlyas much at home at Caddagat as at Five-Bob Downs. He came and went with thatpleasant familiarity practised between congenial spirits among squatterdom. TheBossiers and Beechams were congenial spirits in every way—they lived in the onesphere and held the one set of ideas, the only difference between them, andthat an unnoticeable one, being that the Bossiers, though in comfortablecircumstances, were not at all rich, while Harold Beecham was immenselywealthy. When my installation in the role of invalid took place, one MissBeecham was away in Melbourne, and the other not well enough to come and seeme, but Harold came regularly to inquire how I was progressing. He alwaysbrought me a number of beautiful apples. This kindness was because the Caddagatorchard had been too infested with codlin moth for grannie to save any lastseason.

Aunt Helen used to mischievously tease me about this attention.

“Here comes Harry Beecham with some more apples,” she would say. “No doubt heis far more calculating and artful than I thought he was capable of being. Heis taking time by the forelock and wooing you ere he sees you, and so will takethe lead. Young ladies are in the minority up this way, and every one issnapped up as soon as she arrives.”

“You’d better tell him how ugly I am, auntie, so that he will carry applestwelve miles on his own responsibility, and when he sees me won’t be vexed thatall his work has been for nothing. Perhaps, though, it would be better not todescribe me, or I will get no more apples,” I would reply.

Aunt Helen was a clever needlewoman. She made all grannie’s dresses and herown. Now she was making some for me, which, however, I was not to see until Iwore them. Aunt Helen had this as a pleasant surprise, and went to the troubleof blindfolding me while I was being fitted. While in bed, grannie and auntiebeing busy, I was often left hours alone, and during that time devoured thecontents of my bookshelf.

The pleasure, so exquisite as to be almost pain, which I derived from thebooks, and especially the Australian poets, is beyond description. In thenarrow peasant life of Possum Gully I had been deprived of companionship withpeople of refinement and education who would talk of the things I loved; but,at last here was congeniality, here was companionship.

The weird witchery of mighty bush, the breath of wide sunlit plains, the soundof camp-bells and jingle of hobble chains, floating on the soft twilightbreezes, had come to these men and had written a tale on their hearts as hadbeen written on mine. The glory of the starlit heavens, the mighty wonder ofthe sea, and the majesty of thunder had come home to them, and the breathlessfulness of the sunset hour had whispered of something more than the humour oftomorrow’s weather. The wind and rain had a voice which spoke to Kendall, andhe too had endured the misery of lack of companionship. Gordon, with his sad,sad humanism and bitter disappointment, held out his hand and took me with him.The regret of it all was I could never meet them—Byron, Thackeray, Dickens,Longfellow, Gordon, Kendall, the men I loved, all were dead; but, blissfulthought! Caine, Paterson, and Lawson were still living, breathing humanbeings—two of them actually countrymen, fellow Australians!

I pored with renewed zeal over the terse realism and pathos of Lawson, andenjoyed Paterson’s redolence of the rollicking side of the wholesome lifebeneath these sunny skies, which he depicted with grand touches of powerflashing here and there. I learnt them by heart, and in that gloriously bluereceptacle, by and by, where many pleasant youthful dreams are stowed, I putthe hope that one day I would clasp hands with them, and feel and know theunspeakable comfort and heart-rest of congenial companionship.

CHAPTER TEN
Everard Grey

Uncle Julius had taken a run down to Sydney before returning to Caddagat, andwas to be home during the first week in September, bringing with him EverardGrey. This young gentleman always spent Christmas at Caddagat, but as he hadjust recovered from an illness he was coming up for a change now instead.Having heard much of him, I was curious to see him. He was grandmamma’s adoptedson, and was the orphan of very aristocratic English parents who had left himto the guardianship of distant relatives. They had proved criminallyunscrupulous. By finding a flaw in deeds, or something which none but lawyersunderstand, they had deprived him of all his property and left him to sink orswim. Grannie had discovered, reared, and educated him. Among professions hehad chosen the bar, and was now one of Sydney’s most promising youngbarristers. His foster-mother was no end proud of him, and loved him as her ownson.

In due time a telegram arrived from uncle Julius, containing instructions forthe buggy to be sent to Gool-Gool to meet him and Everard Grey.

By this time I had quite recovered from influenza and my accident, and as theywould not arrive till near nightfall, for their edification I was to be dressedin full-blown dinner costume, also I was to be favoured with a look at myreflection in a mirror for the first time since my arrival.

During the afternoon I was dispatched by grannie on a message some miles away,and meeting Mr Hawden some distance from the house, he took it upon himself toaccompany me. Everywhere I went he followed after, much to my annoyance,because grannie gave me many and serious talkings-to about the crime ofencouraging young men.

Frank Hawden had changed his tune, and told me now that it mattered not that Iwas not pretty, as pretty or not I was the greatest brick of a girl he had met.His idea for this opinion was that I was able to talk theatres with him, andwas the only girl there, and because he had arrived at that overflowing agewhen young men have to be partial to some female whether she be ugly or pretty,fat or lean, old or young. That I should be the object of these puerileemotions in a fellow like Frank Hawden, filled me with loathing and disgust.

It was late in the afternoon when Hawden and I returned, and the buggy was tobe seen a long way down the road, approaching at the going-for-the-doctor paceat which uncle Julius always drove.

Aunt Helen hustled me off to dress, but I was only half-rigged when theyarrived, and so was unable to go out and meet them. Uncle Julius inquired forthat youngster of Lucy’s, and aunt Helen replied that she would be forthcomingwhen they were dressed for dinner. The two gentlemen took a nip, to put alittle heart in them uncle Julius said, and auntie Helen came to finish mytoilet while they were making theirs.

“There now, you have nothing to complain of in the way of looks,” she remarkedat the completion of the ceremony. “Come and have a good look at yourself.”

I was decked in my first evening dress, as it was a great occasion. It was onlyon the rarest occasion that we donned full war-paint at Caddagat. I think thatevening dress is one of the prettiest and most idiotic customs extant. What canbe more foolish than to endanger one’s health by exposing at night the chestand arms—two of the most vital spots of the body—which have been covered allday? On the other hand, what can be more beautiful than a soft white bosomrising and falling amid a dainty nest of silk and lace? Every woman looks moresoft and feminine in adecollete gown. And is there any of the animallines known pleasanter to the eye than the contour of shapely arms? Some thereare who cry down evening dress as being immodest and indecent. These will befound among those whose chest and arms will not admit of being displayed, oramong those who, not having been reared to the custom, dislike it with manyother things from want of use.

Aunt Helen took me into the wide old drawing-room, now brilliantly lighted. Aheavy lamp was on each of the four brackets in the corners, and another swungfrom the centre of the ceiling, and candelabra threw many lights from thepiano. Never before had I seen this room in such a blaze of light. During thelast week or two aunt Helen and I had occupied it every night, but we neverlighted more than a single candle on the piano. This had been ample light forour purpose. Aunt Helen would sing in her sweet sad voice all the beautiful oldsongs I loved, while I curled myself on a mat at her side and read books—themusic often compelling me to forget the reading, and the reading occasionallyrendering me deaf to the music; but through both ever came the solemn rush ofthe stream outside in its weird melancholy, like a wind ceaselesslyendeavouring to outstrip a wild vain regret which relentlessly pursued.

“Your uncle Julius always has the drawing-room lighted like this; he does notbelieve in shadowy half light—calls it sentimental bosh,” said aunt Helen inexplanation.

“Is uncle like that?” I remarked, but my question remained unanswered. Leavinga hand-mirror with me, aunt Helen had slipped away.

One wall of the drawing-room was monopolized by a door, a big bookcase, and aheavy bevelled-edged old-fashioned mirror—the two last-mentioned articlesreaching from floor to ceiling. Since my arrival the face of the mirror hadbeen covered, but this evening the blue silken curtains were looped up, and itwas before this that I stood.

I looked, and looked again in pleased surprise. I beheld a young girl with eyesand skin of the clearest and brightest, and lips of brilliant scarlet, and achest and pair of arms which would pass muster with the best. If Nature hadbeen in bad humour when moulding my face, she had used her tools craftily informing my figure. Aunt Helen had proved a clever maid and dressmaker. My paleblue cashmere dress fitted my fully developed yet girlish figure to perfection.Some of my hair fell in cunning little curls on my forehead; the remainder,tied simply with a piece of ribbon, hung in thick waves nearly to my knees. Mytoilet had altered me almost beyond recognition. It made me look my age—sixteenyears and ten months—whereas before, when dressed carelessly and with my hairplastered in a tight coil, people not knowing me would not believe that I wasunder twenty. Joy and merriment lit up my face, which glowed with youth,health, and happiness, which rippled my lips in smiles, which displayed asplendid set of teeth, and I really believe that on that night I did not lookout of the way ugly.

I was still admiring my reflection when aunt Helen returned to say that Everardand uncle Julius were smoking on the veranda and asking for me.

“What do you think of yourself, Sybylla?”

“Oh, aunt Helen, tell me that there is something about me not completelyhideous!”

She took my face between her hands, saying:

“Silly child, there are some faces with faultless features, which would receivenothing more than an indifferent glance while beside other faces which mighthave few if any pretensions to beauty. Yours is one of those last mentioned.”

“But that does not say I am not ugly.”

“No one would dream of calling you plain, let alone ugly; brilliant is the wordwhich best describes you.”

Uncle Julius had the upper part of his ponderous figure arrayed in afrock-coat. He did not take kindly to what he termed “those skittishsparrow-tailed affairs”. Frock-coats suited him, but I am not partial to themon every one. They look well enough on a podgy, fat, or broad man, but on askinny one they hang with such a forlorn, dying-duck expression, that theyinvariably make me laugh.

Julius John Bossier, better known as J. J. Bossier, and better still asJay-Jay—big, fat, burly, broad, a jovial bachelor of forty, too fond of all theopposite sex ever to have settled his affections on one in particular—was wellknown, respected, and liked from Wagga Wagga to Albury, Forbes to Dandaloo,Bourke to Hay, from Tumut to Monaro, and back again to Peak Hill, as a generousman, a straight goer in business matters, and a jolly good fellow all round.

I was very proud to call him uncle.

“So this is yourself, is it!” he exclaimed, giving me a tremendous hug.

“Oh, uncle,” I expostulated, “wipe your old kisses off! Your breath smellshorribly of whisky and tobacco.”

“Gammon, that’s what makes my kisses so nice!” he answered; and, after holdingme at arm’s-length for inspection, “By George, you’re a wonderful-looking girl!You’re surely not done growing yet, though! You are such a little nipper. Icould put you in my pocket with ease. You aren’t a scrap like your mother. I’llgive the next shearer who passes a shilling to cut that hair off. It would killa dog in the hot weather.”

“Everard, this is my niece, Sybylla” (aunt Helen was introducing us). “You willhave to arrange yourselves—what relation you are, and how to address eachother.”

The admiration expressed in his clear sharp eyes gave me a sensation differentto any I had ever experienced previously.

“I suppose I’m a kind of uncle and brother in one, and as either relationshipentitles me to a kiss, I’m going to take one,” he said in a very gallantmanner.

“You may take one if you can,” I said with mischievous defiance, springing offthe veranda into the flower-garden. He accepted my challenge, and, being litheas a cat, a tremendous scamper ensued. Round and round the flower-beds we ran.Uncle Jay-Jay’s beard opened in a broad smile, which ended in a loud laugh.Everard Grey’s coat-tails flew in the breeze he made, and his collar was toohigh for athletic purposes. I laughed too, and was lost, and we returned to theveranda—Everard in triumph, and I feeling very red and uncomfortable.

Grannie had arrived upon the scene, looking the essence of brisk respectabilityin a black silk gown and a white lace cap. She cast on me a glance of severedisapproval, and denounced my conduct as shameful; but uncle Jay-Jay’s eyestwinkled as he dexterously turned the subject.

“Gammon, mother! I bet you were often kissed when that youngster’s age. I betmy boots now that you can’t count the times you did the same thing yourself.Now, confess.”

Grannie’s face melted in a smile as she commenced a little anecdote, with thatpathetic beginning, “When I was young.”

Aunt Helen sent me inside lest I should catch cold, and I stationed myselfimmediately inside the window so that I should not miss the conversation. “Ishould think your niece is very excitable,” Mr Grey was saying to aunt Helen.

“Oh, very.”

“Yes; I have never seen any but very highly strung temperaments have thattransparent brilliance of expression.”

“She is very variable—one moment all joy, and the next the reverse.”

“She has a very striking face. I don’t know what it is that makes it so.”

“It may be her complexion,” said aunt Helen; “her skin is whiter than thefairest blonde, and her eyebrows and lashes very dark. Be very careful you donot say anything that would let her know you think her not nice looking. Shebroods over her appearance in such a morbid manner. It is a weak point withher, so be careful not to sting her sensitiveness in that respect.”

“Plain-looking! Why, I think she has one of the most fascinating faces I’veseen for some time, and her eyes are simply magnificent. What colour are they?”

“The grass is not bad about Sydney. I think I will send a truck of fat wethersaway next week,” said uncle Jay-Jay to grannie.

“It is getting quite dark. Let’s get in to dinner at once,” said grannie.

During the meal I took an opportunity of studying the appearance of EverardGrey. He had a typically aristocratic English face, even to the cold ratherheartless expression, which is as established a point of an English blue bloodas an arched neck is of a thoroughbred horse.

A ringer, whose wife had been unexpectedly confined, came for grannie whendinner was over, and the rest of us had a delightful musical evening. UncleJay-Jay bawled “The Vicar of Bray” and “Drink, Puppy, Drink” in a stentorianbass voice, holding me on his knee, pinching, tickling, pulling my hair, andshaking me up and down between whiles. Mr Hawden favoured us by rendering “TheHoly City”. Everard Grey sang several new songs, which was a great treat, as hehad a well-trained and musical baritone voice. He was a veritable carpetknight, and though not a fop, was exquisitely dressed in full evening costume,and showed his long pedigreed blood in every line of his clean-shaven face andtall slight figure. He was quite a champion on the piano, and played auntHelen’s accompaniments while he made her sing song after song. When she wasweary uncle Jay-Jay said to me, “Now it’s your turn, me fine lady. We’ve alldone something to keep things rolling but you. Can you sing?”

“No,”

“Can this youngster sing, Helen?”

“She sings very nicely to herself sometimes, but I do not know how she wouldmanage before company. Will you try something, Sybylla?”

Uncle Jay-Jay waited to hear no more, but carrying me to the music-stool, anddepositing me thereon, warned me not to attempt to leave it before singingsomething.

To get away to myself, where I was sure no one could bear me, and sing and singtill I made the echoes ring, was one of the chief joys of my existence, but Ihad never made a success in singing to company. Besides losing all nerve, I hada very queer voice, which every one remarked. However, tonight I made an effortin my old favourite, “Three Fishers Went Sailing”. The beauty of the full-tonedRonisch piano, and Everard’s clever and sympathetic accompanying, caused me toforget my audience, and sing as though to myself alone, forgetting that myvoice was odd.

When the song ceased Mr Grey wheeled abruptly on the stool and said, “Do youknow that you have one of the most wonderful natural voices I have heard. Why,there is a fortune in such a voice if it were, trained! Such chest-notes, suchfeeling, such rarity of tone!”

“Don’t be sarcastic, Mr Grey,” I said shortly.

“Upon my word as a man, I mean every word I say,” he returned enthusiastically.

Everard Grey’s opinion on artistic matters was considered worth having. Hedabbled in all the arts—writing, music, acting, and sketching, and went toevery good concert and play in Sydney. Though he was clever at law, it waswhispered by some that he would wind up on the stage, as he had a great leaningthat way.

I walked away from the piano treading on air. Would I really make a singer? Iwith the voice which had often been ridiculed; I who had often blasphemouslysaid that I would sell my soul to be able to sing just passably. Everard Grey’sopinion gave me an intoxicated sensation of joy.

“Can you recite?” he inquired.

“Yes,” I answered firmly.

“Give us something,” said uncle Jay-Jay.

I recited Longfellow’s “The Slave’s Dream”. Everard Grey was quite asenthusiastic over this as he had been about my singing.

“Such a voice! Such depth and width! Why, she could fill the Centennial Hallwithout an effort. All she requires is training.”

“By George, she’s a regular dab! But I wish she would give us something notquite so glum,” said uncle Jay-Jay.

I let myself go. Carried away by I don’t know what sort of a spirit, Iexclaimed, “Very well, I will, if you will wait till I make up, and will helpme.”

I disappeared for a few minutes, and returned made up as a fat old Irish woman,with a smudge of dirt on my face. There was a general laugh.

Would Mr Hawden assist me? Of course he was only too delighted, and flatteredthat I had called upon him in preference to the others. What would he do?

I sat him on a footstool, so that I might with facility put my hand on hissandy hair, and turning to uncle, commenced:

“Shure, sir, seeing it was a good bhoy yez were afther to run errants, it’smeself that has brought this youngsther for yer inspection. It’s a jool ye’llhave in him. Shure I rared him meself, and he says his prayers every morning.Kape sthill, honey! Faith, ye’re not afraid of yer poor old mammy pullin’ yerbeautiful cur-r-rls?”

Uncle Jay-Jay was laughing like fun; even aunt Helen deigned to smile; andEverard was looking on with critical interest.

“Go on,” said uncle. But Mr Hawden got huffy at the ridicule which he suspectedI was calling down upon him, and jumped up looking fit to eat me.

I acted several more impromptu scenes with the other occupants of thedrawing-room. Mr Hawden emitted “Humph!” from the corner where he grumpily sat,but Mr Grey was full of praise.

“Splendid! splendid!” he exclaimed. “You say you have not had an hour’straining, and never saw a play. Such versatility. Your fortune would be made onthe stage. It is a sin to have such exceptional talent wasting in the bush. Imust take her to Sydney and put her under a good master.”

“Indeed, you’ll do no such thing,” said uncle. “I’ll keep her here to liven upthe old barracks. You’ve got enough puppets on the stage without a niece ofmine ever being there.”

I went to bed that night greatly elated. Flattery is sweet to youth. I feltpleased with myself, and imagined, as I peeped in the looking-glass, that I wasnot half bad-looking after all.

CHAPTER ELEVEN
Yah!

“Bah, you hideous animal! Ha ha! Your peerless conceit does you credit. So youactually imagined that by one or two out of every hundred you might beconsidered passable. You are the most uninteresting person in the world. Youare small and nasty and bad, and every other thing that’s abominable. That’swhat you are.”

This address I delivered to my reflection in the glass next morning. My elationof the previous night was as flat as a pancake. Dear, oh dear, what a fool Ihad been to softly swallow the flattery of Mr Grey without a single snub inreturn! To make up for my laxity, if he continued to amuse himself byplastering my vanity with the ointment of flattery, I determined to serve up myreplies to him red-hot and well seasoned with pepper.

I finished my toilet, and in a very what’s-the-good-o’-anything mood took alast glance in the glass to say, “You’re ugly, you’re ugly and useless; sodon’t forget that and make a fool of yourself again.”

I was in the habit of doing this; it had long ago taken the place of a morningprayer. I said this, that by familiarity it might lose a little of its stingwhen I heard it from other lips, but somehow it failed in efficacy.

I was late for breakfast that morning. All the others were half through themeal when I sat down.

Grannie had not come home till after twelve, but was looking as brisk as usual.

“Come, Sybylla, I suppose this comes of sitting up too late, as I was not hereto hunt you to bed. You are always very lively at night, but it’s a differenttune in the morning,” she said, when giving me the usual morning hug.

“When I was a nipper of your age, if I didn’t turn out like greased lightningevery morning, I was assisted by a little strap oil,” remarked uncle Jay-Jay.

“Sybylla should be excused this morning,” interposed Mr Grey. “She entertainedus for hours last night. Little wonder if she feels languid this morning.”

“Entertained you I What did she do?” queried grannie.

“Many things. Do you know, gran, that you are robbing the world of an artist bykeeping Sybylla hidden away in the bush? I must persuade you to let me take herto Sydney and have her put under the best masters in Sydney.”

“Under masters for what?”

“Elocution and singing.”

“I couldn’t afford it.”

“But I’d bear the expense myself. It would only be returning a trifle of allyou have done for me.”

“What nonsense! What would you have her do when she was taught?”

“Go on the stage, of course. With her talent and hair she would cause quite asensation.”

Now grannie’s notions are the stage were very tightly laced. All actors andactresses, from the lowest circus man up to the most glorious cantatrice, werepeople defiled in the sight of God, and utterly outside the pale of allrespectability, when measured with her code of morals.

She turned energetically in her chair, and her keen eyes flashed with scorn andanger as she spoke.

“Go on the stage! A grand-daughter of mine! Lucy’s eldest child! An actress—avile, low, brazen hussy! Use the gifts God has given her with which to do goodin showing off to a crowd of vile bad men! I would rather see her struck deadat my feet this instant! I would rather see her shear off her hair and enter aconvent this very hour. Child, promise you will never be a bold bad actress.”

“I will never be abold bad actress, grannie,” I said, putting greatstress on the adjectives, and bringing out the actress very faintly.

“Yes,” she continued, calming down, “I’m sure you have not enough bad in you.You may be boisterous, and not behave with sufficient propriety sometimes, butI don’t think you are wicked enough to ever make an actress.”

Everard attempted to defend his case.

“Look here, gran, that’s a very exploded old notion about the stage being a lowprofession. It might have been once, but it is quite the reverse nowadays.There are, of course, low people on the stage, as there are in all walks oflife. I grant you that; but if people are good they can be good on the stage aswell as anywhere else. On account of a little prejudice it would be a sin torob Sybylla of the brilliant career she might have.”

“Career!” exclaimed his foster-mother, catching at the word. “Career! That isall girls think of now, instead of being good wives and mothers and attendingto their homes and doing what God intended. All they think of is gadding aboutand being fast, and ruining themselves body and soul. And the men are as bad toencourage them,” looking severely at Everard.

“There is a great deal of truth in what you say, gran, I admit. You can applyit to many of our girls, I am sorry to confess, but Sybylla could not bebrought under that classification. You must look at her in a different way.If—”

“I look at her as the child of respectable people, and will not have the stagementioned in connection with her.” Here Grannie thumped her fist down on thetable and there was silence, complete, profound. Few dared argue with MrsBossier.

Dear old lady, she was never angry long, and in a minute or two she proceededwith her breakfast, saying quite pleasantly:

“Never mention such a subject to me again; but I’ll tell you what you can do.Next autumn, some time in March or April, when the fruit-preserving andjam-making are done with, Helen can take the child to Sydney for a month or so,and you can show them round. It will be a great treat for Sybylla as she hasnever been in Sydney.”

“That’s right, let’s strike a bargain on that, gran,” said Everard.

“Yes; it’s a bargain, if I hear no more about the stage. God intends Hiscreatures for a better life than that.”

After breakfast I was left to entertain Everard for some while. We had a finetime. He was a perfect gentleman and a clever conversationalist.

I was always desirous of enjoying the company of society people who were wellbred and lived according to etiquette, and possessed of leisure and culturesufficient to fill their minds with something more than the price of farmproduce and a hard struggle for existence. Hitherto I had only read of such orseen them in pictures, but here was a real live one, and I seized myopportunity with vim. At my questioning and evident interest in his talk hetold me of all the latest plays, actors, and actresses with whom he wasacquainted, and described the fashionable balls, dinners, and garden-parties heattended. Having exhausted this subject, we fell to discussing books, and Irecited snatches of poems dear to me. Everard placed his hands upon myshoulders and said:

“Sybylla, do you know you are a most wonderful girl? Your figure is perfect,your style refreshing, and you have a most interesting face. It is asever-changing as a kaleidoscope—sometimes merry, then stern, often sympathetic,and always sad when at rest. One would think you had had some sorrow in yourlife.”

Lifting my skirt at either side, I bowed several times very low in what Icalled my stage bow, and called into requisition my stage smile, whichdisplayed two rows of teeth as white and perfect as any twenty-guinea setturned out on a gold plate by a fashionable dentist.

“The handsome gentleman is very kind to amuse himself at the expense of alittle country bumpkin, but he would do well to ascertain if his flattery wouldgo down before administering it next time,” I said sarcastically, and I heardhim calling to me as I abruptly went off to shut myself in my room.

“How dare anyone ridicule me by paying idle brainless compliments! I knew I wasugly, and did not want any one to perjure his soul pretending they thoughtdifferently. What right had I to be small? Why wasn’t I possessed of a bigaquiline nose and a tall commanding figure?” Thus I sat in burning discontentand ill-humour until soothed by the scent of roses and the gleam of soft springsunshine which streamed in through my open window. Some of the flower-beds inthe garden were completely carpeted with pansy blossoms, all colours, andviolets-blue and white, single and double. The scent of mignonette, jonquils,and narcissi filled the air. I revelled in rich perfumes, and these tempted meforth. My ruffled feelings gave way before the delights of the old garden. Icollected a number of vases, and, filling them with water, set them on a tablein the veranda near one of the drawing-room windows. I gathered lapfuls of thelovely blossoms, and commenced arranging them in the vases.

Part of the old Caddagat house was built of slabs, and one of the wooden wallsran along the veranda side of the drawing-room, so the songs aunt Helen andEverard Grey were trying to the piano came as a sweet accompaniment to mycongenial task.

Presently they left off singing and commenced talking. Under the samecircumstances a heroine of a story would have slipped away; or, if that wereimpossible without discovery, she would have put her fingers in her ears, andwould have been in a terrible state of agitation lest she should hear somethingnot intended for her. I did not come there with a view to eavesdropping. It isa degradation to which I never stoop. I thought they were aware of my presenceon the veranda; but it appears they were not, as they began to discuss me(wonderfully interesting subject to myself), and I stayed there, without oneword of disapproval from my conscience, to listen to their conversation.

“My word, didn’t gran make a to-do this morning when I proposed to trainSybylla for the stage! Do you know that girl is simply reeking with talent; Imust have her trained. I will keep bringing the idea before gran until she getsused to it. I’ll work the we-should-use-the-gifts-God-has-given-us racket forall it is worth, and you might use your influence too, Helen.”

“No, Everard; there are very few who succeed on the stage. I would not use myinfluence, as it is a life of which I do not approve.”

“But Sybyllawould succeed. I am a personal friend of the leadingmanagers, and my influence would help her greatly.”

“Yes; but what would you do with her? A young gentleman couldn’t take charge ofa girl and bring her out without ruining her reputation. There would be no endof scandal, as the sister theory would only be nonsense.”

“There is another way; I could easily stop scandal.”

“Everard, what do you mean!”

“I mean marriage,” he replied deliberately.

“Surely, boy, you must be dreaming! You have only seen her for an hour or two.I don’t believe in these sudden attachments.”

Perhaps she here thought of one (her own) as sudden, which had not endedhappily.

“Everard, don’t do anything rashly. You know you are very fickle and considereda lady-killer—be merciful to my poor little Sybylla, I pray. It is just one ofyour passing fancies. Don’t wile her passionate young heart away and then leaveher to pine and die.”

“I don’t think she is that sort,” he replied laughingly.

“No, she would not die, but would grow into a cynic and sceptic, which is theworst of fates. Let her alone. Flirt as much as you will with society belleswho understand the game, but leave my country maiden alone. I hope to mould herinto a splendid character yet.”

“But, Helen, supposing I am in earnest at last, you don’t think I’d make her abad old hubby, do you?”

“She is not the girl for you. You are not the man who could ever control her.What I say may not be complimentary but it is true. Besides, she is notseventeen yet, and I do not approve of romantic young girls throwing themselvesinto matrimony. Let them develop their womanhood first.”

“Then I expect I had better hide my attractions under a bushel during theremainder of my stay at Caddagat?”

“Yes. Be as nice to the child as you like, but mind, none of those littleladies’-man attentions with which it is so easy to steal—”

I waited to hear no more, but, brimming over with a mixture of emotions, torethrough the garden and into the old orchard. Bees were busy, and countlessbright-coloured butterflies flitted hither and thither, sipping from hundredsof trees, white or pink with bloom—their beauty was lost upon me. I stoodankle-deep in violets, where they had run wild under a gnarled old apple-tree,and gave way to my wounded vanity.

“Little country maiden, indeed! There’s no need for him to bag his attractionsup. If he exerted himself to the utmost of his ability, he could not make melove him. I’m not a child. I saw through him in the first hour. There’s notenough in him to win my love. I’ll show him I think no more of him than of thecaterpillars on the old tree there. I’m not a booby that will fall in love withevery gussie I see. Bah, there’s no fear of that! I hate and detest men!”

“I suppose you are rehearsing some more airs to show off with tonight,” sneereda voice behind me.

“No, I’m realisticing; and howdare you thrust your obnoxious presencebefore me when I wish to be alone! Haven’t I often shown—”

“While a girl is disengaged, any man who is her equal has the right to pay hisaddresses to her if he is in earnest,” interrupted Mr Hawden. It was he whostood before me.

“I am well aware of that,” I replied. “But it is a woman’s privilege to repelthose attentions if distasteful to her. You seem disinclined to accord me thatprivilege.”

Having delivered this retort, I returned to the house, leaving him standingthere looking the fool he was.

I do not believe in spurning the love of a blackfellow if he behaves in a manlyway; but Frank Hawden was such a drivelling mawkish style of sweetheart that Ihad no patience with him.

Aunt Helen and Everard had vacated the drawing-room, so I plumped down on thepiano-stool and dashed into Kowalski’s galop, from that into “Gaité de Coeur”until I made the piano dance and tremble like a thing possessed. My annoyancefaded, and I slowly played that saddest of waltzes, “Weber’s Last”. I becameaware of a presence in the room, and, facing about, confronted Everard Grey.

“How long have you been here?” I demanded sharply.

“Since you began to play. Where on earth did you learn to play? Your executionis splendid. Do sing ‘Three Fishers’, please.”

“Excuse me; I haven’t time now. Besides I am not competent to sing to you,” Isaid brusquely, and made my exit.

“Mr Hawden wants you, Sybylla,” called aunt Helen. “See what he wants and lethim get away to his work, or your grannie will be vexed to see him loiteringabout all the morning.”

“Miss Sybylla,” he began, when we were left alone, “I want to apologize to you.I had no right to plague you, but it all comes of the way I love you. A fellowgets jealous at the least little thing, you know.”

“Bore me with no more such trash,” I said, turning away in disgust.

“But, Miss Sybylla, what am I to do with it?”

“Do with what?”

“My love.”

“Love!” I retorted scornfully. “There is no such thing.”

“But there is, and I have found it.”

“Well, you stick to it—that’s my advice to you. It will be a treasure. If yousend it to my father he will get it bottled up and put it in the Goulburnmuseum. He has sent several things there already.”

“Don’t make such a game of a poor devil. You know I can’t do that.”

“Bag it up, then; put a big stone to make it sink, and pitch it in the river.”

“You’ll rue this,” he said savagely.

“I may or may not,” I sang over my shoulder as I departed.

CHAPTER TWELVE
One Grand Passion

I had not the opportunity of any more private interviews with Everard Grey tillone morning near his departure, when we happened to be alone on the veranda.

“Well, Miss Sybylla,” he began, “when I arrived I thought you and I would havebeen great friends; but we have not progressed at all. How do you account forthat?”

As he spoke he laid his slender shapely hand kindly upon my head. He was veryhandsome and winning, and moved in literary, musical, and artistic society—aman from my world, a world away.

Oh, what pleasure I might have derived from companionship with him! I bit mylip to keep back the tears. Why did not social arrangements allow a man and amaid to be chums—chums as two men or two maids may be to each other, enjoyingeach other without thought beyond pure platonic friendship? But no; it couldnot be. I understood the conceit of men. Should I be very affable, I fearedEverard Grey would imagine he had made a conquest of me. On the other hand,were I glum he would think the same, and that I was trying to hide my feelingsbehind a mask of brusquerie. I therefore steered in a bee-line between the twomanners, and remarked with the greatest of indifference:

“I was not aware that you expected us to be such cronies—in fact, I have nevergiven the matter a thought.”

He turned away in a piqued style. Such a beau of beaux, no doubt he was annoyedthat an insignificant little country bumpkin should not be flattered by hispatronage, or probably he thought me rude or ill-humoured.

Two mornings later uncle Jay-Jay took him to Gool-Goolen route forSydney. When departing he bade me a kindly good-bye, made me promise to writeto him, and announced his intention of obtaining the opinion of some goodmasters are my dramatic talent and voice, when I came to Sydney as promised bymy grandmother. I stood on the garden fence waving my handkerchief until thebuggy passed out of sight among the messmate-trees about half a mile from thehouse.

“Well I hope, as that dandified ape has gone—and good riddance to him—that youwill pay more heed to my attentions now,” said Mr Hawden’s voice, as I was inthe act of descending from the fence.

“What do you mean by your attentions?” I demanded.

“What do I mean! That is something like coming to business. I’ll soon explain.You know what my intentions are very well. When I am twenty-four, I will comeinto my property in England. It is considerable, and at the end of that time Iwant to marry you and take you home. By Jove! I would just like to take youhome. You’d surprise some English girls I know.”

“There would be more than one person surprised if I married you,” I thought tomyself, and laughed till I ached with the motion.

“You infernal little vixen! What are you laughing at? You’ve got no more sensethan a bat if such a solemn thing only provokes your mirth.”

“Solemn—why, it’s a screaming farce!” I laughed more and more.

“What’s a farce?” he demanded fiercely.

“The bare idea of you proposing to me.”

“Why? Have I not as much right to propose as any other man?”

“Man!” I laughed. “That’s where the absurdity arises. My child, if you were aman, certainly you could propose, but do you think I’d look at a boy, a child!If ever I perpetrate matrimony the participant in my degradation will be afully developed man—not a hobbledehoy who falls in love, as he terms it, on anaverage about twice a week. Love! Ho!”

I moved in the direction of the house. He barred my path.

“You are not going to escape me like that, my fine lady. I will make you listento me this time or you will hear more about it,” and he seized me angrily bythe wrist.

I cannot bear the touch of any one—it is one of my idiosyncrasies. With mydisengaged hand I struck him a vigorous blow on the nose, and wrenching myselffree sprang away, saying, “How dare you lay a finger on me! If you attempt sucha thing again I’ll make short work of you. Mark my words, or you’ll getsomething more than a bleeding nose next time, I promise you.”

“You’ll hear more of this! You’ll hear more of this! You fierce, wild,touch-me-not thing,” he roared.

“Yes; my motto with men is touch-me-not, and it is your own fault if I’mfierce. If children attempt to act the role of a man with adult tools, they aresure to cut themselves. Hold hard a bit, honey, till your whiskers grow,” Iretorted as I departed, taking flying leaps over the blossom-burdenedflower-beds.

At tea that night, after gazing interestedly at Mr Hawden’s nose for some time,uncle Julius inquired, “in the name of all that’s mysterious, what the devilhave you been doing to your nose? You look as though you had been on thespree.”

I was quaking lest he would get me into a fine scrape, but he only muttered,“By Jove!” with great energy, and glowered menacingly across the table at me.

After tea he requested an interview with grannie, which aroused my curiositygreatly. I was destined to hear all about it next morning. When breakfast wasover grannie called me into her room and interviewed me about Mr Hawden’sinterview. She began without any preliminaries:

“Mr Hawden has complained of your conduct. It grieves me that any young manshould have to speak to me of the behaviour of my own grand-daughter. He saysyou have been flirting with him. Sybylla, I scarcely thought you would be soimmodest and unwomanly.”

On hearing this my thoughts of Frank Hawden were the reverse of flattering. Hehad persecuted me beyond measure, yet I had not deigned to complain of him toeither uncle, grannie, or auntie, as I might reasonably have done, and haveobtained immediate redress. He had been the one to blame in the case, yet forthe rebuffs he had brought upon himself, went tattling to my grandmother.

“Is that all you have to say, grannie?”

“No. He wants to marry you, and has asked my consent. I told him it all restedwith yourself and parents. What do you say?”

“Say,” I exclaimed, “grannie, you are only joking, are you not?”

“No, my child, this is not a matter to joke about.”

“Marry that creature! A boy!” I uttered in consternation.

“He is no boy. He has attained his majority some months. He is as old as yourgrandfather was when we married. In three years you will be almost twenty, andby that time he will be in possession of his property which is very good—infact, he will be quite rich. If you care for him there is nothing against himas I can see. He is healthy, has a good character, and comes of a high family.Being a bit wild won’t matter. Very often, after they sow their wild oats, someof those scampy young fellows settle down and marry a nice young girl and turnout very good husbands.”

“It is disgusting, and you ought to be downright ashamed of yourself, grannie!A man can live a life of bestiality and then be considered a fit husband forthe youngest and purest girl! It is shameful! Frank Hawden is not wild, hehasn’t got enough in him to be so. I hate him. No, he hasn’t enough in him tohate. I loathe and despise him. I would not marry him or any one like himthough he were King of England. The idea of marriage even with the best man inthe world seems to me a lowering thing,” I raged; “but with him it would bepollution—the lowest degradation that could be heaped upon me! I will nevercome down to marry any one—” here I fell a victim to a flood of excited tears.

I felt there was no good in the world, especially in men—the hatefulcreatures!—and never would be while it was not expected of them, even byrigidly pure, true Christians such as my grandmother. Grannie, dear oldgrannie, thought I should marry any man who, from a financial point of view,was a good match for me. That is where the sting came in. No, I would nevermarry. I would procure some occupation in which I could tread my life out,independent of the degradation of marriage.

“Dear me, child,” said grannie, concernedly, “there is no need to distressyourself so. I remember you were always fearfully passionate. When I had youwith me as a tiny toddler, you would fret a whole day about a thing an ordinarychild would forget inside an hour. I will tell Hawden to go about his business.I would not want you to consider marriage for an instant with anyonedistasteful to you. But tell me truly, have you ever flirted with him? I willtake your word, for I thank God you have never yet told me a falsehood!”

“Grannie,” I exclaimed emphatically, “I have discouraged him all I could. Iwould scorn to flirt with any man.”

“Well, well, that is all I want to hear about it. Wash your eyes, and we willget our horses and go over to see Mrs Hickey and her baby, and take hersomething good to eat.”

I did not encounter Frank Hawden again till the afternoon, when he leered at mein a very triumphant manner. I stiffened myself and drew out of his way asthough he had been some vile animal. At this treatment he whined, so I agreedto talk the matter over with him and have done with it once and for all.

He was on his way to water some dogs, so I accompanied him out to the stablesnear the kennels, to be out of hearing of the household.

I opened fire without any beating about the bush.

“I ask you, Mr Hawden, if you have any sense of manliness, from this hour tocease persecuting me with your idiotic professions of love. I have twosentiments regarding it, and in either you disgust me. Sometimes I don’tbelieve there is such a thing as love at all—that is, love between men andwomen. While in this frame of mind I would not listen to professions of lovefrom an angel. Other times I believe in love, and look upon it as a sacred andsolemn thing. When in that humour, it seems to me a desecration to hear youtwaddling about the holy theme, for you are only a boy, and don’t know how tofeel. I would not have spoken thus harshly to you, but by your unmanly conductyou have brought it upon yourself. I have told you straight all that I willever deign to tell you on the subject, and take much pleasure in wishing yougood afternoon.”

I walked away quickly, heedless of his expostulations.

My appeal to his manliness had no effect. Did I go for a ride, or a walk in theafternoon to enjoy the glory of the sunset, or a stroll to drink in thepleasures of the old garden, there would I find Frank Hawden by my side, yah,yah, yahing about the way I treated him, until I wished him at the bottom ofthe Red Sea.

However, in those glorious spring days the sense of life was too pleasant to bemuch clouded by the trifling annoyance Frank Hawden occasioned me. The gracefulwild clematis festooned the shrubbery along the creeks with great wreaths ofmagnificent white bloom, which loaded every breeze with perfume; the prettybright green senna shrubs along the river-banks were decked in blossoms whichrivalled the deep blue of the sky in brilliance; the magpies built their nestsin the tall gum-trees, and savagely attacked unwary travellers who ventured toonear their domain; the horses were rolling fat, and invited one to get on theirsatin backs and have a gallop; the cry of the leather-heads was heard in theorchard as the cherry season approached. Oh, it was good to be alive!

At Caddagat I was as much out of the full flood of life for which I craved asat Possum Gully, but here there were sufficient pleasant little ripples on thestream of existence to act as a stop-gap for the present.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN
He

Here goes for a full account of my first, my last, my onlyrealsweetheart, for I considered the professions of that pestiferous jackeroo asmerely a grotesque caricature on the genuine article.

On making my first appearance before my lover, I looked quite the reverse of aheroine. My lovely hair was not conveniently escaping from the comb at theright moment to catch him hard in the eye, neither was my thrillingly low sweetvoice floating out on the scented air in a manner which went straight to hisheart, like the girls I had read of. On the contrary, I much resembled a femaleclown. It was on a day towards the end of September, and I had been up thecreek making a collection of ferns. I had on a pair of men’s boots with whichto walk in the water, and was garbed in a most dilapidated old dress, which Ihad borrowed from one of the servants for the purpose. A pair of gloves made ofbasil, and a big hat, much torn in struggling through the undergrowth,completed my make-up. My hair was most unbecomingly screwed up, the short endssticking out like a hurrah’s nest.

It was late in the day when, returning from my ramble, I was met on thedoorstep by aunt Helen.

“While you are in that trim, I wish you would pluck some lemons for me. I’msure there is no danger of you ruining your turn-out. A sketch of you wouldmake a good item for theBulletin,” she said.

I went readily to do her bidding, and fetching a ladder with rungs about twofeet six apart, placed it against a lemon-tree at the back of the house, andclimbed up.

Holding a number of lemons in my skirt, I was making a most ungraceful descent,when I heard an unknown footstep approaching towards my back.

People came to Caddagat at all hours of the day, so I was not in the leastdisconcerted. Only a tramp, an agent, or a hawker, I bet, I thought, as Ireached my big boot down for another rung of the ladder without turning my headto see whom it might be.

A pair of strong brown hands encircled my waist, I was tossed up a foot or soand then deposited lightly on the ground, a masculine voice saying, “You’re amighty well-shaped young filly—‘a waist rather small, but a quarter superb’.”

“How dare anyone speak to me like that,” I thought, as I faced about to see whowas parodying Gordon. There stood a man I had never before set eyes on, smilingmischievously at me. He was a young man—a very young man, a bushmantremendously tall and big and sunburnt, with an open pleasant face and chestnutmoustache—not at all an awe-inspiring fellow, in spite of his unusual, thoughwell-proportioned and carried, height. I knew it must be Harold Beecham, ofFive-Bob Downs, as I had heard he stood six feet three and a half in his socks.

I hurriedly let down my dress, the lemons rolling in a dozen directions, andturned to flee, but that well-formed figure bounded before me with the agilityof a cat and barred my way.

“Now, not a step do you go, my fine young blood, until you pick up every jollylemon and put them away tidily, or I’ll tell the missus on you as sure aseggs.”

It dawned on me that he had mistaken me for one of the servant-girls. Thatwasn’t bad fun. I determined not to undeceive but to have a lark with him. Isummed him up as conceited, but not with the disgusting conceit with which someare afflicted, or perhaps blessed. It was rather an air ofI-have-always-got-what-I-desire-and-believe,-if-people-fail-it-is-all-their-own-fault, which surrounded him.

“If you please, sir,” I said humbly, “I’ve gathered them all up, will you letme go now.”

“Yes, when you’ve given me a kiss.”

“Oh, sir, I couldn’t do that!”

“Go on, I won’t poison you. Come now, I’ll make you.”

“Oh, the missus might catch me.”

“No jolly fear; I’ll take all the blame if she does.”

“Oh don’t, sir; let me go, please,” I said in such unfeigned distress, for Ifeared he was going to execute his threat, that he laughed and said:

“Don’t be frightened, sissy, I never kiss girls, and I’m not going to start atthis time of day, and against their will to boot. You haven’t been long here,have you? I haven’t seen you before. Stand out there till I see if you’ve gotany grit in you, and then I am done with you.”

I stood in the middle of the yard, the spot he indicated, while he uncurled hislong heavy stock-whip with its big lash and scented myall handle. He cracked itround and round my head and arms, but I did not feel the least afraid, as I sawat a glance that he was exceedingly dexterous in the bushman’s art of handlinga stock-whip, and knew, if I kept perfectly still, I was quite safe. It wasthanks to uncle Jay-Jay that I was able to bear the operation with unruffledequanimity, as he was in the habit of testing my nerves in this way.

“Well, I never! Not so much as blinked an eyelash! Thoroughbred!” He said aftera minute or so, “Where’s the boss?”

“In Gool-Gool. He won’t be home till late.”

“Is Mrs Bossier in?”

“No, she’s not, but Mrs Bell is somewhere around in front.”

“Thanks.”

I watched him as he walked away with an easy swinging stride, which spoke ofmany long, long days in the saddle. I felt certain as I watched him that he hadquite forgotten the incident of the little girl with the lemons.

“Sybylla, hurry up and get dressed. Put on your best bib and tucker, and I willleave Harry Beecham in your charge, as I want to superintend the making of someof the dishes myself this evening.”

“It’s too early to put on my evening dress, isn’t it, auntie?

“It is rather early; but you can’t spare time to change twice. Dress yourselfcompletely; you don’t know what minute your uncle and his worship will arrive.”

I had taken a dip in the creek, so had not to bathe, and it took me but a shorttime to don full war-paint—blue evening dress, satin slippers, and all. I woremy hair flowing, simply tied with a ribbon. I slipped out into the passage andcalled aunt Helen. She came.

“I’m ready, auntie. Where is he?”

“In the dining-room.”

“Come into the drawing-room and call him. I will take charge of him till youare at leisure. But, auntie, it will be a long time till dinner—how on earthwill I manage him?”

“Manage him!” she laughed; “he is not at all an obstreperous character.”

We had reached the drawing-room by this, and I looked at myself in thelooking-glass while aunt Helen went to summon Harold Augustus Beecham,bachelor, owner of Five-Bob Downs, Wyambeet, Wallerawang West, Quat-Quatta, anda couple more stations in New South Wales, besides an extensive one inQueensland.

I noticed as he entered the door that since I had seen him he had washed,combed his stiff black hair, and divested himself of his hat, spurs, andwhip—his leggings had perforce to remain, as his nether garment was a pair ofclosely fitting grey cloth riding-breeches, which clearly defined the shapelycontour of his lower limbs.

“Harry, this is Sybylla. I’m sure you need no further introduction. Excuse me,I have something on the fire which is likely to burn.” And aunt Helen hurriedoff leaving us facing each other.

He stared down at me with undisguised surprise. I looked up at him and laughedmerrily. The fun was all on my side. He was a great big man—rich and important.I was a chit—an insignificant nonentity—yet, despite his sex, size, andimportance, I was complete master of that situation, and knew it: thus Ilaughed.

I saw that he recognized me again by the dusky red he flushed beneath hissun-darkened skin. No doubt he regretted having called me a filly above allthings. He bowed stiffly, but I held out my hand, saying:

“Do shake hands. When introduced I always shake hands with anyone I think I’lllike. Besides, I seem to know you well. Just think of all the apples youbrought me!”

He acceded to my request, holding my hand a deal longer than necessary, andlooking at me helplessly. It amused me greatly, for I saw that it was he whodid not know how to manage me, and not I that couldn’t manage him.

“’Pon my honour, Miss Melvyn, I had no idea it was you, when I said—” Here heboggled completely, which had the effect of reviving my laughter.

“You had no right to be dressed like that—deceiving a fellow. It wasn’t fair.”

“That’s the best of it. It shows what a larrikin Don Juan sort of character youare. You can’t deceive me now if you pretend to be a virtuous well-behavedmember of society.”

“That is the first time I’ve ever meddled with any of the kitchen fry, and, byJove, it will be the last!” he said energetically. “I’ve got myself into apretty mess.”

“What nonsense you talk,” I replied. “If you say another word about it, I’llwrite a full account of it and paste it in my scrapbook. But if you don’t worryabout it, neither will I. You said nothing very uncomplimentary; in fact, I wasquite flattered.”

I was perched on the high end of a couch, and he was leaning with big carelessease on the piano. Had grannie seen me, I would have been lectured aboutunladylike behaviour.

“What is your uncle at today?” he inquired.

“He’s not at anything. He went to Gool-Gool yesterday on the jury. Courtfinishes up today, and he is going to bring the judge home tonight. That’s whyI am dressed so carefully,” I answered.

“Good gracious! I never thought of court this time as I wasn’t called on thejury, and for a wonder hadn’t so much as a case against a Chinaman. I was goingto stay tonight, but can’t if his worship is going to dine here.”

“Why? You’re surely not afraid of Judge Fossilt? He’s a very simple oldcustomer.”

“Imagine dining with a judge in this toggery!” and he glanced down his greatfigure at his riding gear.

“That doesn’t matter; he’s near-sighted. I’ll get you put at the far end of thetable under my wing. Men don’t notice dress. If you weren’t so big uncle orFrank Hawden could oblige you.”

“Do you think I could pass muster?”

“Yes; after I brush you down you’ll look as spruce as a brass penny.

“I did brush myself,” he answered.

“You brush yourself!” I retorted. “There’s a big splash of mud on yourshoulder. You couldn’t expect to do anything decently, for you’re only a man,and men are the uselessest, good-for-nothingest, clumsiest animals in theworld. All they’re good for is to smoke and swear.”

I fetched a clothes brush.

“You’ll have to stand on the table to reach me,” he said, looking down withamused indulgence.

“As you are so impertinent you can go dusty,” and I tossed the brush away.

The evening was balmy, so I invited him into the garden. He threw hishandkerchief over my chest, saying I might catch cold, but I scouted the idea.

We wandered into an arbour covered with wistaria, banksia, and Marechal Nielroses, and I made him a buttonhole.

A traveller pulled rein in the roadway, and, dismounting, threw his bridle overa paling of the garden fence while he went inside to try and buy a loaf ofbread.

I jumped up, frightening the horse so that it broke away, pulling off thepaling in the bridle-rein. I ran to bring a hammer to repair the damage. MrBeecham caught the horse while I attempted to drive the nail into the fence. Itwas a futile attempt. I bruised my fingers. He took the hammer from me, andfixing the paling in its place with a couple of well-aimed blows, saidlaughingly:

“You drive a nail! You couldn’t expect to do anything. You’re only a girl.Girls are the helplessest, uselessest, troublesomest little creatures in theworld. All they’re good for is to torment and pester a fellow.”

I had to laugh.

At this juncture we heard uncle Jay-Jay’s voice, so Mr Beecham went towards theback, whence it proceeded, after he left me at the front door.

“Oh, auntie, we got on splendidly! He’s not a bit of trouble. We’re as chummyas though we had been reared together,” I exclaimed.

“Did you get him to talk?”

“Oh yes.”

“Did you really?” in surprise.

When I came to review the matter I was forced to confess that I had done allthe talking, and young Beecham the listening; moreover I described him as thequietest man I had ever seen or heard of.

The judge did not come home with uncle Jay-Jay as expected so it was notnecessary for me to shelter Harold Beecham under my wing. Grannie greeted himcordially as “Harold, my boy”, he was a great favourite with her. She and uncleJulius monopolized him for the evening. There was great talk of trucking sheep,the bad outlook as regarded the season, the state of the grass in the triangle,the Leigh Spring, the Bimbalong, and several other paddocks, and of thecondition of the London wool market. It did not interest me, so I dived into abook, only occasionally emerging therefrom to smile at Mr Beecham.

He had come to Caddagat for a pair of bullocks which had been fattening ingrannie’s home paddock. Uncle gave him a start with them next morning. Whenthey came out on the road I was standing in a bed of violets in a tangledcorner of the garden, where roses climbed to kiss the lilacs, and spiraeastooped to rest upon the wallflowers, and where two tall kurrajongs stood likesentries over all. Harold Beecham dismounted, and, leaning over the fence,lingered with me, leaving the bullocks to uncle Jay-Jay. Uncle ravedvigorously. Women, he asserted, were the bane of society and the ruination ofall men; but he had always considered Harold as too sensible to neglect hisbusiness to stand grinning at a pesky youngster in short skirts and a pigtail.Which was the greatest idiot of the two he didn’t know.

His grumbling did not affect Harold in the least.

“Complimentary to both of us,” he remarked as he leisurely threw himself acrosshis great horse, and smiled his pleasant quiet smile, disclosing two rows ofmagnificent teeth, untainted by contamination with beer or tobacco. Raising hispanama hat with the green fly-veil around it, he cantered off. I wondered as Iwatched him if anything ever disturbed his serenity, and desired to try. Helooked too big and quiet to be ruffled by such emotions as rage, worry,jealousy, or even love. Returning to the house, I put aunt Helen through anexhaustive catechism concerning him.

Question. Auntie, what age is Harold Beecham?

Answer. Twenty-five last December.

Q. Did he ever have any brothers or sisters?

A. No. His birth caused his mother’s death. Q. How long has his fatherbeen dead?

A. Since Harold could crawl.

Q. Who reared him?

A. His aunts.

Q. Does he ever talk any more than that? A. Often a great deal less.

Q. Is he really very rich?

A. If he manages to pull through these seasons he will be second to nonebut Tyson in point of wealth.

Q. Is Five-Bob a very pretty place?

A. Yes; one of the show places of the district. Q. Does he often come toCaddagat?

A. Yes, he often drops in.

Q. What makes his hair so black and his moustache that light colour?

A. You’ll have to study science to find that out. I’m sure I can’t tell you.

Q. Does he—?

“Now, Sybylla,” said auntie, laughing, “you are taking a suspicious interest inmy sunburnt young giant. Did I not tell you he was taking time by the forelockwhen he brought the apples?”

“Oh, auntie, I am only asking questions because—”

“Yes, because, because, I understand perfectly. Because you are a girl, and allthe girls fall a victim to Harry’s charms at once. If you don’t want to succumbmeekly to your fate, ‘Heed the spark or you may dread the fire.’ That is theonly advice I can tender you.”

This was a Thursday, and on the following Sunday Harold Beecham reappeared atCaddagat and remained from three in the afternoon until nine at night. UncleJulius and Frank Hawden were absent. The weather had taken a sudden backwardlurch into winter again, so we had a fire. Harold sat beside it all the time,and interposed yes and no at the proper intervals in grannie’s brisk businessconversation, but he never addressed one word to me beyond “Good afternoon,Miss Melvyn,” on his arrival, and “Good night, Miss Melvyn,” when leaving.

I studied him attentively all the while. What were his ideas and sentiments itwere hard to tell: he never expressed any. He was fearfully and wonderfullyquiet. Yet his was an intelligent silence, not of that wooden brainlessdescription which casts a damper on company, neither was it of the morose ordreaming order.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Principally Letters

Caddagat, 29th Sept., 1896

My dearest Gertie,

I have started to write no less than seven letters to you, but something alwaysinterrupted me and I did not finish them. However, I’ll finish this one in theteeth of Father Peter himself. I will parenthesize all the interruptions. (Atraveller just asked me for a rose. I had to get up and give him one.) Livinghere is lovely. (Another man inquired the way to Somingley Gap, and I’ve justfinished directing him.) Grannie is terribly nice. You could not believe. Sheis always giving me something, and takes me wherever she goes. Auntie is anangel. I wish you could hear the piano. It is a beauty. There are dozens ofpapers and books to read. Uncle is a dear old fellow. You should hear him raveand swear sometimes when he gets in a rage. It is great fun. He brings melollies, gloves, ribbons, or something every time he comes from town. (TwoIndian hawkers have arrived, and I am going out to see their goods. There werenineteen hawkers here last week. I am sitting on a squatter’s chair and writingon a table in the veranda, and the road goes right by the flower-garden. Thatis how I see everyone.) Have you had rain down there this week? They have greatsquawking about the drought up here. I wish they could see Goulburn, and thenthey’d know what drought means. I don’t know what sort of a bobberie they wouldkick up. It’s pretty dry out on the run, but everyone calls the paddocks aboutthe house an oasis. You see there are such splendid facilities for irrigationhere. Uncle has put on a lot of men. They have cut races between the two creeksbetween which the house is situated. Every now and again they let the waterfrom these over the orchard gardens and about a hundred acres of paddock landaround the house. The grass therein is up to the horses’ fetlocks. There is anyamount of rhubarb and early vegetables in the garden. Grannie says there is asplendid promise of fruit in the orchard, and the flower-garden is a perfectdream. This is the dearest old place in the world. Dozens of people plaguegrannie to be let put their horses in the grass—especially shearers, there aredroves of them going home now—but she won’t let them; wants all the grass forher own stock. Uncle has had to put another man on to mind it, or at night allthe wires are cut and the horses put in. (An agent, I think by the cut of him,is asking for grannie. I’ll have to run and find her.) It is very lively here.Never a night but we have the house full of agents or travellers of one sort oranother, and there are often a dozen swaggies in the one day.

Harold Beecham is my favourite of all the men hereaway. He is delightfully bigand quiet. He isn’t good-looking, but I like his face. (Been attending to thedemands of a couple of impudent swaggies. Being off the road at Possum Gully,you escape them.) For the love of life, next time you write, fire into the newsat once and don’t half-fill your letter telling me about the pen and your badwriting. I am scribbling at the rate of 365 miles an hour, and don’t care a jotwhether it is good writing or not.

Auntie, uncle, Frank Hawden and I, are going to ride to Yabtree church nextSunday. It is four miles beyond Five-Bob Downs, so that is sixteen miles. It isthe nearest church. I expect it will be rare fun. There will be such a crowdcoming home, and that always makes the horses delightfully frisky. (A man wantsto put his horses in the paddock for the night, so I will have to find uncle.)I never saw such a place for men. It is all men, men, men. You cannot goanywhere outside the house but you see men coming and going in all directions.It wouldn’t do to undress without bothering to drop the window-blind like weused at Possum Gully. Grannie and uncle say it is a curse to be living besidethe road, as it costs them a tremendous lot a year. There are seven lemon-treeshere, loaded (another hawker). I hope you think of me sometimes. I am just asugly as ever. (A traveller wants to buy a loaf of bread.)

With stacks of love to all at home, and a whole dray-load for yourself, fromyour loving sister,

Sybylla.

Remember me to Goulburn, drowsing lazily in its dreamy graceful hollow in theblue distance.

Caddagat, 29th Sept., 1896

Dear Everard,

Thank you very much for the magazines and “An Australian Bush Track”. I supposeyou have quite forgotten us and Caddagat by this time. The sun has sunk behindthe gum-trees, and the blue evening mists are hanging lazily in the hollows ofthe hills. I expect you are donning your “swallow-tail” preparatory to leadingsome be-satined “faire ladye” in to a gorgeous dinner, thence to the play, thento a dance probably. No doubt all around you is bustle, glare of lights, noise,and fun. It is such a different scene here. From down the road comes the tinkleof camp-bells and jingle of hobble-chains. From down in that sheltered anglewhere the creek meets the river comes the gleam of camp-fires through thegathering twilight, and I can see several tents rigged for the night, lookinglike white specks in the distance.

I long for the time to come when I shall get to Sydney. I’m going to lead youand aunt Helen a pretty dance. You’ll have to keep going night and day. It willbe great. I must get up and dance a jig on the veranda when I think of it.You’ll have to show me everything—slums and all. I want to find out the truthof heaps of things for myself.

Save for the weird rush of the stream and the kookaburras’ good-night, all isstill, with a mighty far-reaching stillness which can be felt. Now the curlewsare beginning their wild moaning cry. From the rifts in the dark lone ranges,far down the river, it comes like a hunted spirit until it makes me feel—

At this point I said, “Bah! I’m mad to write to Everard Grey like this. Hewould laugh and call me a poor little fool.” I tore the half-finished letter toshreds, and consigned it to the kitchen fire. I substituted a prim formal note,merely thanking him for the books and magazine he had sent me. To this I neverreceived an answer. I heard through his letters to grannie that he was muchoccupied. Had been to Brisbane and Melbourne on important cases, so very likelyhad not time to be bothered with me; or, he might have been like the majorityof his fellows who make a great parade of friendship while with one, then goaway and forget one’s existence in an hour.

While at Caddagat there were a few duties allotted to me. One of these was toattend to the drawing-room; another was to find uncle Jay-Jay’s hat when hemislaid it—often ten times per day. I assisted my grandmother to make up heraccounts and write business letters, and I attended to tramps. A man was neverrefused a bit to eat at Caddagat. This necessitated the purchase of an extraton of flour per year, also nearly a ton of sugar, to say nothing of tea,potatoes, beef, and all broken meats which went thus. This was not reckoningthe consumption of victuals by the other class of travellers with which thehouse was generally full year in and year out. Had there been any charge fortheir board and lodging, the Bossiers would surely have made a fortune. Iinterviewed on an average fifty tramps a week, and seldom saw the same mantwice. What a great army they were! Hopeless, homeless, aimless, shamelesssouls, tramping on from north to south, and east to west, never relinquishingtheir heart-sickening, futile quest for work—some of them so long on the trampthat the ambitions of manhood had been ground out of them, and they wished fornothing more than this.

There were all shapes, sizes, ages, kinds, and conditions of men—the shamefacedboy in the bud of his youth, showing by the way he begged that the humiliationof the situation had not yet worn off, and poor old creatures tottering on thebrink of the grave, with nothing left in life but the enjoyment of beer andtobacco. There were strong men in their prime who really desired work when theyasked for it, and skulking cowards who hoped they would not get it. There werethe diseased, the educated, the ignorant, the deformed, the blind, the evil,the honest, the mad, and the sane. Some in real professional beggars’ stylecalled down blessings on me; others were morose and glum, while some wereimpudent and thankless, and said to supply them with food was just what Ishould do, for the swagmen kept the squatters—as, had the squatters notmonopolized the land, the swagmen would have had plenty. A moiety of thelast-mentioned—dirty, besotted, ragged creatures—had a glare in their eyeswhich made one shudder to look at them, and, while spasmodically twirling theirbillies or clenching their fists, talked wildly of making one to “bust up thedamn banks”, or to drive all the present squatters out of the country and putthe people on the land—clearly showing that, because they had failed for onereason or another, it had maddened them to see others succeed.

In a wide young country of boundless resources, why is this thing? Thisquestion worried me. Our legislators are unable or unwilling to cope with it.They trouble not to be patriots and statesmen. Australia can bring forthwriters, orators, financiers, singers, musicians, actors, and athletes whichare second to none of any nation under the sun. Why can she not bear sons, menof soul, mind, truth, godliness, and patriotism sufficient to rise and cast offthe grim shackles which widen round us day by day?

I was the only one at Caddagat who held these silly ideas. Harold Beecham,uncle Julius, grannie, and Frank Hawden did not worry about the cause oftramps. They simply termed them a lazy lot of sneaking creatures, fed them, andthought no more of the matter.

I broached the subject to uncle Jay-Jay once, simply to discover his ideasthereon.

I was sitting on a chair in the veranda sewing; he, with his head on a cushion,was comfortably stretched on a rug on the floor.

“Uncle Boss, why can’t something be done for tramps?”

“How done for ’em?”

“Couldn’t some means of employing them be arrived at?”

“Work!” he ejaculated. “That’s the very thing the crawling divils are terrifiedthey might get.”

“Yes; but couldn’t some law be made to help them?”

“A law to make me cut up Caddagat and give ten of ’em each a piece, and go onthe wallaby myself, I suppose?”

“No, uncle; but there was a poor young fellow here this morning who, I feelsure, was in earnest when he asked for work.”

“Helen!” bawled uncle Jay-Jay.

“Well, what is it?” she inquired, appearing in the doorway.

“Next time Sybylla is giving a tramp some tucker, you keep a sharp eye on heror she will be sloping one of these days. There was a young fellow here todaywith a scarlet moustache and green eyes, and she’s dean gone on him, and hasbeen bullying me to give him half Caddagat.”

“What a disgusting thing to say! Uncle, you ought to be ashamed of yourself,” Iexclaimed.

“Very well, I’ll be careful,” said aunt Helen, departing.

“What with the damned flies, and the tramps, and a pesky thing called Sybylla,a man’s life ain’t worth a penny to him,” said uncle.

We fell into silence, which was broken presently by a dirty red-bearded faceappearing over the garden gate, and a man’s voice:

“Good day, boss! Give us a chew of tobaccer?”

“I’m not the boss,” said uncle with assumed fierceness.

“Then who is?” inquired the man.

Uncle pointed his thumb at me, and, rolling out on the floor again as thoughvery sleepy, began to snore. The tramp grinned, and made his request of me. Itook him round to the back, served him with flour, beef, and an inch or two ofrank tobacco out of a keg which had been bought for the purpose. Refusing adrink of milk which I offered, he resumed his endless tramp with a “So long,little missy. God bless your pleasant face.”

I watched him out of sight. One of my brothers—one of God’s children under theSouthern Cross. Did these old fellows really believe in the God whose name theymentioned so glibly? I wondered. But I am thankful that while at Caddagat itwas only rarely that my old top-heavy thoughts troubled me. Life was sopleasant that I was content merely to be young—a chit in the first flush ofteens, health, hope, happiness, youth—a heedless creature recking not for themorrow.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN
When the Heart is Young

About a week or so after I first met Harold Beecham, aunt Helen allowed me toread a letter she had received from the elder of the two Misses Beecham. It ranas follows:

“My dearest Helen,

“This is a begging letter, and I am writing another to your mother at the sametime. I am asking her to allow her grand-daughter to spend a few weeks with me,and I want you to use your influence in the matter. Sarah has not been welllately, and is going to Melbourne for a change, and as I will be lonely whileshe is away Harold insists upon me having someone to keep me company—you knowhow considerate the dear boy is. I hardly like to ask you to spare your littlegirl to me. It must be a great comfort to have her. I could have got MissBenson to stay with me, but Harold will not hear of her. He says she is tooslow, and would give us both the mopes. But he says your little niece will keepus all alive. Julius was telling me the other day that he could not part withher, as she makes ‘the old barracks’, as he always calls Caddagat, echo withfun and noise. I am so looking forward to seeing her, as she is dear Lucy’schild. Give her my love,” etc., etc.,

and as a postscript the letter had—“Harold will go up for Sybylla on Wednesdayafternoon. I do hope you will be able to spare her to me for a while.”

“Oh, auntie, how lovely!” I exclaimed. “What are you laughing at?”

“For whom do you think Harry wants the companion? It is nice to have an oldauntie, as a blind, is it not? Well, all is fair in love and war. You havepermission to use me in any way you like.”

I pretended to miss her meaning.

Grannie consented to Miss Beecham’s proposal, and ere the day arrived I had atrunk packed with some lovely new dresses, and was looking forward with greatglee to my visit to Five-Bob Downs.

One o’clock on Wednesday afternoon arrived; two o’clock struck, and I wasbeginning to fear no one was coming for me, when, turning to look out thewindow for the eighteenth time, I saw the straight blunt nose of Harold Beechampassing. Grannie was serving afternoon tea on the veranda. I did not want any,so got ready while my escort was having his.

It was rather late when we bowled away at a tremendous pace in a red sulky, myportmanteau strapped on at the back, and a thoroughbred American trotter, whichhad taken prizes at Sydney shows, harnessed to the front. We just whizzed! Itwas splendid! The stones and dust rose in a thick cloud from the whirlingwheels and flying hoofs, and the posts of the wire fence on our left passedlike magic as we went. Mr Beecham allowed me to drive after a time while he satready to take the reins should an emergency arise.

It was sunset—most majestic hour of the twenty-four—when we drove up to thegreat white gates which opened into the avenue leading to the main homestead ofFive-Bob Downs station—beautiful far-reaching Five-Bob Downs! Dreamy blue hillsrose behind, and wide rich flats stretched before, through which the Yarrangungriver, glazed with sunset, could be seen like a silver snake winding betweenshrubberied banks. The odour from the six-acred flower-garden was overpoweringand delightful. A breeze gently swayed the crowd of trees amid the houses, andswept over the great orchard which sloped down from the south side of thehouses. In the fading sunlight thirty iron roofs gleamed and glared, and seemedlike a little town; and the yelp of many dogs went up at the sound of ourwheels. Ah! beautiful, beautiful Five-Bob Downs!

It seemed as though a hundred dogs leapt forth to greet us when that gate flewopen, but I subsequently discovered there were but twenty-three.

Two female figures came out to meet us—one nearly six feet high, the other, atiny creature, seemed about eighteen inches, though, of course, was more thanthat.

“I’ve brought her, aunt Gussie,” said Harold, jumping out of the sulky, thoughnot relinquishing the reins, while he kissed the taller figure, and the smallone attached itself to his leg saying, “Dimme wide.”

“Hullo! Possum, why wasn’t old Spanker let go? I see he’s not among the dogs,”and my host picked the tiny individual up in his arms and got into the sulky togive her the desired ride, while after being embraced by Miss Beecham andlifted to the ground by her nephew, I went with the former over an asphaltedtennis-court, through the wide garden, then across a broad veranda into thegreat, spreading, one-storeyed house from which gleamed many lights.

“I am so glad you have come, my dear. I must have a good look at you when weget into the light. I hope you are like your mother.”

This prospect discomfited me. I knew she would find a very ugly girl with notthe least resemblance to her pretty mother, and I cursed my appearance under mybreath.

“Your name is Sybylla,” Miss Beecham continued, “Sybylla Penelope. Your motherused to be very dear to me, but I don’t know why she doesn’t write to me now. Ihave never seen her since her marriage. It seems strange to think of her as themother of eight—five boys and three girls, is it not?”

Miss Beecham had piloted me through a wide hall and along an extended passageout of which a row of bedrooms opened, into one of which we went.

“I hope you will be comfortable here, child. You need not dress for dinnerwhile you are here; we never do, only on very special occasions.”

“Neither do we at Caddagat,” I replied.

“Now, child, let me have a good look at you without your hat.”

“Oh, please don’t!” I exclaimed, covering my face with my hands. “I am sodreadfully ugly that I cannot bear to have anyone look at me.”

“What a silly little girl! You are not like your mother, but you are not at allplain-looking. Harold says you are the best style of girl he has seen yet, andsing beautifully. He got a tuner up from Sydney last week, so we will expectyou to entertain us every night.”

I learnt that what Harold pronounced good no one dared gainsay at Five-BobDowns.

We proceeded direct to the dining-room, and had not been there long when MrBeecham entered with the little girl on his shoulder. Miss Beecham had told meshe was Minnie Benson, daughter of Harold’s married overseer on Wyambeet, hisadjoining station. Miss Beecham considered it would have been more seemly forher nephew to have selected a little boy as a play-thing, but his sentimentsregarding boys were that they were machines invented for the torment of adults.

“Well, O’Doolan, what sort of a day has it been?” Harold inquired, setting hishuman toy upon the floor.

“Fine wezzer for yim duts,” she promptly replied.

“Harold, it is shameful to teach a little innocent child such abominable slang;and you might give her a decent nickname,” said Miss Beecham.

“O’Doolan, this is Miss Melvyn, and you have to do the same to her as you do tome.”

The little thing held out her arms to me. I took her up, and she hugged andkissed me, saying:

“I luz oo, I luz oo,” and turning to Mr Beecham, “zat anuff?

“Yes, that will do,” he said; and she struggled to be put down.

Three jackeroos, an overseer, and two other young men came in, were introducedto me, and then we began dinner.

O’Doolan sat on a high chair beside Mr Beecham, and he attended to all herwants. She did everything he did, even taking mustard, and was very brave atquelling the tears that rose to the doll-like blue eyes. When Mr Beecham wipedhis moustache, it was amusing to see her also wipe an imaginary one.

After dinner the jackeroos and the three other men repaired to a sitting-roomin the backyard, which was specially set apart for them, and where they amusedthemselves as they liked. My host and hostess, myself, and the child, spent theevening in a tiny sitting-room adjoining the dining-room. Miss Beechamentertained me with conversation and the family albums, and Harold amusedhimself entirely with the child.

Once when they were absent for a few minutes, Miss Beecham told me it wasridiculous the way he fussed with the child, and that he had her with him morethan half his time. She also asked me what I thought of her nephew. I evadedthe question by querying if he was always so quiet and good-tempered.

“Oh dear, no. He is considered a particularly bad-tempered man. Not one of thesnarling nasty tempers, but—”

Here the re-entry of the owner of the temper put a stop to this conversation.

Harold gave O’Doolan rides on his back, going on all-fours. She shouted inchildish glee, and wound up by curling her small proportions on his broadchest, and going to sleep there.

Mrs Benson had sent for little O’Doolan, and Harold took her home next day. Heinvited me to accompany him, so we set out in the sulky with O’Doolan on mylap. It was a pleasant drive of twelve miles to and from Wyambeet. O’Doolan wasmuch distressed at parting from Mr Beecham, but he promised to come for heragain shortly.

“One little girl at a time is enough for me to care for properly,” he said tome in the winning manner with which, and his wealth, unintentionally andunconsciously made slaughter among the hearts of the fair sex.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN
When Fortune Smiles

“Now, Harold, you have compelled Sybylla to come here, you must not let thetime drag with her,” said Miss Beecham.

It was the second day after my arrival at Five-Bob. Lunch was over, and we hadadjourned to the veranda. Miss Beecham was busy at her work-table; I wasensconced on a mat on the floor reading a book; Harold was stretched in asquatter’s chair some distance away. His big brown hands were clasped behindhis head, his chin rested on his broad chest, his eyes were closed, heoccasionally thrust his lower lip forward and sent a puff of breath upwards toscatter the flies from his face; he looked a big monument of comfort, andanswered his aunt’s remarks lazily:

“Yes, aunt, I’ll do my best;” and to me, “Miss Melvyn, while here, please bearin mind that it will be no end of pleasure to me to do anything for yourenjoyment. Don’t fail to command me in any way.”

“Thank you, Mr Beecham. I will not fail to avail myself of your offer.”

“The absurdity of you two children addressing each other so formally,” saidMiss Beecham. “Why, you are a sort of cousins almost, by right of oldfriendship between the families. You must call me aunt.”

After this Mr Beecham and I called each other nothing when in Miss Beecham’shearing, but adhered to formality on other occasions.

Harold looked so comfortable and lazy that I longed to test how far he meantthe offer he had made me.

“I’m just dying for a row on the river. Would you oblige me?” I said.

“Just look at the thermometer!” exclaimed Miss Augusta. “Wait till it getscooler, child.”

“Oh, I love the heat!” I replied. “And I am sure it won’t hurt his lordship.He’s used to the sun, to judge from all appearances.”

“Yes, I don’t think it can destroy my complexion,” he said good-humouredly,rubbing his finger and thumb along his stubble-covered chin. The bushmenup-country shaved regularly every Sunday morning, but never during the week foranything less than a ball. They did this to obviate the blue—what they termed“scraped pig”—appearance of the faces of city men in the habit of using therazor daily, and to which they preferred the stubble of a seven-days’ beard.“I’ll take you to the river in half an hour,” he said, rising from his seat.“First I must stick on one of Warrigal’s shoes that he’s flung. I want himtomorrow, and must do it at once, as he always goes lame if ridden immediatelyafter shoeing.”

“Shall I blow the bellows?” I volunteered.

“Oh no, thanks. I can manage myself. It would be better though if I had someone. But I can get one of the girls.”

“Can’t you get one of the boys?” said his aunt.

“There’s not one in. I sent every one off to the Triangle paddock today to dosome drafting. They all took their quart pots and a snack in their saddle-bags,and won’t be home till dark.”

“Let me go,” I persisted; “I often blow the bellows for uncle Jay-Jay, andthink it great fun.”

The offer of my services being accepted, we set out.

Harold took his favourite horse, Warrigal, from the stable, and led him to theblacksmith’s forge under an open, stringybark-roofed shed, nearly covered withcreepers. He lit a fire and put a shoe in it. Doffing his coat and hat, rollingup his shirt-sleeves, and donning a leather apron, he began preparing thehorse’s hoof.

When an emergency arose that necessitated uncle Jay-Jay shoeing his horseshimself. I always manipulated the bellows, and did so with great decorum, as hewas very exacting and I feared his displeasure. In this case it was different.I worked the pole with such energy that it almost blew the whole fire out ofthe pan, and sent the ashes and sparks in a whirlwind around Harold. Thehorse—a touchy beast—snorted and dragged his foot from his master’s grasp.

“That the way to blow?” I inquired demurely.

“Take things a little easier,” he replied.

I took them so very easily that the fire was on the last gasp and the shoenearly cold when it was required.

“This won’t do,” said Beecham.

I recommenced blowing with such force that he had to retreat.

“Steady! steady!” he shouted.

“Sure O’i can’t plaze yez anyhows,” I replied.

“If you don’t try to plaze me directly I’ll punish you in a way you won’trelish,” he said laughingly. But I knew he was thinking of a punishment which Iwould have secretly enjoyed.

“If you don’t let me finish this work I’ll make one of the men do it tonight bycandle-light when they come home tired. I know you wouldn’t like them to dothat,” he continued.

“Arrah, go on, ye’re only tazin’!” I retorted. “Don’t you remember telling methat Warrigal was such a nasty-tempered brute that he allowed no one butyourself to touch him?”

“Oh well, then, I’m floored, and will have to put up with the consequences,” hegood-humouredly made answer.

Seeing that my efforts to annoy him failed, I gave in, and we were soon done,and then started for the river—Mr Beecham clad in a khaki suit and I in adainty white wrapper and flyaway sort of hat. In one hand my host held a bigwhite umbrella, with which he shaded me from the hot rays of the October sun,and in the other was a small basket containing cake and lollies for ourdelectation.

Having traversed the half-mile between the house and river, we pushed off fromthe bank in a tiny boat just big enough for two. In the teeth of Harold’sremonstrance I persisted in dangling over the boat-side to dabble in the clear,deep, running water. In a few minutes we were in it. Being unable to swim, butfor my companion it would have been all up with me. When I rose to the surfacehe promptly seized me, and without much effort, clothes and all, swam with meto the bank, where we landed—a pair of sorry figures. Harold had mud all overhis nose, and in general looked very ludicrous. As soon as I could stand Ilaughed.

“Oh, for a snapshot of you!” I said.

“We might have both been drowned,” he said sternly.

“Mights don’t fly,” I returned. “And it was worth the dip to see you lookingsuch a comical article.” We were both minus our hats.

His expression relaxed.

“I believe you would laugh at your own funeral. If I look queer, you look fortytimes worse. Run for your life and get a hot bath and a drop of spirits oryou’ll catch your death of cold. Aunt Augusta will take a fit and tie you upfor the rest of the time in case something more will happen to you.”

“Catch a death of cold!” I ejaculated. “It is only good, pretty little girls,who are a blessing to everyone, who die for such trifles; girls like I amalways live till nearly ninety, to plague themselves and everybody else. I’llsneak home so that your aunt won’t see me, and no one need be a bit the wiser.”

“You’ll be sun-struck!” he said in dismay.

“Take care you don’t get daughter-struck,” I said perkily, turning to flee, forit had suddenly dawned upon me that my thin wet clothing was outlining myfigure rather too clearly for propriety.

By a circuitous way I managed to reach my bedroom unseen. It did not take melong to change my clothes, hang them to dry, and appear on the main verandawhere Miss Augusta was still sewing. I picked up the book I had left on themat, and, taking up a position in a hammock near her, I commenced to read.

“You did not stay long at the river,” she remarked. “Have you been washing yourhead? I never saw the like of it. Such a mass of it. It will take all day todry.”

Half an hour later Harold appeared dressed in a warm suit of tweed. He waslooking pale and languid, as though he had caught a chill, and shivered as hethrew himself on a lounge. I was feeling none the worse for my immersion.

“Why did you change your clothes, Harold? You surely weren’t cold on a day likethis. Sybylla has changed hers too, when I come to notice it, and her hair iswet. Have you had an accident?” said Miss Augusta, rising from her chair in astartled manner.

“Rubbish!” ejaculated Harold in a tone which forbade further questioning, andthe matter dropped.

She presently left the veranda, and I took the opportunity to say, “It isyourself that requires the hot bath and a drop of spirits, Mr Beecham.”

“Yes; I think I’ll take a good stiff nobbler. I feel a trifle squeamish. Itgave me a bit of a turn when I rose to the top and could not see you. I wasafraid the boat might have stunned you in capsizing, and you would be drownedbefore I could find you.”

“Yes; I would have been such a loss to the world in general if I had beendrowned,” I said satirically.

Several jackeroos, a neighbouring squatter, and a couple of bicycle touriststurned up at Five-Bob that evening, and we had a jovial night. The great,richly furnished drawing-room was brilliantly lighted, and the magnificentErard grand piano sang and rang again with music, now martial and loud, nowsoft and solemn, now gay and sparkling. I made the very pleasant discovery thatHarold Beecham was an excellent pianist, a gifted player on the violin, andsang with a strong, clear, well-trained tenor, which penetrated far into thenight. How many, many times I have lived those nights over again! The greatroom with its rich appointments, the superb piano, the lights, the merriment,the breeze from the east, rich with the heavy intoxicating perfume of countlessflowers; the tall perfect figure, holding the violin with a master hand, makingit speak the same language as I read in the dark eyes of the musician, whileabove and around was the soft warmth of an Australian summer night.

Ah, health and wealth, happiness and youth, joy and light, life and love! Whata warm-hearted place is the world, how full of pleasure, good, and beauty, whenfortune smiles!When fortune smiles!

Fortune did smile, and broadly, in those days. We played tricks on one another,and had a deal of innocent fun and frolic. I was a little startled one night onretiring to find a huge goanna near the head of my bed. I called Harold todislodge the creature, when it came to light that it was roped to the bedpost.Great was the laughter at my expense. Who tethered the goanna I neverdiscovered, but I suspected Harold. In return for this joke, I collected allthe portable clocks in the house—about twenty—and arrayed them on his bedroomtable. The majority of them were Waterburys for common use, so I set each alarmfor a different hour. Inscribing a placard “Hospital for Insane”, I erected itabove his door. Next morning I was awakened at three o’clock by fifteen alarmsin concert outside my door. When an hour or two later I emerged I found anotice on my door, “This way to the Zoo”.

It was a very busy time for the men at Five-Bob. Waggons were arriving withshearing supplies, for it was drawing nigh unto the great event of the year. Inanother week’s time the bleat of thousands of sheep, and the incense of muchtar and wool, would be ascending to the heavens from the vicinity of Five-BobDowns. I was looking forward to the shearing. There never was any at Caddagat.Uncle did not keep many sheep, and always sold them long-woolled and reboughtafter shearing.

I had not much opportunity of persecuting Harold during the daytime. He and allhis subordinates were away all day, busy drafting, sorting, and otherwisepottering with sheep. But I always, and Miss Augusta sometimes, went to meetthem coming home in the evening. It was great fun. The dogs yelped and jumpedabout. The men were dirty with much dust, and smelt powerfully of sheep, andhad worked hard all day in the blazing sun, but they were never too tired forfun, or at night to dance, after they had bathed and dressed. We all hadsplendid horses. They reared and pranced; we galloped and jumped every logwhich came in our path. Jokes, repartee, and nonsense rattled off our tongues.We did not worry about thousands of our fellows—starving and reeking withdisease in city slums. We were selfish. We were heedless. We were happy. Wewere young.

Harold Beecham was a splendid host. Anyone possessed of the least talent forenjoyment had a pleasant time as his guest. He was hospitable in a quietunostentatious manner. His overseer, jackeroos, and other employees were allallowed the freedom of home, and could invite whom they pleased to Five-BobDowns. It is all very well to talk of good hosts. Bah, I could be a goodhostess myself if I had Harold Beecham’s superior implements of the art! Withan immense station, plenty of house-room, tennis courts, musical instruments; ariver wherein to fish, swim, and boat; any number of horses, vehicles,orchards, gardens, guns, and ammunition no object, it is easy to be a goodhost.

I had been just a week at Five-Bob when uncle Julius came to take me home, so Imissed the shearing. Caddagat had been a dull hole without me, he averred, andI must return with him that very day. Mr and Miss Beecham remonstrated. Could Inot be spared at least a fortnight longer? It would be lonely without me.Thereupon uncle Jay-Jay volunteered to procure Miss Benson from Wyambeet as asubstitute. Harold declined the offer with thanks.

“The schemes of youngsters are very transparent,” said uncle Jay-Jay and MissAugusta, smiling significantly at us. I feigned to be dense, but Harold smiledas though the insinuation was not only known, but also agreeable to him.

Uncle was inexorable, so home I had to go. It was sweet to me to hear from thelips of my grandmother and aunt that my absence had been felt.

As a confidante aunt Helen was the pink of perfection—tactful and sympathetic.My feather-brained chatter must often have bored her, but she apparently wasever interested in it.

I told her long yarns of how I had spent my time at the Beechams; of thedeafening duets Harold and I had played on the piano; and how he would persistin dancing with me, and he being so tall and broad, and I so small, it was likebeing stretched on a hay-rack, and very fatiguing. I gave a graphic account ofthe arguments—tough ones they were too—that Miss Augusta had with the overseeron religion, and many other subjects; of one jackeroo who gabbed never-endinglyabout his great relations at home; another who incessantly clattered aboutspurs, whips, horses, and sport; and the third one—Joe Archer—who talkedliterature and trash with me.

“What was Harry doing all this time?” asked auntie. “What did he say?”

Harold had been present all the while, yet I could not call to mind one thinghe had said. I cannot remember him ever holding forth on a subject or cause, asmost people do at one time or another.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Idylls of Youth

In pursuance of his duty a government mail-contractor passed Caddagat everyMonday, dropping the Bossier mail as he went. On Thursday we also got the post,but had to depend partly on our own exertions.

A selector at Dogtrap, on the Wyambeet run, at a point of the compass ten milesdown the road from Caddagat, kept a hooded van. Every Thursday he ran this toand from Gool-Gool for the purpose of taking to market vegetables and otherfarm produces. He also took parcels and passengers, both ways, if called uponto do so. Caddagat and Five-Bob gave him a great deal of carrying, and hebrought the mail for these and two or three other places. It was one of myduties, or rather privileges, to ride thither on Thursday afternoon for thepost, a leather bag slung round my shoulders for the purpose. I always had asplendid mount, and the weather being beautifully hot, it was a jaunt which Inever failed to enjoy. Frank Hawden went with me once or twice—not becausegrannie or I thought his escort necessary. The idea was his own; but I gave himsuch a time that he was forced to relinquish accompanying me as a bad job.

Harold Beecham kept a snivelling little Queensland black boy as a sort ofblack-your-boots, odd-jobs slavey or factotum, and he came to Dogtrap for themail, but after I started to ride for it Harold came regularly for his mailhimself. Our homeward way lay together for two miles, but he always came withme till nearly in sight of home. Some days we raced till our horses were whitewith lather; and once or twice mine was in such a state that we dismounted, andHarold unsaddled him and wiped the sweat off with his towel saddle-cloth, toremove the evidence of hard riding, so that I would not get into a scrape withuncle Jay-Jay. Other times we dawdled, so that when we parted the last rays ofsunset would be laughing at us between the white trunks of the tall gum-trees,the kookaburras would be making the echoes ring with their mocking good-night,and scores of wild duck would be flying quickly roostward. As I passed throughthe angle formed by the creek and the river, about half a mile from home, therecame to my ears the cheery clink-clink of hobble-chains, the jangle ofhorse-bells, and the gleam of a dozen camp-fires. The shearing was done out inRiverina now, and the men were all going home. Day after day dozens of thempassed along the long white road, bound for Monaro and the cool country beyondthe blue peaks to the southeast, where the shearing was about to begin. When Ihad come to Caddagat the last of them had gone “down” with horses poor; nowthey were travelling “up” with their horses—some of them thoroughbreds—rollingfat, and a cheque for their weeks of back-bending labour in their pockets. Butwhether coming or going they always made to Caddagat to camp. Thatcamping-ground was renowned as the best from Monaro to Riverina. It was awell-watered and sheltered nook, and the ground was so rich that there wasalways a mouthful of grass to be had there. It was a rare thing to see itwithout a fire; and the empty jam-tins, bottles, bits of bag, paper, tent-pegs,and fish-tins to be found there would have loaded a dozen waggons.

Thursday evening was always spent in going to Dogtrap, and all the other dayshad their pleasant tasks and were full of wholesome enjoyment. The blue sennaflowers along the river gave place to the white bloom of the tea-tree. Grannie,uncle, and aunt Helen filled the house with girl visitors for my pleasure. Inthe late afternoon, as the weather got hot, we went for bogeys in a part of theriver two miles distant. Some of the girls from neighbouring runs brought theirsaddles, others from town had to be provided therewith, which produced a dearthin sidesaddles, and it was necessary for me to take a man’s. With a rollickinggallop and a bogey ahead, that did not trouble me. Aunt Helen alwaysaccompanied us on our bathing expeditions to keep us in check. She was the onlyone who bothered with a bathing-dress. The rest of us reefed off our clothing,in our hurry sending buttons in all directions, and plunged into the pleasantwater. Then—such water-fights, frolic, laughter, shouting and roaring fun as adozen strong healthy girls can make when enjoying themselves. Aunt Helengenerally called time before we were half inclined to leave. We would lingertoo long, then there would be a great scramble for clothes, next for horses,and with wet hair streaming on our towels, we would go home full belt, twelvesets of galloping hoofs making a royal clatter on the hard dusty road. Granniemade a rule that when we arrived late we had to unsaddle our horses ourselves,and not disturb the working men from their meal for our pleasure. We mostlywere late, and so there would be a tight race to see who would arrive at tablefirst. A dozen heated horses were turned out unceremoniously, a dozen saddlesand bridles dumped down anywhere anyhow, and their occupants, with wetdishevelled hair and clothing in glorious disarray, would appear at tableaverring that they were starving.

The Caddagat folk were enthusiastic anglers. Fishing was a favourite and oftenenjoyed amusement of the household. In the afternoon a tinful of worms would bedug out of one of the water-races, tackle collected, horses saddled, andgrannie, uncle, aunt, Frank Hawden, myself, and any one else who had happenedto drop in, would repair to the fish-holes three miles distant. I hate fishing.Ugh! The hideous barbarity of shoving a hook through a living worm, and thecruelty of taking the fish off the hook! Uncle allowed no idlers at theriver—all had to manipulate a rod and line. Indulging in pleasant air-castles,I generally forgot my cork till the rod would be jerked in my hand, when Iwould pull—too late! the fish would be gone. Uncle would lecture me for being ajackdaw, so next time I would glare at the cork unwinkingly, and pull at thefirst signs of it bobbing—too soon! the fish would escape again, and I wouldagain be in disgrace. After a little experience I found it was a good plan tobe civil to Frank Hawden when the prospect of fishing hung around, and then hewould attend to my line as well as his own, while I read a book which Ismuggled with me. The fish-hole was such a shrub-hidden nook that, though themain road passed within two hundred yards, neither we nor our horses could beseen by the travellers thereon. I lay on the soft moss and leaves and drankdeeply of the beauties of nature. The soft rush of the river, the scent of theshrubs, the golden sunset, occasionally the musical clatter of hoofs on theroad, the gentle noises of the fishers fishing, the plop, plop of a platypusdisporting itself mid stream, came to me as sweetest elixir in my ideal,dream-of-a-poet nook among the pink-based, grey-topped, moss-carpeted rocks.

I was a creature of joy in those days. Life is made up of little things. It wasa small thing to have a little pocket-money to spend on anything that took myfancy—a very small thing, and yet how much pleasure it gave me. Though eatingis not one of the great aims of my life, yet it was nice to have enough of anydelicacy one fancied. Not that we ever went hungry at home, but when one hasnothing to eat in the hot weather but bread and beef it gives them tendency todream of fruit and cool dainties. When one thinks of the countless army ofone’s fellows who are daily selling their very souls for the barest necessariesof life, I suppose we—irresponsible beings—should be thankful to God forallowing us, by scratching and scraping all our lives, to keep a crust in ourmouth and a rag on our back. I am not thankful, I have been guilty of what Patwould term a “digresshion”—I started about going for the mail at Dogtrap.Harold Beecham never once missed taking me home on Thursdays, even when hisshearing was in full swing and he must have been very busy. He never onceuttered a word of love to me—not so much as one of the soft nothings in whichyoung people of opposite sexes often deal without any particular significance.Whether he went to all the bother and waste of time accruing from escorting mehome out of gentlemanliness alone, was a mystery to me. I desired to find out,and resolved to drive instead of ride to Dogtrap one day to see what he wouldsay.

Grannie assented to the project. Of course I could drive for once if I didn’tfeel able to ride, but the horses had been spelling for a long time and werevery frisky. I must take Frank with me or I might get my neck broken.

I flatly opposed the idea of Frank Hawden going with me. He would make a mullof the whole thing. It was no use arguing with grannie and impressing upon herthe fact that I was not the least nervous concerning the horses. I could takeFrank with me in the buggy, ride, or stay at home. I preferred driving.Accordingly the fat horses were harnessed to the buggy, and with manyinjunctions to be careful and not forget the parcels, we set out. FrankHawden’s presence spoilt it all, but I determined to soon make short work ofhim.

There was one gate to go through, about four miles from the house. Frank Hawdengot out to open it. I drove through, and while he was pushing it to, laid thewhip on the horses and went off full tilt. He ran after me shouting all mannerof things that I could not hear on account of the rattle of the buggy. Onehorse began kicking up, so, to give him no time for further pranks, I drove ata good round gallop, which quickly left the lovable jackeroo a speck in thedistance. The dust rose in thick clouds, the stones rattled from the whirlingwheels, the chirr! chirr! of a myriad cicadas filled the air, and the whiteroad glistened in the dazzling sunlight. I was enjoying myself tip-top, andchuckled to think of the way I had euchred Frank Hawden. It was such a goodjoke that I considered it worth two of the blowings-up I was sure of gettingfrom grannie for my conduct.

It was not long before I fetched up at Dogtrap homestead, where, tethered tothe “six-foot” paling fence which surrounded the flower-garden, was HaroldBeecham’s favourite, great, black, saddle-horse Warrigal. The vicious bruteturned his beautiful head, displaying a white star on the forehead, and snortedas I approached. His master appeared on the veranda raising his soft panamahat, and remarking, “Well I never! You’re not by yourself, are you?”

“I am. Would you please tell Mrs Butler to bring out grannie’s parcels and postat once. I’m afraid to dawdle, it’s getting late.”

He disappeared to execute my request and reappeared in less than a minute.

“Mr Beecham, please would you examine Barney’s harness. Something must behurting him. He has been kicking up all the way.”

Examining the harness and noticing the sweat that was dripping from theanimals, panting from their run, he said:

“It looks as though you’ve been making the pace a cracker. There is nothingthat is irritating Barney in the least. If he’s putting on any airs it isbecause he is frisky and not safe for you to drive. How did Julius happen tolet you away by yourself?”

“I’m not frightened,” I replied.

“I see you’re not. You’d be game to tackle a pair of wild elephants, I know,but you must remember you’re not much bigger than a sparrow sitting up there,and I won’t let you go back by yourself.”

“You cannot stop me.”

“I can.”

“You can’t.”

“I can.”

“You can’t.”

“I can.”

“How?”

“I’m going with you,” he said.

“You’re not.”

“I am.”

“You’re not.”

I am”.

“You ar-r-re not.”

“I am”.

“You are, ar-r-re not.”

“We’ll see whether I will or not in a minute or two,” he said with amusement.

“But, Mr Betcham, I object to your company. I am quite capable of taking careof myself; besides, if you come home with me I will not be allowed out aloneagain—it will be altogether unpleasant for me.”

Mrs Butler now appeared with the mail and some parcels, and Harold stowed themin the buggy.

“You’d better come in an’ ’ave a drop of tay-warter, miss, the kittle’s bilin’;and I have the table laid out for both of yez.”

“No, thank you, Mrs Butler. I can’t possibly stay today, it’s getting late. Imust hurry off. Good-bye! Good afternoon, Mr Beecham.”

I turned my buggy and pair smartly round and was swooping off. Without a wordHarold was at their heads and seized the reins. He seized his horse’s bridle,where it was over the paling, and in a moment had him tied on the off-side ofBarney, then stepping quietly into the buggy he put me away from the driver’sseat as though I were a baby, quietly took the reins and whip, raised his hatto Mrs Butler, who was smiling knowingly, and drove off.

I was highly delighted with his action, as I would have despised him as a boobyhad he given in to me, but I did not let my satisfaction appear. I sat as faraway from him as possible, and pretended to be in a great huff. For a while hewas too fully occupied in making Barney “sit up” to notice me, but after a fewminutes he looked round, smiling a most annoying and pleasant smile.

“I’d advise you to straighten out your chin. It is too round and soft to lookwell screwed up that way,” he said provokingly.

I tried to extinguish him with a look, but it had not the desired effect.

“Now you had better be civil, for I have got the big end of the whip,” he said.

“I reserve to myself the right of behaving as I think fit in my own uncle’sbuggy. You are an intruder; it is yourself that should be civil.”

I erected my parasol and held it so as to tease Harold. I put it down so thathe could not see the horses. He quietly seized my wrist and held it out of hisway for a time, and then loosing me said, “Now, behave.”

I flouted it now, so that his ears and eyes were endangered, and he was forcedto hold his hat on.

“I’ll give you three minutes to behave, or I’ll put you out,” he said with mockseverity.

“Shure it’s me wot’s behavin’ beautiful,” I replied, continuing my nonsense.

He pulled rein, seized me in one arm, and lifted me lightly to the ground.

“Now, you can walk till you promise to conduct yourself like a Christian!” hesaid, driving at a walk.

“If you wait till I promise anything, you’ll wait till the end of the century.I’m quite capable of walking home.”

“You’ll soon get tired of walking in this heat, and your feet will be blisteredin a mile with those bits of paper.”

The bits of paper to which he alluded were a pair of thin-soled white canvasslippers—not at all fitted for walking the eight miles on the hard hot roadahead of me. I walked resolutely on, without deigning a glance at Harold, whohad slowed down to a crawling walk.

“Aren’t you ready to get up now?” he inquired presently.

I did not reply. At the end of a quarter of a mile he jumped out of the buggy,seized upon me, lifted me in, and laughed, saying, “You’re a very slashinglittle concern, but you are not big enough to do much damage.”

We were about half-way home when Barney gave a tremendous lurch, breaking atrace and some other straps. Mr Beecham was at the head of the plunging horsein a twinkling. The harness seemed to be scattered everywhere.

“I expect I had better walk on now,” I remarked.

“Walk, be grannied! With two fat lazy horses to draw you?” returned Mr Beecham.

Men are clumsy, stupid creatures regarding little things, but in their rightplace they are wonderful animals. If a buggy was smashed to smithereens, fromone of their many mysterious pockets they would produce a knife and somestring, and put the wreck into working order in no time.

Harold was as clever in this way as any other man with as much bushman abilityas he had, so it was not long ere we were bowling along as merrily as ever.

Just before we came in sight of Caddagat he came to a standstill, jumped to theground, untied Warrigal, and put the reins in my hand, saying:

“I think you can get home safely from here. Don’t be in such a huff—I wasafraid something might happen you if alone. You needn’t mention that I camewith you unless you like. Good-bye.”

“Good-bye, Mr Beecham. Thank you for being so officious,” I said by way of aparting shot.

“Old Nick will run away with you for being so ungrateful,” he returned.

“Old Nick will have me anyhow,” I thought to myself as I drove home amid theshadows. The hum of the cicadas was still, and dozens of rabbits, tempted outby the cool of the twilight, scuttled across my path and hid in the ferns.

I wished the harness had not broken, as I feared it would put a clincher on mybeing allowed out driving alone in future.

Joe Slocombe, the man who acted as groom and rouseabout, was waiting for me atthe entrance gate.

“I’m glad you come at last, Miss Sybyller. The missus has been in a dreadfulstoo for fear something had happened yuz. She’s been runnin’ in an’ out like agurrl on the look-out fer her lover, and was torkin’ of sendin’ me after yuz,but she went to her tea soon as she see the buggy come in sight. I’ll put allthe parcels on the back veranda, and yuz can go in at woncest or yuz’ll be latefer yer tea.”

“Joe, the harness broke and had to be tied up. That is what kept me so late,” Iexplained.

“The harness broke!” he exclaimed. “How the doose is that! Broke here in thetrace, and that strap! Well, I’ll be hanged! I thought them straps couldn’tbreak only onder a tremenjous strain. The boss is so dashed partickler too. Ibelieve he’ll sool me off the place; and I looked at that harness onlyyesterday. I can’t make out how it come to break so simple. The boss will risethe devil of a shine, and say you might have been killed.”

This put a different complexion on things. I knew Joe Slocombe could mend theharness with little trouble, as it was because he was what uncle Jay-Jay termeda “handy divil” at saddlery that he was retained at Caddagat. I saidcarelessly:

“If you mend the harness at once, Joe, uncle Julius need not be bothered aboutit. As it happened, there is no harm done, and I won’t mention the matter.”

“Thank you, miss,” he said eagerly. “I’ll mend it at once.”

Now that I had that piece of business so luckily disposed of, I did not feelthe least nervous about meeting grannie. I took the mail in my arms and enteredthe dining-room, chirping pleasantly:

“Grannie, I’m such a good mail-boy. I have heaps of letters, and did not forgetone of your commissions.”

“I don’t want to hear that now,” she said, drawing her dear old mouth into astraight line, which told me I was not going to palm things off as easily as Ithought. “I want a reason for your conduct this afternoon.”

“Explain what, grannie?” I inquired.

“None of that pretence! Not only have you been most outrageously insulting toMr Hawden when I sent him with you, but you also deliberately and wilfullydisobeyed me.”

Uncle Julius listened attentively, and Hawden looked at me with such a leer oftriumph that my fingers tingled to smack his cars. Turning to my grandmother, Isaid distinctly and cuttingly:

“Grannie, I did not intentionally disobey you. Disobedience never entered myhead. I hate that thing. His presence was detestable to me. When he got out atthe gate I could not resist the impulse to drive off and leave him there. Helooked such a complete jackdaw that you would have laughed yourself to seehim.”

“Dear, oh dear! You wicked hussy, what will become of you!” And grannie shookher head, trying to look stern, and hiding a smile in her serviette.

“Your manners are not improving, Sybylla. I fear you must be incorrigible,”said aunt Helen.

When uncle Jay-Jay heard the whole particulars of the affair, he lay back inhis chair and laughed fit to kill himself.

“You ought to be ashamed to always encourage her in her tomboyish ways, Julius.It grieves me to see she makes no effort to acquire a ladylike demeanour,” saidgrannie.

Mr Hawden had come off second-best, so he arose from his half-finished meal andstamped out, banging the door after him, and muttering something about “adisgustingly spoilt and petted tomboy”, “a hideous barbarian”, and so forth.

Uncle Jay-Jay related that story to everyone, dwelling with great delight uponthe fact that Frank Hawden was forced to walk four miles in the heat and dust.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
As Short as I Wish had been the Majority of Sermons to which I have been Forcedto give Ear

When alone I confessed to aunt Helen that Harold had accompanied me to within ashort distance of home. She did not smile as usual, but looked very grave, and,drawing me in front of her, said:

“Sybylla, do you know what you are doing? Do you love Harry Beecham? Do youmean to marry him?”

“Aunt Helen, what a question to ask! I never dreamt of such a thing. He hasnever spoken a word of love to me. Marriage! I am sure he does not for aninstant think of me in that light. I’m not seventeen.”

“Yes, you are young, but some people’s age cannot be reckoned by years. I amglad to see you have developed a certain amount of half-real and half-assumedyouthfulness lately, but when the novelty of your present life wears away, yourold mature nature will be there, so it is of no use feigning childishness.Harold Beecham is not given to speech—action with him is the same thing. Canyou look at me straight, Sybylla, and say that Harold has not extended yousomething more than common politeness?”

Had aunt Helen put that question to me a day before, I would have blushed andfelt guilty. But today not so. The words of the jackeroo the night before hadstruck home. “A hideous barbarian”, he had called me, and it seemed to me hehad spoken the truth. My life had been so pleasant lately that I had overlookedthis fact, but now it returned to sting with redoubled bitterness. I had nolovable qualities to win for me the love of my fellows, which I so muchdesired.

I returned aunt Helen a gaze as steady as her own, and said bitterly:

“Aunt Helen, I can truly say he has never, and will never extend to me morethan common politeness. Neither will any other man. Surely you know enough ofmasculine human nature to see there is no danger of a man losing his heart to aplain woman like me. Love in fancy and song is a pretty myth, embracing unityof souls, congeniality of tastes, and such like commodities. In workadayreality it is the lowest of passions, which is set alight by the most artisticnose and mouth, and it matters not if its object is vile, low, or brainless toidiocy, so long as it has these attributes.”

“Sybylla, Sybylla,” said auntie sadly, as if to herself. “In the first flush ofgirlhood, and so bitter. Why is this?”

“Because I have been cursed with the power of seeing, thinking, and, worse thanall, feeling, and branded with the stinging affliction of ugliness,” I replied.

“Now, Sybylla, you are going to think of yourself again. Something has put youout. Be sensible for once in a way. What you have said of men’s love may betrue in a sense, but it is not always so, and Harry is not that kind of man. Ihave known him all his life, and understand him, and feel sure he loves youtruly. Tell me plainly, do you intend to accept him?”

“Intend to accept him!” I echoed. “I haven’t once thought of such apossibility. 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 ofthe biggest and finest-looking men you could find. He is a man whom no onecould despise, for he has nothing despicable about him. But, best of all, he istrue, 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 veryconceited, and it does not prevent me from loving her dearly,” here aunt Helensmiled affectionately at me. “What you complain of in Harold will wear offpresently—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 hethinks he can get me for the asking.”

“Sybylla, never flirt. To play with a man’s heart, I think, is one of the mosthorribly unwomanly actions our sex can be guilty of.”

“I would scorn to flirt with any man,” I returned with vigour. “Play with aman’s heart! You’d really think they had such a thing, aunt Helen, to hear youtalk. Hurt their vanity for a few days is the most a woman could do with any ofthem. I am sick of this preach, preach about playing with men’s hearts. It isan old fable which should have been abolished long ago. It does not matter howa woman is played with.”

“Sybylla, you talk at random. The shortcomings of men are no excuse for you tobe unwomanly,” said aunt Helen.

CHAPTER NINETEEN
The 9th of November 1896

The Prince of Wales’s birthday up the country was celebrated as usual thereawayby the annual horse-races on the Wyambeet course, about fourteen miles fromCaddagat.

The holding of these races was an elderly institution, and was followed atnight by a servants’ ball given by one of the squatters. Last year it had beenBeecham’s ball, the year before Bossier’s, and this year it was to take placein the woolshed of James Grant of Yabtree. Our two girls, the gardener, and JoeSlocombe the groom, were to be present, as also were all the other employeesabout. Nearly every one in the district—masters and men—attended the races. Wewere 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 thebuggy, and aunt Helen and I occupied the back. Uncle always drove at a goodround gallop. His idea was to have good horses, not donkeys, and not to sparethem, as there were plenty more to be had any day. On this morning he went offat his usual pace. Grannie urged as remonstrance that the dust was fearful whengoing at that rate. I clapped my hands and exclaimed, “Go it, Mr Bossier! Welldone, uncle Jay-Jay! Hurrah for Clancy!”

Uncle first said he was glad to see I had the spirit of an Australian, and thenthreatened to put my nose above my chin if I failed to behave properly. Grannieremarked that I might have the spirit of an Australian, but I had by no meansthe manners of a lady; while aunt Helen ventured a wish that I might expend allmy superfluous spirits on the way, so that I would be enabled to deport myselfwith a little decorum when arrived at the racecourse.

We went at a great pace; lizards and goannas scampered out of the way indozens, and, clambering trees, eyed us unblinkingly as we passed. Did we see aperson or vehicle a tiny speck ahead of us—in a short time they were as faraway 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 looklike a tame cockatoo while you sat in front. You ask Harry to let you drivehim. 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, butas we overhauled it, it was the drag, and not a sulky. Harold occupied thedriver’s seat, and the other occupants were all ladies. I noticed the onebeside 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 unclebegan to tease:

“Got faint-hearted, did you? The flower-garden on that woman’s hat corked yourchances altogether. Never mind, don’t you funk; I’ll see that you have a fairshow. I’ll get you a regular cart-wheel next time I go to town, and we’ll trimit up with some of old Barney’s tail. If that won’t fetch him, I’m sure nothingwill.”

Before we got to the racecourse Barney went lame through getting a stone in hishoof; this caused a delay which enabled the Five-Bob trap to catch us, and wepulled rein a little distance apart at the same time, to alight.

Mr Beecham’s groom went to his horses’ heads while Harold himself assisted hiscarriageful of ladies to set foot on the ground. Aunt Helen and grannie went totalk 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 bealone. 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 promisedto be somewhat flat without him.

“I told that devil of a Joe to be sure and turn up as soon as I arrived. Iwanted 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 timeto 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 thehorses. I’ll water ’em myself.”

He led one animal, I took the other, and we went in the direction of water afew 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,” hecontinued, with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. “If you stick to your gunsyou 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 hadbeen 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 onHarry. It’s only natural, and just what I’d expect. I’ve known him since he wasborn, 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 giveyou fal-de-rals and rubbish to no end, and wouldn’t be stingy either. You’llnever get a better man. Don’t you be put out of the running so cheaply: holdyour own and win, that’s my advice to you. There is nothing against him, onlytemper—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 iswhat you want, as I find you have none of your own. But be careful of HarryBeecham in a temper. He is like a raging lion, and when his temper dies away isa 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 havemore than a friendly regard for Mr Beecham, but I have not. I would not marryhim even if I could. I am so sick of every one thinking I would marry any manfor 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 intendto marry. Instead of wasting so much money on me in presents and other ways, Iwish you would get me something to do, a profession that will last me all mylife, so that I may be independent.”

“No mistake, you’re a rum youngster. You can be my companion till furtherorders. 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 ajoke.

I left uncle and went in quest of grannie, who, by this, was beyond the otherside of the course, fully a quarter of a mile away. Going in her direction Imet Joe Archer, one of the Five-Bob jackeroos, and a great chum of mine. He hada taste for literature, and we got on together like one o’clock. We sat on alog under a stringybark-tree and discussed the books we had read since last wemet, and enjoyed ourselves so much that we quite forgot about the races or theflight 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 wewant to have lunch, and it appears you are the only one who knows the run ofsome 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 alittle 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, quizzicallywatching Joe Archer, who was blushing and as uneasy as a schoolgirl when nabbedin the enjoyment of an illicit love-letter.

“Really, Mr Beecham, Mr Archer and I have been so interested in ourselves thatwe 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 ifyou 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 togrannie, 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 asyou request.”

Raising his hat he walked swiftly away with a curious expression on his usuallypleasant face.

“By Jove, I’m in for it!” ejaculated my escort. “The boss doesn’t get thatexpression on his face for nothing. You take my tip for it, he felt inclined toseize 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 orthey 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, buthe gets mad if any one dares to monopolize you. I don’t know how you are goingto manage him. He is a pretty hot member sometimes.”

“Mr Archer, you presume! But throwing such empty banter aside, is Mr Beechamreally bad-tempered?”

“Bad-tempered is a tame name for it. You should have seen the dust he raisedthe other day with old Benson. He just did perform.”

I was always hearing of Harold Beecham’s temper, and wished I could see alittle of it. He was always so imperturbably calm, and unfailinglygood-tempered under the most trying circumstances, that I feared he had noemotions in him, and longed to stir him up.

Grannie greeted me with, “Sybylla, you are such a tiresome girl. I don’t knowhow you have packed these hampers, and we want to have lunch. Where on earthhave you been?”

Miss Augusta Beecham saluted me warmly with a kiss, and presented me to hersister Sarah, who also embraced me. I went through an introduction to severalladies and gentlemen, greeted my acquaintances, and then set to work in deadearnest to get our provisions laid out—the Five-Bob Downs party had theirs inreadiness. Needless to say, we were combining forces. I had my work completedwhen Mr Beecham appeared upon the scene with two young ladies. One was abright-faced little brunette, and the other a tall light blonde, whom, onaccount of her much trimmed hat, I recognized as the lady who had been sittingon the box-seat of the Beecham drag that morning.

Joe Archer informed me in a whisper that she was Miss Blanche Derrick fromMelbourne, 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 opportunityof doing so. In the hurry to attend on the party, I missed the honour of anintroduction, and when I was at leisure she was sitting at some distance on alog, Harold Beecham shading her in a most religious manner with a daintyparasol. In the afternoon she strolled away with him, and after I had attendedto the remains of the feast, I took Joe Archer in tow. He informed me that MissDerrick had arrived at Five-Bob three days before, and was setting her capdeterminedly at his boss.

“Was she really very handsome?” I inquired.

“By Jove, yes!” he replied. “But one of your disdainful haughty beauties, whowouldn’t deign to say good-day to a chap with less than six or seven thousand ayear.”

I don’t know why I took no interest in the races. I knew nearly all the horsesrunning. Some of them were uncle’s; though he never raced horses himself, hekept 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 ofthe bushman with his easy gentlemanliness, his jockey costume enhancing hissize. The equally tall majestic form of the city belle, whose self-confidentfashionable style spoke of nothing appertaining to girlhood, but of thefull-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 bothdependent children of indigence. The contrast we presented to the other pairstruck me hard, and I laughed a short bitter laugh.

I excused myself to my companion, and acceded to the request of severalchildren to go on a flower- and gum-hunting expedition. We were a long timeabsent, 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 killyourself with fun, and as you are not going home, she left me to say goodnight. I suppose she kisses you when performing that ceremony,” he saidmischievously.

“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 Melvynwe want,” he said.

“Oh, bother you!” I retorted. “Men are such stupid creatures, and neverunderstand about dress or anything. They think you could go to a ball in awrapper.”

“At all events, they are cute enough to know when they want a young lady attheir 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 Ilearnt that grannie and uncle Jay-Jay had really gone home, but Mr Beecham hadpersuaded 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 tohave aunt Helen with me I was delighted at the prospect, otherwise I would havefelt a little out of it. With aunt Helen, however, I was content anywhere, andbuilt a castle in the air, wherein one day she and I were always to livetogether—for ever! Till death!

Going home aunt Helen occupied a front seat with Harold and Miss Derrick, and Iwas crammed in at the back beside Miss Augusta, who patted my hand and said shewas delighted to see me.

A great concourse of young men and women in vehicles and on horseback, and inexpectation of great fun, were wending their way to Yabtree—nearly every trapcontaining 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 atYabtree. Harold and his overseer had to attend to the horses, while thejackeroos started a fire in the kitchen, opened windows and doors which hadbeen 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 onwe had to make the best of our present toilet.

I unplaited my hair (shook the dust out of it) and wore it flowing. We washedand dusted ourselves, and wore as adornment—roses. Crimson and cream roses paidthe penalty of peeping in the window. Aunt Helen plucked some of them, whichshe put in my hair and belt, and pinned carefully at my throat, and then wewere ready. Miss Beecham assured us there was nothing to be done, as the maidshad set the table and prepared the viands for a cold meal before leaving in themorning, so we proceeded to the drawing-room to await the arrival of the othervisitors. They soon made their appearance. First, two stout old squatters withbig laughs and bigger corporations, then Miss Augusta Beecham, next Joe Archerthe overseer, and the two other jackeroos. After these appeared a couple ofgovernesses, Mr, Mrs, and Miss Benson, a clergyman, an auctioneer, a youngfriend of Harold’s from Cootamundra, a horse-buyer, a wool-classer, Miss SarahBeecham, and then Miss Derrick brought herself and her dress in with greatstyle and airs. She was garbed in a sea-green silk, and had jewellery on herneck, arms, and hair. Her self-confident mien was suggestive of the conquest ofmany masculine hearts. She was a big handsome woman. Beside her, I in mycrushed white muslin dress was as overshadowed as a little white handkerchiefwould 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 withgreat indifference, twirled a bracelet round her wrist, languidly opened herfan, and closed her eyes as she wafted it slowly to and fro.

“By Jove, isn’t she a splendid creature?” enthusiastically whispered agentleman sitting beside me.

I looked at her critically. She was very big, and in a bony stiff way was muchdeveloped in figure. She had a nice big nose, and a long well-shaped face, athin straight mouth, and empty light eyes. If my attention had not been calledto her I would not have noticed her one way or the other, but being pointed toas a beauty, I weighed her according to my idea of facial charm, and pronouncedher 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 nevermake a fool of herself by letting her emotions run away with her, because shehad no emotions, but lived in a sea of unruffled self-consciousness andself-confidence. Any man would be proud to introduce her as his wife to hisfriends whom he had brought home to dinner. She would adorn the head of histable. She would never worry him with silly ideas. She would never act withimpropriety. She would never become a companion to her husband. Bah, a man doesnot want his wife to be a companion! There were myths and fables in the oldday; so there are now. The story that men like a companion as well as a wife isan 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 alltold—thirteen men and nine representatives of the other sex.

Aunt Helen got one seat of honour near the head of the table and Miss Derrickanother. I drifted to the foot among the unimportant younger fry, where we hadno end of fun and idle chatter. We had to wait on ourselves, and as allformality was dispensed with, it was something like a picnic.

The heat was excessive. Every window and door were open, and the balmy, almostimperceptible, zephyrs which faintly rustled the curtains and kissed ourperspiration-beaded brows were rich with many scents from the wide oldflower-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 andforwards to the kitchen, which rang with noise, and merriment. Everyone washelping, hindering, laughing, joking, teasing, and brimming over with fun andenjoyment. When we had completed this task, dancing was proposed. Some of theelderly and more sensible people said it was too hot, but all the young folksdid not care a rap for the temperature. Harold had no objections, Miss Derrickwas agreeable, Miss Benson announced herself ready and willing, and Joe Archersaid he was “leppin’” to begin, so we adjourned to the dancing-room andcommenced operations.

I played the piano for the first quadrille, and aunt Helen for the seconddance. It was most enjoyable. There was a table at one end of the room on whichwas any amount of cherries, lollies, cake, dainties, beers, syrups, andglasses, where all could regale themselves without ceremony or bother everytime the inclination seized them. Several doors and windows of the long roomopened into the garden, and, provided one had no fear of snakes, it wasdelightful 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 thetwo old squatters, the horse-buyer, the clergyman, and Mr Benson disappeared.Judging from the hilarity of their demeanour and the killing odour of theirbreaths when they returned an hour or so later, during their absence they musthave conscientiously sampled the contents of every whisky decanter on thedining-room sideboard.

I could not dance, but had no lack of partners, as, ladies being in theminority, the gentlemen had to occasionally put up with their own sex in adance.

“Let’s take a breeze now and have a song or two, but no more dancing for awhile,” said some of them; but Harold Beecham said, “One more turn, and then wewill have a long spell and a change of programme.”

He ordered Joe Archer to play a waltz, and the floor soon held several whirlingcouples. Harold “requested the pleasure” of me—the first time that night. Idemurred. He would not take a refusal.

“Believe me, if I felt competent, Mr Beecham, I would not refuse. I cannotdance. It will be no pleasure to you.”

“Allow me to be the best judge of what is a pleasure to me,” he said, quietlyplacing me in position.

He swung me once round the room, and then through an open window into thegarden.

“I am sorry that I haven’t had more time to look after you today. Come roundinto 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 wasHarold’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 asort of sitting-room, containing a piano, facilities for washing, a table,easy-chairs, and other things. As we entered I noticed the lamp, burningbrightly on the table, gleamed on the face of a clock on the wall, whichpointed 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 Iwant to say better than I do myself. You always are wonderfully smart at seeingthrough 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 orgreen, nor did he tremble or stammer, or cry or laugh, or become fierce orpassionate, 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 wasnot as I had pictured a man would tell his love, or as I had read of it, heardof it, or wished it should be. A curious feeling—disappointment, perhaps—stoleover me. His matter-of-fact coolness flabbergasted me.

“Is this not rather sudden? You have given me no intimation of yourintentions,” I stammered.

“I didn’t think it wise to dawdle any longer,” he replied. “Surely you haveknown what I’ve been driving at ever since I first clapped eyes on you. There’splenty of time. I don’t want to hurry you, only I want you to be engaged to mefor safety.”

He spoke as usual in his slow twangy drawl, which would have proclaimed hisColonial nationality anywhere. No word of love was uttered to me and nonerequested 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, “Iwill become engaged to you;” to myself I added, “Just for a little while, themore 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 justhis quiet unpretending way. He had meant all his actions towards me, and hadtaken mine in return.

“Thank you, Sybylla, that is all I want. We will talk about the matter moresome other time. I will go up to Caddagat next Sunday. You have surprised menearly out of my wits,” here he laughed. “I never dreamt you would say yes soeasily, just like any other girl. I thought I would have a lot of trouble withyou.”

He approached me and was stooping to kiss me. I cannot account for my action orcondemn it sufficiently. It was hysterical—the outcome of an overstrung, highlyexcitable, and nervous temperament. Perhaps my vanity was wounded, and mytendency to strike when touched was up in arms. The calm air of ownership withwhich Harold drew near annoyed me, or, as Sunday-school teachers would explainit, Satan got hold of me. He certainly placed a long strong riding-whip on thetable beneath my hand! As Harold stooped with the intention of pressing hislips to mine, I quickly raised the whip and brought it with all my strengthright across his face. The instant the whip had descended I would have smashedmy arm on the door-post to recall that blow. But that was impossible. It hadleft a great weal on the healthy sun-tanned skin. His moustache had saved hislips, but it had caught his nose, the left cheek, had blinded the left eye, andhad left a cut on the temple from which drops of blood were rolling down hischeek and staining his white coat. A momentary gleam of anger shot into hiseyes 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 wouldstrike. The enormity of what I had done paralysed me. The whip fell from myfingers and I dropped on to a low lounge behind me, and placing my elbows on myknees crouchingly buried my face in my hands; my hair tumbled softly over myshoulders and reached the floor, as though to sympathetically curtain myhumiliation. Oh, that Harold would thrash me severely! It would have infinitelyrelieved me. I had done a mean unwomanly thing in thus striking a man, who byhis great strength and sex was debarred retaliation. I had committed aviolation of self-respect and common decency; I had given a man an ignominiousblow in the face with a riding-whip. And that man was Harold Beecham, who withall his strength and great stature was so wondrously gentle—who had alwaystreated my whims and nonsense with something like the amused tolerance held bya 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 asimple caress from the man whose proposal of marriage you had just acceptedwould be considered such an unpardonable familiarity.”

Harold’s voice fell clearly, calmly, cuttingly on the silence. He moved away tothe 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 afamiliarity, but that I had been mad. I wished to say I could not account formy action, but I was dumb. My tongue refused to work, and I felt as though Iwould choke. The splash of the water came from the other end of the room. Iknew he must be suffering acute pain in his eye. A far lighter blow had kept mesleepless a whole night. A fear possessed me that I might have permanentlyinjured 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 onmy head.

“It doesn’t matter, Syb. I know you didn’t mean to hurt me. I suppose youthought you couldn’t affect my dark, old, saddle-flap-looking phiz. That is oneof 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 theshoulder. I looked up at him nervously and tried to ask his forgiveness, but Ifailed.

“Good heavens, child, you are as white as a sheet! I was a beast to speakharshly 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 slightestintention of hurting me. It’s nothing—I’ll be right in a few moments. I’veoften been amused at and have admired your touch-me-not style. You only forgotyou had something in your hand.”

He had taken it quite as a matter of fact, and was excusing me in the kindestpossible 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 theothers or there will be a search-party after us.”

He could have tied the handkerchief just as well himself—it was only out ofkindly tact he requested my services. I accepted his kindness gratefully. Hesank on his knee so that I could reach him, and I tied a large whitehandkerchief across the injured part. He could not open his eye, and hot waterpoured from it, but he made light of the idea of it paining. I was feelingbetter now, so we returned to the ballroom. The clock struck the half-hourafter 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—somelove-making, others playing cards. Miss Beecham was one who was not thusengaged. 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 Augustaconfidently, 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 knewthere would be an accident.”

“Perhaps they were put up high enough for ordinary purposes,” remarked hernephew.

“Let me do something for you, dear.”

“No, thank you, aunt Gus. It is nothing,” he said carelessly, and the matterdropped.

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 foolishhabit 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 heliked) chosen me of all women? I had no charms to recommend me—none of thevirtues which men demand of the woman they wish to make their wife. To beginwith, I was small, I was erratic and unorthodox, I was nothing but atomboy—and, cardinal disqualification, I was ugly. Why, then, had he proposedmatrimony 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 discernthe shrubs dimly silhouetted against the light. The music struck up insideagain. A step approached me on the gravelled walk among the flowers, and Haroldcalled 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 smallhours when the merry goodnights were all said and we had retired to rest. AuntHelen dropped to sleep in a short time; but I lay awake listening to the softdistant 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 wasseeing us off—still with his eye covered—he took opportunity of whispering tome 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 somedistance, 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 thetree, 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. Ihaven’t got a crupper or a breastplate.”

“Why haven’t you, then? Hang on to him. I do like the look of you while thehorse 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 wasas near as twopence to being off, saddle and all. You might have been the deathof 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 andpoisonous insect exterminator if I made away with you,” I answered. I gave himan invitation to take a seat with me, and accepting, he swung up with easygrace. There was any amount of accommodation for the two of us on thegood-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 hopeyou’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 moroccocase, which on being opened disclosed a costly ring. I have about as much ideaof the prices of things as a turkey would have. Perhaps that ring cost thirtypounds or possibly fifty guineas, for all I know. It was very heavy, and had abig diamond supported on either side by a large sapphire, and had many smallgems 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 sailalong smoothly, we’ll have the real thing; until then we will not be any morethan we have been to each other.”

“But what am I to do in the meantime?” he asked, with amusement curving thecorners of his mouth.

“Do! Do the usual thing, of course; but don’t pay me any special attentions, orI’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 havethings arranged different from any other girl. But you’ll take the ring andwear 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, ifwe definitely make up our minds, you can put it on; but till then, don’t forthe life of you hint by word or sign that we have any sort of an arrangementbetween 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 tookit, and tried to put it on one of his fingers. It would fit on none but thevery top of his little finger. We laughed heartily at the disparity in the sizeof our hands.

“I’ll agree to your bargain,” he said. “But you’ll be really engaged to me allthe same.`

“Yes; under those conditions. Then it will not matter if we have a tiff. We canpart, and no one will be the wiser.”

On my suggesting that it was now time to go to the house, he swung himself downby a branch and turned to assist me. Descending from that tree was a feat whichpresented no difficulties to me when no one was by, but now it seemed anawkward performance.

“Just lead your horse underneath, so that I can get on to his back, thence tothe ground quite easily,” I said.

“No fear! Warrigal wouldn’t stand that kind of dodge. Won’t I do? I don’t thinkyour weight will quite squash me,” he returned, placing himself in leap-frogposition, and I stepped on to his back and slid from there to the ground quiteeasily.

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 lizardsalong the bank of the creek. He treed one, and kept up a furious barking at thebase of its refuge. The yelping had disturbed grannie where she was reading onthe veranda, and coming down the road under a big umbrella to see what thenoise was about, as luck would have it she was in the nick of time to catch mestanding on Harold Beecham’s back. Grannie frequently showed marked displeasureregarding what she termed my larrikinism, but never before had I seen her sothoroughly 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! Iwill write to your mother about you. Go home at once, miss, and confineyourself in your room for the remainder of the day, and don’t dare eat anythinguntil 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 nevergave me the slightest trouble in that way.”

She pushed me from her in anger, and I turned and strode housewards without aword or glancing behind. I could hear grannie deprecating my conduct as Ideparted, and Harold quietly and decidedly differing from her.

From the time of my infancy punishment of any description never had abeneficial effect upon me. But dear old grannie was acting according to herprinciples in putting me through a term of penance, so I shut myself in my roomas 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 lastindiscretion I would intentionally have been guilty of. In associating with menI never realize that the trifling difference of sex is sufficient to be a greatwall between us. The fact of sex never for an instant enters my head, and Ifind it as easy to be chummy with men as with girls: men in return have alwaysbeen very good, and have treated me in the same way.

On returning from her walk grannie came to my room, brought me some preachybooks to read, and held out to me the privilege of saying I was sorry, andbeing 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 doesnot reproach me in the least. I had no evil—not even a violation of manners—inmy 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 thatfills me with fears for your future. I will leave you here to think byyourself. The only redeeming point about you is, you do not pretend to be sorrywhen 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 andhad that beautiful ring to admire.

I heard them come in to tea, and I thought Harold had gone till I heard uncleJay-Jay address him:

“Joe Archer told me you ran into a clothes-line on race-night, and ever sincethen mother has kept up a daddy of a fuss about ours. We’ve got props about ahundred feet long, and if you weren’t in the know you’d think we had atelegraph wire to old St Peter up above.”

I wondered what Harold thought of the woman he had selected as his future wifebeing 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 oftenhave troublesome straitlaced ideas. It will blow over by tomorrow.”

I did not answer; so he passed on with firm regular footfall, and presently Iheard his horse’s hoof-beats dying away in the darkness, and the closing andlocking of doors around me as the household retired for the night.

During the following fortnight I saw Harold a good many times atcricket-matches, hare-drives, and so forth, but he did not take any particularnotice of me. I flirted and frolicked with my other young men friends, but hedid not care. I did not find him an ardent or a jealous lover. He was soirritatingly cool and matter-of-fact that I wished for the three months to passso that I might be done with him, as I had come to the conclusion that he wasbarren of emotion or passion of any kind.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Sweet Seventeen

Monday arrived—last day of November and seventeenth anniversary of my birth—andI celebrated it in a manner which I capitally enjoyed.

It was the time of the annual muster at Cummabella—a cattle-station seventeenmiles eastward from Caddagat—and all our men were there assisting. Word hadbeen sent that a considerable number of beasts among those yarded bore theimpress of the Bossier brand on their hides; so on Sunday afternoon uncleJay-Jay had also proceeded thither to be in readiness for the final draftingearly on Monday morning. This left us manless, as Frank Hawden, beingincapacitated with a dislocated wrist, was spending a few weeks in Gool-Gooluntil he should be fit for work again.

Uncle had not been gone an hour when a drover appeared to report that twentythousand sheep would pass through on the morrow. Grass was precious. It wouldnot do to let the sheep spread and dawdle at their drovers’ pleasure. There wasnot a man on the place; grannie was in a great stew; so I volunteered myservices. At first she would not hear of such a thing, but eventuallyconsented. With many injunctions to conduct myself with proper stiffness, Istarted early on Monday morning. I was clad in a cool blouse, a hollandriding-skirt, and a big straw hat; was seated on a big bay horse, wasaccompanied by a wonderful sheep-dog, and carried a long heavy stock-whip. Isang and cracked my stock-whip as I cantered along, quite forgetting to bereserved and proper. Presently I came upon the sheep just setting out for theirday’s tramp, with a black boy ahead of them, of whom I inquired which was theboss. He pointed towards a man at the rear wearing a donkey-supper hat. I mademy way through the sheep in his direction, and asked if he were in charge ofthem. On being answered in the affirmative, I informed him that I was MrBossier’s niece, and, as the men were otherwise engaged, I would see the sheepthrough.

“That’s all right, miss. I will look out that you don’t have much trouble,” hereplied, politely raising his hat, while a look of amusement played on hisface.

He rode away, and shouted to his men to keep the flock strictly within boundsand make good travelling.

“Right you are, boss,” they answered; and returning to my side he told me hisname was George Ledwood, and made some remarks about the great drought and soon, 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? andhow long had they been on the road? And having exhausted these orthodoxremarks, we fell a-talking in dead earnest without the least restraint. Ilistened with interest to stories of weeks and weeks spent beneath the sun andstars while crossing widths of saltbush country, mulga and myall scrubs, ofencounters with blacks in Queensland, and was favoured with a graphicdescription of a big strike among the shearers when the narrator had beenboss-of-the-board out beyond Bourke. He spoke as though well educated, and agentleman—as drovers often are. Why, then, was he on the road? I put him downas 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 forlunch. I could have easily ridden home for mine, but preferred to have it withthe drovers for fun. The men boiled the billy and made the tea, which we drankout of tin pots, with tinned fish and damper off tin plates as the completionof the menu, Mr Ledwood and I at a little distance from the men. Tea boiled ina billy at a bush fire has a deliciously aromatic flavour, and I enjoyed mybirthday lunch immensely. Leaving the cook to collect the things and put themin the spring-cart, we continued on our way, lazily lolling on our horses andchewing 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 mightmeet 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 ofwhite in his sun-browned face. I kissed my hand to him; he bowed low; Iwhistled to my dog; he resumed his way behind the crawling sheep; I canteredhome 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 speciesof the sheep, what was their destination, whether they were in search of grassor were for sale, had they spread or eaten much grass, and had the men beencivil?

When I had satisfactorily informed her on all these points, she bade me havesomething to eat, to bathe and dress, and gave me a holiday for the remainderof the day.

My hair was grey with dust, so I washed all over, arrayed myself in a coolwhite dress, and throwing myself in a squatter’s chair in the veranda, spreadmy hair over the back of it to dry. Copies of Gordon, Kendall, and Lawson wereon my lap, but I was too physically content and comfortable to indulge in eventhese, my sworn friends and companions. I surrendered myself to the mere joy ofbeing alive. How the sunlight blazed and danced in the roadway—the leaves ofthe gum-trees gleaming in it like a myriad gems! A cloud of white, which I knewto be cockatoos, circled over the distant hilltop. Nearer they wheeled until Icould hear their discordant screech. The thermometer on the wall rested at 104degrees despite the dense shade thrown on the broad old veranda by the foliageof creepers, shrubs, and trees. The gurgling rush of the creek, the scent ofthe flower-laden garden, and the stamp, stamp of a horse in the orchard as heattempted to rid himself of tormenting flies, filled my senses. The warmth wasdelightful. Summer is heavenly, I said—life is a joy.

Aunt Helen’s slender fingers looked artistic among some pretty fancy-work uponwhich she was engaged. Bright butterflies flitted round the garden, andthousands of bees droned lazily among the flowers. I closed my eyes—my beingfilled with the beauty of it all.

I could hear grannie’s pen fly over the paper as she made out a list ofChristmas 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 hadpromised to be home in time for my birthday spread, and I was sure he had apresent for me. What would it be?—something nice. He would be nearly sure tobring someone home with him from Cummabella, and we would have games and fun tono end. I was just seventeen, only seventeen, and had a long, long life beforeme wherein to enjoy myself. Oh, it was good to be alive! What a delightfulplace the world was!—so accommodating, I felt complete mistress of it. It waslike 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 voicewas a pleasant murmur in my ear, the cockatoos screamed over the house andpassed 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 oninto the summer day. There was joy in the gleam of the sun and in the hum ofthe bees, and it throbbed in my heart. Joy! Joy! A jackass laughed his joy ashe perched on the telegraph wire out in the road. Joy! joy! Summer is a dreamof delight and life is a joy, I said in my heart. I was repeating the one thingover and over—but ah! it was a measure of happiness which allowed of muchrepetition. The cool murmur of the creek grew far away, I felt my poetry booksslip off my knees and fall to the floor, but I was too content to bother aboutthem—too happy to need their consolation, which I had previously so often andso 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 auntHelen was filling many vases with maidenhair fern and La France roses. Apleasant clatter from the dining-room announced that my birthday tea was inactive preparation. The position of the yellow sunbeams at the far end of thewide veranda told that the dense shadows were lengthening, and that the last ofthe afternoon was wheeling westward. Taking this in, in an instant Istraightened the piece of mosquito-netting, which, to protect me from theflies, someone—auntie probably—had spread across my face, and feigned to be yetasleep. By the footsteps which sounded on the stoned garden walk, I knew thatHarold Beecham was one of the individuals approaching.

“How do you do, Mrs Bell? Allow me to introduce my friend, Archie Goodchum. MrsBell, Mr Goodchum. Hasn’t it been a roaster today? Considerably over 100degrees 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 theseflowers. 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 herquiet.”

“Yes; she is a noisy little article—a perfect whirlwind in the house—but she isa 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 littlefizzer.”

“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 arose-stem between his fingers. Being extremely sensitive to tickling, so soonas touched under the ear I took a flying leap from the chair somewhatdisconcerting my tormentor.

He was a pleasant-looking young fellow somewhere about twenty, whose face wasquite familiar to me.

He smiled so good-humouredly at me that I widely did the same in return, and hecame forward with extended hand, exclaiming, “At last!”

The others looked on in surprise, Harold remarking suspiciously, “You said youwere unacquainted with Miss Melvyn, but an introduction does not seemnecessary.”

“Oh, yes it is,” chirped Mr Goodchum. “I haven’t the slightest idea of theyoung lady’s name.”

“Don’t know each other!” ejaculated Harold; and grannie, who had appeared uponthe 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 amemployed, and I had the good fortune to be of a little service to her one daywhen I was out biking. Her harness, or at least the harness on the horse shewas driving, broke, and I came to the rescue with my pocket-knife and somestring, thereby proving, if not ornamental, I was useful. After that I triedhard to find out who she was, but my inquiries always came to nothing. I littledreamt 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 overcameme that Mr Goodchum had been unable to discover my identity until now. It wasright enough to be unearthed as Miss Melvyn, grand-daughter of Mrs Bossier ofCaddagat, and great friend and intimate of the swell Beechams of Five-Bob Downsstation. At Goulburn I was only the daughter of old Dick Melvyn, broken-downfarmer-cockatoo, well known by reason of his sprees about the commonest pubs intown.

Mr Goodchum told us it was his first experience of the country, and thereforehe was enjoying himself immensely. He also mentioned that he was anxious to seesome of the gullies around Caddagat, which, he had heard, were renowned for thebeauty of their ferns. Aunt Helen, accordingly, proposed a walk in thedirection of one of them, and hurried off to attend to a little matter beforestarting. While waiting for her, Harold happened to say it was my birthday, andMr Goodchum tendered me the orthodox wishes, remarking, “It is surelypardonable 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 cannottruthfully say that, Miss Melvyn?”

“Oh yes, I can.”

“Well, you won’t be able to say it much longer,” he said, making a suggestivemove in my direction. I ran, and he followed, grannie reappearing from thedining-room just in time to see me bang the garden gate with great force on mypursuer.

“What on earth is the girl doing now?” I heard her inquire.

However, Mr Goodchum did not execute his threat; instead we walked alongdecorously in the direction of the nearest ferns, while Harold and aunt Helenfollowed, the latter carrying a sun-bonnet for me.

After we had climbed some distance up a gully aunt Helen called out that sheand Harold would rest while I did the honours of the fern grots to mycompanion.

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 andsoft?” 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 asunstroke; do take my hat.”

I demurred, he pressed the matter, and I agreed on condition he allowed me totie his handkerchief over his head. I was wearing his hat and tying the ends ofa big silk handkerchief beneath his chin when the cracking of a twig caused meto look up and see Harold Beecham with an expression on his face that startledme.

“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-gearto him and bowing. He did not laugh as he usually did at my tricks, but frowneddarkly 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 youdoing anything else.”

“I’ve changed my mind,” he replied, striding on at such a pace that we haddifficulty in keeping near him. As we resumed our own head-wear, Goodchumwhispered, “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 ofyoung Mr Goodjay from Cummabella, his sister, her governess, and a couple ofjackeroos. They were seated on the veranda, and uncle Jay-Jay, attired in hisshirt-sleeves, was appearing through the dining-room door with half a dozenbottles of home-made ginger ale in his arms. Dumping them down on the floor, heproduced a couple of tots from his shirt-pockets, saying, “Who votes for a drawof beer? Everyone must feel inclined for a swig. Harry, you want some; youdon’t look as though the heat was good for your temper. Hullo, Archie! Got upthis far. Take a draw out of one of these bottles. If there had been a dozenpubs on the road, I’d have drunk every one of ’em dry today. I never felt sucha daddy of a thirst on me before.”

“Good gracious, Julius!” exclaimed grannie, as he offered the governess a potfull 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 thatmischievous uncle Jay-Jay, who was a great hand at acting the clown when hefelt that way inclined.

I was dispatched for glasses, and after emptying the bottles uncle proposed agame of tennis first, while the light lasted, and tea afterwards. Thisproposition being carried with acclamation, we proceeded to the tennis court.Harold came too—he had apparently altered his intention of going homeimmediately.

There were strawberries to be had in the orchard, also some late cherries, souncle ordered me to go and get some. I procured a basket, and willingly agreedto obey him. Mr Goodchum offered to accompany me, but Harold stepped forwardsaying he would go, in such a resolute tragic manner that Goodchum winkedaudaciously, saying waggishly, “Behold, the hero descends into the burningmine!”

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. Idid not dare lift my eyes, as something told me the face of the big man wouldnot be pleasant to look upon just then. I twirled the ring he had given meround and round my finger. I occasionally put it on, wearing the stones on thepalm-side of my finger, so that it would not be taken for other than one of twoor three aunt Helen had lent me, saying I was at liberty to use them while atCaddagat, if it gave me any pleasure.

The Caddagat orchard contained six acres, and being a narrow enclosure, and thecherries growing at the extreme end from the house, it took us some time toreach them. I led the way to our destination—a secluded nook where grape-vinesclambered up fig-trees, and where the top of gooseberry bushes met the lowerlimbs of cherry-trees. Blue and yellow lupins stood knee-high, and strawberriesgrew wild among them. We had not uttered a sound, and I had not glanced at mycompanion. I stopped; he wheeled abruptly and grasped my wrist in a mannerwhich sent the basket whirling from my hand. I looked up at his face, which wasblazing with passion, and dark with a darker tinge than Nature and the sun hadgiven 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 wideforehead.

“Unhand me, sir!” I said shortly, attempting to wrench myself free, but I mightas 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 flimsycovering, his strong fingers bruised me so severely that in a calmer moment Iwould have squirmed and cried out with pain.

“How dare you touch me!” He drew me so closely to him that, through his thinshirt—the only garment on the upper part of his figure—I could feel the heat ofhis body, and his big heart beating wildly.

At last! at last! I had waked this calm silent giant into life. After many anineffectual struggle I had got at a little real love or passion, or call it byany name—something wild and warm and splendidly alive that one could feel, themost thrilling, electric, and exquisite sensation known.

I thoroughly enjoyed the situation, but did not let this appear. A minute ortwo passed and he did not speak.

“Mr Beecham, I’ll trouble you to explain yourself. How dare you lay your handsupon me?”

“Explain!” he breathed rather than spoke, in a tone of concentrated fury. “I’llmakeyou explain, and I’ll do what I like with you. I’ll touch you asmuch as I think fit. I’ll throw you over the fence ifyou don’t explaintomy satisfaction.”

“What is there that I can explain?”

“Explain your conduct with other men. How dare you receive their attentions andbe so friendly with them!”

“How dare you speak to me like that! I reserve the right of behaving as Iplease 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 splendidwomen in every way to wear it for me, and behave themselves properly too,” hesaid fiercely.

I tossed my head defiantly, saying, “Loose your hold of me, and I’ll quicklyexplain 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 ringfrom my finger, and, with indifference and contempt, tossed it to his feet,where the juice of crushed strawberries was staining the ground, and facinghim, said mockingly:

“Now, speak to the girl who wears your engagement ring, for I’ll degrade myselfby wearing it no more. If you think I think you as great a catch as you thinkyourself, just because you have a little money, you are a trifle mistaken, MrBeecham, that is all. Ha ha ha! So you thought you had a right to lecture me asyour future slave! Just fancy! I never had the slightest intention of marryingyou. You were so disgustingly conceited that I have been attempting to rub alittle of it out of you. Marry you! Ha ha! Because the social laws are soarranged that a woman’s only sphere is marriage, and because they endeavour tosecure a man who can give them a little more ease, you must not run away withthe idea that it is yourself they are angling for, when you are only thebothersome appendage with which they would have to put up, for the sake of yourproperty. And you must not think that because some women will marry for a homethey all will. I trust I have explained to your satisfaction, Mr Beecham. Ha haha!”

The jealous rage had died out of his face and was succeeded by trembling and apallor so ghastly, that I began to have a little faith in descriptions of lovewhich 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. Ialways considered that there were three classes of women—one, that would marrya blackfellow if he had money; another, that were shameless flirts, and whoamuse themselves by flirting and disgracing the name of woman; and a thirdclass that were pure and true, on whom a man could stake his life and whom hecould 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 wasonly your youth and mischief, and imagined you were good underneath; but I havebeen 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 sullenline which told me he would never be first to seek reconciliation—not even tosave his life.

“Bah!” I exclaimed sarcastically. “It appears that we all labour underdelusions. Go and get a beautiful woman to wear your ring and your name. Onethat will be able to say yes and no at the right time; one who will know how todress properly; one who wouldn’t for the world do anything that other women didnot also; one who will know where to buy the best groceries and who willreadily sell herself to you for your wealth. That’s the sort of woman thatsuits 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 speakslittle 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 anapple-tree.

I had said what I had said because, feeling bitter for the want of love, andbecause full of pain myself, I rejoiced with a sort of revenge to see the samefeeling flash across another’s face. But now I was cool, and, forgettingmyself, thought of Harold.

I had led him on because his perpetually calm demeanour had excited in me adesire to test if it were possible to disturb him. I had thought him incapableof emotion, but he had proved himself a man of strong and deep emotion; mighthe not also be capable of feeling—of love? He had not been mean or nasty in hisrage, 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 ofwhich he disapproved. I on my part had the liberty of trying to please him orof dissolving our engagement. Perhaps in some cases there was actuallysomething more than wounded vanity when a man’s alleged love was rejected orspurned. Harold had seemed to suffer, to really experience keen disappointment.I was clearly in the wrong, and had been unwomanly beyond a doubt, as, grantingthat Harold Beecham was conceited, what right had I to constitute myself hisjudge or to take into my own hands the responsibility of correcting him? I feltashamed of my conduct; I was sorry to have hurt any one’s feelings. Moreover, Icannot bear to be at ill-will with my fellows, and am ever the first to give inafter having quarrelled. It is easier than sulking, and it always makes theother 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 towhere a post of the fence was peeping out among the greenery. He had his elbowplaced thereon, and his forehead resting on his hand. His attitude expresseddejection. 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. Ihad been rude to him, and he had a right to play tit-for-tat if he felt sodisposed. I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidlyslipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been nervous, for the strongbrown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completelyenfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp.

“Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horriblethings. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured. Allflippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and inearnest. This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazingsearchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed toits 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 rememberthe blood curdling sentiments you aired.”

“But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another. Let us startafresh.”

“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 wordof 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’tcare a pin.”

“Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? Andtalk about not caring—why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a timethe last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myselfwithin 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 youenough 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 daysince 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 takeyour ring. Keep it till we see how we get on.” I looked for it, and finding ita few steps away, gave it to him.

“Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of arage? 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. Ican’t bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing inthem 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 gettingabout 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 Iam able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble.”

The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, andtwilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returnedcherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceasedaction, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats. Harold procured his, andthrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood ofbanter.

My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselvesin the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained apresent. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, whenthey were much amused to see—nothing but a doll and materials to make itclothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line toplay with that than to worry about tramps and politics.

I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes werein full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping tohear 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 asyou 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 brutalto worry you at all, and you don’t detest me altogether for getting in such aninfernal 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 littlewoman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdaystogether.”

“It’s to be hoped you’ve said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than hewas this afternoon,” said Goodchum. Then it was:

“Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, MrGoodchum! 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, foolishthoughts, sad ones, merry ones, old-headed thoughts, and the sweet, sweetthoughts of youth and love. It seemed to me that men were not so invincible andinvulnerable as I had imagined them—it appeared they had feeling and affectionsafter all.

I laughed a joyous little laugh, saying, “Hal, we are quits,” when, ondisrobing for the night, I discovered on my soft white shoulders and arms—sosusceptible 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. Therewas 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 gentlyswinging to and fro, and very much enjoying an interesting book and somedelicious 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. Aftertethering his horse to the fence and vaulting himself over it, he shook me andinformed 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 torepair 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 insome ways, but in little things they are as stupid as owls. It is no trouble tothem to master geology, mineralogy, anatomy, and other things, the very name ofwhich gives me a headache. They can see through politics, mature mighty waterreservoir schemes, and manage five stations at once, but they couldn’t sew on abutton or fix one’s hair to save their life.”

I cannot imagine how the news had escaped me, for the story with which HaroldBeecham surprised and startled me on that long hot afternoon had been commontalk for some time.

He had come to Caddagat purposely to explain his affairs to me, and stated ashis reason for not having done so earlier that he had waited until the lastmoment thinking he might pull himself up.

Business to me is a great mystery, into which I haven’t the slightest desire topenetrate. I have no brains in that direction,—so will not attempt to correctlyreproduce all that Harold Beecham told me on that afternoon while leaningagainst 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 assetsand personal estates, and of a thing called an official assignee—whatever thatis—voluntary sequestration, and a jargon of such terms that were enough tomither a Barcoo lawyer.

The gist of the matter, as I gathered it, was that Harold Beecham, looked uponas such a “lucky beggar”, and envied as a pet of fortune, had been visited byan unprecedented run of crushing misfortunes. He had not been as rich and soundin position as the public had imagined him to be. The failure of a certain banktwo or three years previously had given him a great shaking. The tick plaguehad ruined him as regarded his Queensland property, and the drought had madematters nearly as bad for him in New South Wales. The burning of his wool lastyear, and the failure of the agents in whose hands he had placed it, this hadpushed him farther into the mire, and now the recent “going bung” of a buildingsociety—his sole remaining prop—had run him entirely ashore.

He had sequestrated his estate, and as soon as practicable was going throughthe courts as an insolvent. The personal estate allowed him from the debris ofhis wealth he intended to settle on his aunts, and he hoped it might besufficient to support them. Himself, he had the same prospects as theboundary-riders on Five-Bob Downs.

I had nothing to say. Not that Harold was a much-to-be-pitied man when onecontrasted 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 themaster of it since his birth, to be suddenly rendered equal with a labourer waspretty 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, thoughrolling 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 sternpride 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 suddenreverse of fortune, tearing from him even his home, must have been a great blowto him.

“Syb, I have been expecting this for some years; now that it is done with, itis a sort of grim relief. The worst of all is that I’ve had to give up all hopeof winning you. That is the worst of all. If you didn’t care for me when I wasthought to be in a position to give you all that girls like, you could neverlook at me now that I’m a pauper. I only hope you will get some fellow who willmake 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 hisbrow.

“Good-bye, Syb,” he said; “though I’m a nobody now, if I could ever be of useto you, don’t be afraid to ask me.”

I remember him wringing the limp hand I mechanically stretched out to him andthen slowly revaulting the fence. The look of him riding slowly along with hisbroad shoulders drooping despondently waked me to my senses. I had been fullyengrossed with the intelligence of Harold’s misfortune—that I was of sufficientimportance to concern him in any way had not entered my head; but it suddenlydawned on me that Harold had said that I was, and he was not in the habit ofuttering idle nothings.

While fortune smiled on him I had played with his manly love, but now that shefrowned had let him go without even a word of friendship. I had been poormyself, and knew what awaited him in the world. He would find that they whofawned on him most would be first to turn their backs on him now. He would berudely disillusioned regarding the fables of love and friendship, and wouldbecome cynical, bitter, and sceptical of there being any disinterested good inhuman nature. Suffering the cold heart-weariness of this state myself, I feltanxious at any price to save Harold Beecham from a like fate. It would be apity 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 wouldpass; and with these thoughts flashing through my mind, hatless and with flyinghair, I ran as fast as I could, scrambling up on the fence in a breathlessstate 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 surelydon’t think I’d be so mean as to care a pin whether you are rich or poor—onlyfor your own sake? If you really want me, I will marry you when I am twenty-oneif you are as poor as a crow.”

“It is too good to be true. I thought you didn’t care for me. Sybylla, what doyou mean?”

“Just what I say,” I replied, and without further explanation, jumping off thefence I ran back as fast as I had come.

When half-way home I stopped, turned, looked, and saw Harold cantering smartlyhomewards, and heard him whistling a merry tune as he went.

After all, men are very weak and simple in some ways.

I laughed long and sardonically, apostrophizing myself thus:

“Sybylla Penelope Melvyn, your conceit is marvellous and unparalleled! So youactually imagined that you were of sufficient importance to assist a manthrough life—a strong, healthy young man too, standing six feet three and ahalf in his socks, a level-headed business man, a man of high connections,spotless character, and influential friends, an experienced bushman, a man ofsense, and, above all, a man—a man! The world was made for men.

“Ha ha! You, Sybylla, thought this! You, a chit in your teens, an ugly, poor,useless, unimportant, little handful of human flesh, and, above, or ratherbelow, all, a woman—only a woman! It would indeed be a depraved and forsakenman who would need your services as a stay and support! Ha ha! The conceit ofyou!”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Because?

The Beechams were vacating Five-Bob almost immediately—before Christmas.Grannie, aunt Helen, and uncle Jay-Jay went down to say good-bye to the ladies,who were very heartbroken about being uprooted from Five-Bob, but they approvedof their nephew settling things at once and starting on a clean sheet. Theyintended taking up their residence—hiding themselves, they termed it—inMelbourne. Harold would be detained in Sydney some time during the settling ofhis affairs, after which he intended to take anything that turned up. He hadbeen offered the management of Five-Bob by those in authority, but could notbring himself to accept managership where he had been master. His great desire,now that Five-Bob was no longer his, was to get as far away from oldassociations as possible.

He had seen his aunts off, superintended the muster of all stock on the place,dismissed all the female and most of the male employees, and surrendered thereins of government, and as Harold Augustus Beecham, boss of Five-Bob, onMonday, the 21st of December 1896, was leaving the district for ever. OnSunday, the 20th of December, he came to bid us good-bye and to arrive at anunderstanding with me concerning what I had said to him the Sunday before.Grannie, strange to say, never suspected that there was likely to be anythingbetween us. Harold was so undemonstrative, and had always come and gone as heliked at Caddagat: she overlooked the possibility of his being a lover, and inour intercourse allowed us almost the freedom of sister and brother or cousins.

On this particular afternoon, after we had talked to grannie for a littlewhile, knowing that he wished to interview me, I suggested that he should comeup the orchard with me and get some gooseberries. Without demur from anybody weset off, and were scarcely out of hearing before Harold asked me had I reallymeant what I said.

“Certainly,” I replied. “That is, if you really care for me, and think it wiseto choose me of all my sex.”

Ere he put it in words I read his answer in the clear brown eyes bent upon me.

“Syb, you know what I feel and would like, but I think it would be mean of meto allow you to make such a sacrifice.”

I knew I was not dealing with a booby, but with a sensible clear-sighted man,and so studied to express myself in a way which would not for an instant givehim the impression that I was promising to marry him because—what I don’t knowand it doesn’t matter much, but I said:

“Hal, don’t you think it is a little selfish of you to want to throw me overjust because you have lost your money? You are young, healthy, have goodcharacter and influential connections, and plenty of good practical ability andsense, so, surely, you will know no such thing as failure if you meet the worldbravely. Go and be the man you are; and if you fail, when I am twenty-one Iwill marry you, and we will help each other. I am young and strong, and am usedto hard work, so poverty will not alarm me in the least. If you want me, I wantyou.

“Syb, you are such a perfect little brick that I couldn’t be such a beggarlycur as to let you do that. I knew you were as true as steel under your funnylittle whims and contrariness; and could you really love me now that I ampoor?”

I replied with vigour:

“Do you think I am that sort, that cares for a person only because he has alittle money? Why! that is the very thing I am always preaching against. If aman was a lord or a millionaire I would not have him if I loved him not, but Iwould marry a poor cripple if I loved him. It wasn’t because you owned Five-BobDowns that I liked you, but because you have a big heart in which one wouldhave room to get warm, and because you are true, and because you are kind andbig and—” Here I could feel my voice getting shaky, and being afraid I wouldmake a fool of myself by crying, I left off.

“Syb, I will try and fix matters up a bit, and will claim you in that time if Ihave a home.”

“Claim me, home or not, if you are so disposed, but I will make this condition.Do not tell anyone we are engaged, and remember you are perfectly free. If yousee a woman you like more than me, promise me on your sacred word that you willhave none of those idiotic unjust ideas of keeping true to me. Promise.”

“Yes, I will promise,” he said easily, thinking then, no doubt, as many a onebefore him has thought, that he would never be called upon to fulfil his word.

“I will promise in return that I will not look at another man in a matrimonialway until the four years are up, so you need not be jealous and worry yourself;for, Hal, you can trust me, can you not?”

Taking my hand in his and looking at me with a world of love in his eyes, whichmoved me in spite of myself, he said:

“I could trust you in every way to the end of the world.”

“Thank you, Harold. What we have said is agreed upon—that is, of course, asthings appear now: if anything turns up to disturb this arrangement it is notirrevocable in the least degree, and we can lay out more suitable plans. Fouryears will not be long, and I will be more sensible at the end of thattime—that is, of course, if I ever have any sense. We will not write or haveany communication, so you will be perfectly free if you see anyone you likebetter than me to go in and win. Do you agree?”

“Certainly; any little thing like that you can settle according to your fancy.I’m set up as long as I get you one way or another, that’s all I want. It was abit tough being cleared out from all the old ways, but if I have you to standby me it will be a great start. Say what you said last Sunday, again. Syb, sayyou will be my wife.”

I had expected him to put it in that way, and believing in doing all ornothing, had laid out that I would put my hand in his and promise what heasked. But now the word wife finished me up. I was very fond of Harold—fond tosuch an extent that had I a fortune I would gladly have given it all to him: Ifelt capable of giving him a life of servitude, but I loved him—big, manly,lovable, wholesome Harold—from the crown of his head to the sole of his foot hewas good in my sight, but lacking in that power over me which would make medesirous of being the mother of his children.

As for explaining my feelings to him—ha! He would laughingly call them one ofmy funny little whims. With his orthodox, practical, plain, commonsense viewsof these things, he would not understand me. What was there to understand? Onlythat I was queer and different from other women. But he was waiting for me tospeak. I had put my hand to the plough and could not turn back. I could not usethe word wife, but I put my hand in his, looked at him steadily, and said—

“Harold. I meant what I said last Sunday. If you want me—if I am of any use toyou—I will marry you when I attain my majority.”

He was satisfied.

He bade us good-bye early that afternoon, as he intended departing fromFive-Bob when the morrow was young, and had two or three little matters toattend to previous to his departure.

I accompanied him a little way, he walking and leading his horse. We partedbeneath the old willow-tree.

“Good-bye, Harold. I mean all I have said.”

I turned my face upwards; he stooped and kissed me once—only once—one light,gentle, diffident kiss. He looked at me long and intently without saying aword, then mounted his horse, raised his hat, and rode away.

I watched him depart along the white dusty road, looking like a long snake inthe glare of the summer sun, until it and he who travelled thereon disappearedamong the messmate- and hickory-trees forming the horizon.

I stood gazing at the hills in the distance on which the blue dreaming mists ofevening were gathering, until tears stole down my cheeks.

I was not given to weeping. What brought them? I hardly knew. It was notbecause Harold was leaving, though I would miss him much. Was it because I wasdisappointed in love? I persuaded myself that. I loved Harold as much as Icould ever love anyone, and I could not forsake him now that he needed me. But,but, but, I did not want to marry, and I wished that Harold had asked anythingof me but that, because—because, I don’t know what, and presently felt ashamedfor being such a selfish coward that I grudged to make a little sacrifice of myown inclinations to help a brother through life.

“I used to feel sure that Harry meant to come up to the scratch, but I supposehe’s had plenty to keep him going lately without bothering his head about ayoungster in short frocks and a pigtail,” remarked uncle Jay-Jay that night.

“Well, Sybylla, poor Harry has gone: we will all—even you included—miss himvery much, I am sure. I used to think that he cared for you. It may be that hehas not spoken to us on account of his financial failure, and it may be that Imade a mistake,” said aunt Helen when she was bidding me good night.

I held my peace.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Boast Not Thyself of Tomorrow

We felt the loss of the Beechams very, very much. It was sad to think ofFive-Bob—pleasant, hospitable Five-Bob—as shut up, with no one but a solitarycaretaker there pending the settling of the Beecham insolvency; with flowersrunning 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 thequiet, sunburnt, gentlemanly, young giant whose pleasant countenance andstrapping 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, uncleJay-Jay was preparing for a trip, and fussed so that the whole place was keptin a state of ferment.

We had fun, feasting, and company to no end on Christmas Day. There were bankclerks and young fellows out of offices from Gool-Gool, jackeroos andgovernesses 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 tocombine business with pleasure, as he meant to bring back some stud stock if hecould make a satisfactory bargain. Boxing Day had fallen on a Saturday thatyear, and the last of our guests departed on Sunday morning. It was the firsttime we had had any quietude for many weeks, so in the afternoon I went out toswing in my hammock and meditate upon things in general. Taking with me abountiful supply of figs, apricots, and mulberries, I laid myself out for adeal of enjoyment in the cool dense shade under the leafy kurrajong- andcedar-trees.

To begin with, Harold Beecham was gone, and I missed him at every turn. I neednot worry about being engaged to be married, as four years was a long, longtime. 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 tooccupy my mind: I had much to contemplate with joyful anticipation.

Towards the end of February a great shooting and camping party, organized bygrannie, was to take place. Aunt Helen, grannie, Frank Hawden, myself, and anumber of other ladies and gentlemen, were going to have ten days or afortnight in tents among the blue hills in the distance, which held manytreasures in the shape of lyrebirds, musk, ferns, and such scenery as wouldmake the thing perfection. After this auntie and I were to have our threemonths’ 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 AnthonyHordern’s to Paddy’s Market. Who knows what might happen then? Everard hadpromised to have my talents tested by good judges. Might it not be possible forme 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 unattainableambitions in the little pleasures of everyday life. Such a thing as writingnever entered my head. I occasionally dreamt out a little yarn which, had itappeared on paper, would have brimmed over with pleasure and love—in fact, havebeen redolent of life as I found it. It was nice to live in comfort, and amongladies and gentlemen—people who knew how to conduct themselves properly, andwho 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 theperusal of my book by the clatter of galloping hoofs approaching along theroad. I climbed on to the fence to see who it could be who was coming at such abreakneck pace. He pulled the rein opposite me, and I recognized a man fromDogtrap. He was in his shirt-sleeves; his horse was all in a lather, and itsscarlet nostrils were wide open, and its sides heaving rapidly.

“I say, miss, hunt up the men quickly, will you?” he said hurriedly. “There’s atremenjous fire on Wyambeet, and we’re short-handed. I’m goin’ on to knock themup at Bimbalong.”

“Hold hard,” I replied. “We haven’t a man on the place, only Joe Slocombe, andI 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 goback 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 andwent 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 hadcome. The letters fell, address upwards, on the ground—one to myself and one togrannie, both in my mother’s handwriting. I left them where they lay. The mainsubstance of mother’s letters to me was a hope that I was a better girl to mygrannie 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.

I explained.

“What horse are you going to take?”

“Old Tadpole. He’s the only one available.”

“Well, you be careful and don’t push him too quickly up that pinch by FleaCreek, or he might drop dead with you. He’s so fat and old.”

“All right,” I replied, snatching a bridle and running up the orchard, whereold Tadpole had been left in case of emergency. I clapped a side-saddle on hisback, a hat on my head, jumped on just as I was, and galloped for my life inthe direction of Bimbalong, seven miles distant. I eased my horse a littlegoing up Flea Creek pinch, but with this delay reached my destination in halfan hour, and sent the men galloping in the direction of the fire. I lingeredfor afternoon tea, and returned at my leisure.

It was sundown when I got in sight of Caddagat. Knowing the men would not behome for some time, I rode across the paddock to yard the cows. I drove themhome and penned the calves, unsaddled my horse and returned him to the orchard,then stood upon the hillside and enjoyed the scene. It had been a fearfully hotday, with a blasting, drought-breathed wind; but the wind had dropped to sleepwith the sunlight, and now the air had cooled. Blue smoke wreathed hill andhollow like a beauteous veil. I had traversed drought-baked land thatafternoon, but in the immediate vicinity of Caddagat house there was noevidence of an unkind season. Irrigation had draped the place with beauty, andI stood ankle-deep in clover. Oh, how I loved the old irregularly built house,with here and there a patch of its low iron roof peeping out of a mass ofgreenery, flowers, and fruit—the place where I was born—home! Save for themurmur of the creek, the evening was wrapped in silence—sweet-breathed,balmy-browed, summer quietude. I stretched out my hand and stained my fingers,next my lips and teeth, with the sweet dark fruit of a mulberry-tree beside me.The shadows deepened; I picked up my saddle, and, carrying it housewards, putit in its place in the harness-room among the fig- and apricot-trees—laden tobreaking point with ripe and ripening fruit. The two servant girls had departedon their Christmas holiday that morning, so grannie and auntie were the onlymembers of the family at home. I could not see or hear them anywhere, so,presuming they were out walking, I washed my hands, lit a lamp, and sat down tomy tea, where it had been left for me on the dining-table. Iremembered—wonderful aberration from my usual thoughtlessness—that the book Ihad left in the hammock had a beautiful cover which the dew would spoil, so Ileft my tea to bring it in. Two little white squares struck my eye in thegathering dusk. I picked them up also, and, bringing them to the light, openedthe one addressed to me, and read:

No doubt what I have to write will not be very palatable to you; but it is timeyou gave up pleasuring and began to meet the responsibilities of life. Yourfather is lazier if anything, and drinks more than ever. He has got himselfinto great debt and difficulties, and would have been sold off again but forPeter M’Swat. You will remember Peter M’Swat? Well, he has been good enough tolend your father 500 pounds at 4 per cent, which means 20 pounds per yearinterest. Your father would have no more idea of meeting this amount than a catwould have. But now I am coming to the part of the matter which concerns you.Out of friendship to your father, Mr M’Swat is good enough to accept yourservices as governess to his children, in lieu of interest on the money. I havetold him you will be in Yarnung In Friday the 8th of January 1897, where hewill meet you. Be careful to remember the date. I am sorry I could not give youmore notice; but he wants his children to commence school as soon as possible,and he deserves every consideration in the matter. Perhaps you will not find itas pleasant as Caddagat; but he has been very good, and offers you a fairnumber of holidays, and what he will give you is equal to 20 pounds. That is alot in these times, when he could easily get so many better girls than you arein every way for half the money, and make your father pay the interest, andthereby be 10 pounds in pocket. You will have to help Mrs M’Swat with the workand sewing; but that will do you good, and I hope you will try hard to giveevery satisfaction. I have also written to your grandmother.

That letter wiped away ever vestige of my appetite for the dainties before me.M’Swat’s! Send—me—to M’Swat’s! I could not believe it! It must be a nightmare!M’Swat’s!

Certainly, I had never been there; but all those who had gave graphicdescriptions of the total ignorance of Mrs M’Swat. Why, the place was quitetabooed on account of its squalor and dirt!

The steel of my mother’s letter entered my soul. Why had she not expressed alittle regret at the thing she was imposing on me? Instead, there was a note ofsatisfaction running through her letter that she was able to put an end to mypleasant life at Caddagat. She always seemed to grudge me any pleasure. Ibitterly put it down as accruing from the curse of ugliness, as, whenmentioning Gertie, it was ever, “I have let Gertie go to such and such anentertainment. We could not very well afford it, but the poor little girl doesnot have many pleasures for her years.” I was smaller than Gertie, and onlyeleven months older; but to me it was “You must think of something besidespleasure.”

The lot of ugly girls is not joyful, and they must be possessed of natures veryabsurdly sanguine indeed ever to hope for any enjoyment in life.

It was cruel, base, horrible of my mother to send me to M’Swat’s. I would notgo—not for 50 pounds a day! I would not go! I would not! not for anyconsideration.

I stamped about in a fever of impatience until grannie appeared, when I handedboth letters to her, and breathlessly awaited her verdict.

“Well, child, what do you say?”

“Say? I won’t go! I can’t! I won’t! Oh, grannie, don’t send me there—I wouldrather die.”

“My dear child, I would not be willing to part with you under anycircumstances, but I cannot interfere between a mother and her child. I wouldnot have allowed any one to do it with me, and believe in acting the sametowards any other mother, even though she is my own daughter. However, there istime to get a reply before you would have to start, so I will write and seewhat can be done.”

The dear old lady, with her prompt businesslike propensities, sat down andwrote there and then. I wrote also—pleaded with my mother against her decree,begged her to leave me at Caddagat, and assured her I could never succeed atM’Swat’s.

I did not sleep that night, so arose betimes to await the first traveller, whomI asked to post the letters.

We got an answer to them sooner than we expected—at least grannie did. Motherdid not deign to write to me, but in her letter to grannie I was described asan abominably selfish creature, who would not consider her little brothers andsisters. I would never be any good; all I thought of was idleness and ease.Most decidedly I could not get out of going to M’Swat’s, as mother had givenher word.

“I am sorry for you,” said grannie, “but it cannot be helped. You can staythere for two or three years, and then I can have you here again.”

I was inconsolable, and would not listen to reason. Ah! that uncle Jay-Jay hadbeen at home to rescue me from this. Then aunt Helen brought her arguments tobear upon me, and persuaded me to think it was necessary for the benefit of mylittle brothers and sisters that I should take up this burden, which I knewwould be too much for me.

It was a great wrench to be torn away from Caddagat—from refinement andcomfort—from home! As the days till my departure melted away, how I wished thatit were possible to set one’s weight against the grim wheel of time and turn itback! Nights I did not sleep, but drenched my pillow with tears. Ah, it washard to leave grannie and aunt Helen, whom I worshipped, and turn my back onCaddagat!

I suppose it is only a fancy born of the wild deep love I bear it, but to methe flowers seem to smell more sweetly there; and the shadows, how they creepand curl! oh, so softly and caressingly around the quaint old place, as thegreat sun sets amid the blue peaks; and the never-ceasing rush of the crystalfern-banked stream—I see and hear it now, and the sinking sun as it turns to asheet of flame the mirror hanging in the backyard in the laundry veranda,before which the station hands were wont to comb and wash themselves. Oh, thememories that crowd upon me! Methinks I can smell the roses that clamber up theveranda posts and peep over the garden gate. As I write my eyes grow misty, sothat I cannot see the paper.

The day for my departure arrived—hot, 110 degrees in the shade. It was aWednesday afternoon. Frank Hawden was to take me as far as Gool-Gool thatevening, and see me on to the coach next day. I would arrive in Yarnung abouttwelve or one o’clock on Thursday night, where, according to arrangement, MrM’Swat would be waiting to take me to a hotel, thence to his home next day.

My trunks and other belongings were stowed in the buggy, to which the fathorses were harnessed. They stood beneath the dense shade of a splendidkurrajong, and lazily flicked the flies off themselves while Frank Hawden heldthe reins and waited for me.

I rushed frantically round the house taking a last look at nooks and picturesdear to me, and then aunt Helen pressed my hand and kissed me, saying:

“The house will be lonely without you, but you must brighten up, and I’m sureyou will not find things half as bad as you expect them.”

I looked back as I went out the front gate, and saw her throw herself into achair on the veranda and cover her face with her hands. My beautiful noble auntHelen! I hope she missed me just a little, felt just one pang of parting, for Ihave not got over that parting yet.

Grannie gave me a warm embrace and many kisses. I climbed on to the front seatof the buggy beside my escort, he whipped the horses—a cloud of dust, a whirrof wheels, and we were gone—gone from Caddagat!

We crossed the singing stream: on either bank great bushes of blackthorn—lastnative flower of the season—put forth their wealth of magnificent creamy bloom,its rich perfume floating far on the hot summer air. How the sunlight blazedand danced and flickered on the familiar and dearly loved landscape! Over arise, and the house was lost to view, then good-bye to the crystal creek. Thetrees of Five-Bob Downs came within eye-range far away on our left. What merrynights I had spent there amid music, flowers, youth, light, love, and summerwarmth, when the tide of life seemed full! Where now was Harold Beecham and thethirty or more station hands, who but one short month before had come and goneat his bidding, hailing him boss?

It was all over! My pleasant life at Caddagat was going into the past, fadingas the hills which surrounded it were melting into a hazy line of blue.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
My Journey

The coach was a big vehicle, something after the style of a bus, the tilt andseats running parallel with the wheels. At the rear end, instead of a door, wasa great tail-board, on the principle of a spring-cart. This was let down, and,after we scrambled over it into our seats, it was fixed half-mast, all theluggage piled thereon, and firmly roped into position. When this was completed,to any one on the ground only the heads of passengers were visible above thepile. Had the coach capsized we would have been in a nice fix, as the onlymeans of exit was by crawling up through the back of the box-seat, which rosebreast-high—an awkward feat.

Frank Hawden and I parted good friends. I leant out and waved my handkerchief,until a bend of the road hid him from sight.

It was noon, the thermometer registered 112 degrees in the shade, and the dustwas simply awful. It rose in such thick grey clouds that often it wasimpossible to discern the team of five which pulled us, and there was danger ofcolliding with passing vehicles. We were very much crowded, there being sixteenpassengers. When we settled down and got started, I discovered that I was theonly representative of my sex, and that I was sandwiched between a perky youthin his teens and a Chinaman, while a black fellow and a man with a red beardsat opposite. A member of Parliament, farther up the seat, who had beenpatronizing New Year’s Day races in a portion of his electorate, bawled loudlyto his companion about “the doin’s of the ’Ouse”. In the perky youth Idiscovered a professional jockey; and when he found that I was a daughter ofDick Melvyn, the one-time great horse-breeder, he became very friendly. He gaveme a couple of apples out of his tin box under the seat, from whence he alsoproduced his whip for my inspection, and was good enough to say:

“If you can’t stand the stink of that bloomin’ chow, miss, just change seatswith me. I’ve knocked about, so that I can easy stand some tough smells withoutmuch inconvenience.”

I cautioned him to talk lower for fear of hurting the Chinaman’s feelings: thisamused him immensely. He laughed very much, and, leaning over to thered-bearded man, repeated the joke:

“I say, this young lady is afraid I might hurt the chow’s feelin’s. Golly!Fancy a bloomin’ chow havin’ any!”

The other man also thought it a great joke. I changed seats with the jockey,which put me beside a young gentleman of a literary turn of mind, with whom Ihad some conversation about books when the dust, rumble of wheels, and turftalk of my other neighbour permitted. They were all very kind to me—gave mefruit, procured me drinks of water, and took turns in nursing a precious hat,for which, on account of the crush, no safe place could be found among theother luggage.

Before we had gone half our journey the horses knocked up. All the men wereforced to walk up hills for miles and miles in the dust and heat, which did notconduce to their amiability, and many and caustic were the remarks and jokesmade upon the driver. He wore out two whips upon his team, until the labour andexcessive heat sent the perspiration rolling in rivulets down his face, leavingmuddy tracks in the thick coating of dust there. The jockey assisted with hisloaded instrument of trade, some of the passengers thrashed with sticks, andall swore under their breath, while a passing bullock-driver used his whip withsuch deadly effect, that the sweat which poured off the poor beasts was mingledwith blood.

“Why the deuce don’t you have proper horses?” demanded the red-beardedpassenger.

The man explained that a ministerial party had chartered his best team to go ona tour of inspection to a mine; a brother coachman had been “stuck up” forhorses, and borrowed a couple from him, whereupon he was forced to do withanimals which had been turned out for a spell, and the heat and overloadingaccounted for a good part of the contretemps. However, we managed to catch ourtrain, but had to rush for it without waiting for refreshments. Nice articleswe looked—our hair grey with dust, and our faces grimy. The men took charge ofme as carefully as though I had been specially consigned to their care. Oneprocured my ticket, another secured me a seat, while a third took charge of myluggage; and they were just as thoughtful when we had to change trains. Off wewent. Grannie had packed me quite a large box full of dainties. I produced it,the men provided drinks, and we had quite a pleasant picnic, with all thewindows down to catch a little air.

I love the rush and roar of the train, and wished on this occasion that itmight go on and on for over, never giving me time to think or stop. But, alas,at 1.20 we pulled up at Yarnung, where a man came inquiring for a young ladynamed Melvyn. My fellow passengers collected my belongings, and I got out.

“Good-bye, gentlemen; thank you very much for your kindness.”

“Good-bye, miss; you’re welcome. Some of us might meet again yet. Ta-ta!”

A shriek, a jerk, and the great train rushed on into the night, leaving methere on the insignificant little platform, feeling how lonely and unhappy, noone knew or cared.

Mr M’Swat shouldered most of my luggage, I took the remainder, and we trudgedoff in the dark without a word on either side. The publican had given M’Swatthe key, so that we might enter without disturbing the household, and heescorted me to a bedroom, where I tumbled into bed with expedition.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
To Life

It is indelibly imprinted on my memory in a manner which royal joy, fame,pleasure, and excitement beyond the dream of poets could never efface, notthough I should be cursed with a life of five-score years. I will paint ittruthfully—letter for letter as it was.

It was twenty-six miles from Yarnung to Barney’s Gap, as M’Swat’s place wasnamed. He had brought a light wagonette and pair to convey me thither.

As we drove along, I quite liked my master. Of course, we were of calibre toototally unlike ever to be congenial companions, but I appreciated his soundcommon sense in the little matters within his range, and his bluntlystraightforward, fairly good-natured, manner. He was an utterly ignorant man,with small ideas according to the sphere which he fitted, and which fitted him;but he was “a man for a’ that, an’ a’ that”.

He and my father had been boys together. Years and years ago M’Swat’s fatherhad been blacksmith on my father’s station, and the little boys had playedtogether, and, in spite of their then difference in station, had formed afriendship which lived and bore fruit at this hour. I wished that theiryouthful relations had been inimical, not friendly.

We left the pub in Yarnung at nine, and arrived at our destination somewhereabout two o’clock in the afternoon.

I had waxed quite cheerful, and began to look upon the situation in a sensiblelight. It was necessary that I should stand up to the guns of life at one timeor another, and why not now? M’Swat’s might not be so bad after all. Even ifthey were dirty, they would surely be willing to improve if I exercised tact inintroducing a few measures. I was not afraid of work, and would do many things.But all these ideas were knocked on the head, like a dairyman’s surplus calves,when on entering Barney’s Gap we descended a rough road to the house, which wasbuilt in a narrow gully between two steep stony hills, which, destitute ofgrass, rose like grim walls of rock, imparting a desolate and prison-likeaspect.

Six dogs, two pet lambs, two or three pigs, about twenty fowls, eight childrenwhich seemed a dozen, and Mrs M’Swat bundled out through the back door at ourapproach. Those children, not through poverty—M’Swat made a boast of hissubstantial banking account—but on account of ignorance and slatternliness,were the dirtiest urchins I have ever seen, and were so ragged that those partsof them which should have been covered were exposed to view. The majority ofthem had red hair and wide hanging-open mouths. Mrs M’Swat was a great, fat,ignorant, pleasant-looking woman, shockingly dirty and untidy. Her tremendous,flabby, stockingless ankles bulged over her unlaced hobnailed boots; her dresswas torn and unbuttoned at the throat, displaying one of the dirtiest necks Ihave seen. It did not seem to worry her that the infant she hold under her armlike a roll of cloth howled killingly, while the other little ones clung to herskirts, attempting to hide their heads in its folds like so many emus. Shegreeted me with a smacking kiss, consigned the baby to the charge of the eldestchild, a big girl of fourteen, and seizing upon my trunks as though they werefeather-weight, with heavy clodhopping step disappeared into the house withthem. Returning, she invited me to enter, and following in her wake, I wasfollowed by the children through the dirtiest passage into the dirtiest room,to sit upon the dirtiest chair, to gaze upon the other dirtiest furniture ofwhich I have ever heard. One wild horrified glance at the dirt, squalor, andtotal benightedness that met me on every side, and I trembled in every limbwith suppressed emotion and the frantic longing to get back to Caddagat whichpossessed me. One instant showed me that I could never, never live here.

“Have ye had yer dinner?” my future mistress inquired in a rough uncultivatedvoice. I replied in the negative.

“Sure, ye’ll be dyin’ of hunger; but I’ll have it in a twinklin’.”

She threw a crumpled and disgustingly filthy cloth three-cornered ways on tothe dusty table and clapped thereon a couple of dirty knives and forks, a pairof cracked plates, two poley cups and chipped saucers. Next came a plate ofsalt meat, red with saltpetre, and another of dark, dry, sodden bread. She thendisappeared to the kitchen to make the tea, and during her absence two of thelittle boys commenced to fight. One clutched the tablecloth, and over went thewhole display with a bang—meat-dish broken, and meat on the dusty floor; whilethe cats and fowls, ever on the alert for such occurrences, made the most oftheir opportunities. Mrs M’Swat returned carrying the tea, which was spillingby the way. She gave those boys each a clout on the head which dispersed themroaring like the proverbial town bull, and alarmed me for the safety of theirear-drums. I wondered if their mother was aware of their having ear-drums. Shegrabbed the meat, and wiping it on her greasy apron, carried it around in herhand until she found a plate for it, and by that time the children hadcollected the other things. A cup was broken, and another, also a poley, wasput in its stead.

Mr M’Swat now appeared, and after taking a nip out of a rum bottle which heproduced from a cupboard in the corner, he invited me to sit up to dinner.

There was no milk. M’Swat went in entirely for sheep, keeping only a few cowsfor domestic purposes: these, on account of the drought, had been dry for somemonths. Mrs M’Swat apologized for the lack of sugar, stating she was quite outof it and had forgotten to send for a fresh supply.

“You damned fool, to miss such a chance wen I was goin’ to town with thewagonette! I mightn’t be groin’ in again for munce [months]. But sugar don’tcount much. Them as can’t do without a useless luxury like that for a spellwill never make much of a show at gettin’ on in the wu-r-r-r-ld,” concluded MrM’Swat, sententiously.

The children sat in a row and, with mouths open and interest in their bigwondering eyes, gazed at me unwinkingly till I felt I must rush away somewhereand shriek to relieve the feeling of overstrained hysteria which was overcomingme. I contained myself sufficiently, however, to ask if this was all thefamily.

“All but Peter. Where’s Peter, Mary Ann?”

“He went to the Red Hill to look after some sheep, and won’t be back tilldark.”

“Peter’s growed up,” remarked one little boy, with evident pride in this memberof the family.

“Yes; Peter’s twenty-one, and hes a mustatche and shaves,” said the eldestgirl, in a manner indicating that she expected me to be struck dumb withsurprise.

“She’ll be surprised wen she sees Peter,” said a little girl in an audiblewhisper.

Mrs M’Swat vouchsafed the information that three had died between Peter andLizer, and this was how the absent son came to be so much older than hisbrothers and sisters.

“So you have had twelve children?” I said.

“Yes,” she replied, laughing fatly, as though it were a joke.

“The boys found a bees’ nest in a tree an’ have been robbin’ it the smornin’,”continued Mrs M’Swat.

“Yes; we have ample exemplification of that,” I responded. It was honey hereand honey there and honey everywhere. It was one of the many varieties of dirton the horrible foul-smelling tablecloth. It was on the floor, the door, thechairs, the children’s heads, and the cups. Mrs M’Swat remarked contentedlythat it always took a couple of days to wear “off of” things.

After “dinner” I asked for a bottle of ink and some paper, and scrawled a fewlines to grannie and my mother, merely reporting my safe arrival at mydestination. I determined to take time to collect my thoughts beforepetitioning for release from Barney’s Gap.

I requested my mistress to show me where I was to sleep, and she conducted meto a fairly respectable little bedroom, of which I was to be sole occupant,unless I felt lonely and would like Rose Jane to sleep with me. I looked atpretty, soft-eyed, dirty little Rose Jane, and assured her kind-hearted motherI would not be the least lonely, as the sickening despairing loneliness whichfilled my heart was not of a nature to be cured by having as a bedmate a frowzywild child.

Upon being left alone I barred my door and threw myself on the bed to cry—weepwild hot tears that scalded my cheeks, and sobs that shook my whole frame andgave me a violent pain in the head.

Oh, how coarse and grating were the sounds to be heard around me! Lack, nay,not lack, but utter freedom from the first instincts of cultivation, was to beheard even in the great heavy footfalls and the rasping sharp voices which fellon my ears. So different had I been listening in a room at Caddagat to mygrannie’s brisk pleasant voice, or to my aunt Helen’s low refined accents; andI am such a one to see and feel these differences.

However, I pulled together in a little while, and called myself a fool forcrying. I would write to grannie and mother explaining matters, and I felt surethey would heed me, as they had no idea what the place was like. I would haveonly a little while to wait patiently, then I would be among all the pleasuresof Caddagat again; and how I would revel in them, more than ever, after a tasteof a place like this, for it was worse than I had imagined it could be, even inthe nightmares which had haunted me concerning it before leaving Caddagat.

The house was of slabs, unlimed, and with very low iron roof, and having nosign of a tree near it, the heat was unendurable. It was reflected from therocks on either side, and concentrated in this spot like an oven, being 122degrees in the veranda now. I wondered why M’Swat had built in such a hole, butit appears it was the nearness of the point to water which recommended it tohis judgment.

With the comforting idea that I would not have long to bear this, I bathed myeyes, and walked away from the house to try and find a cooler spot. Thechildren saw me depart but not return, to judge from a discussion of myselfwhich I heard in the dining-room, which adjoined my bed-chamber.

Peter came home, and the children clustered around to tell the news.

“Did she come?”

“Yes.”

“Wot’s she like?”

“Oh, a rale little bit of a thing, not as big as Lizer!

“And, Peter, she hes teeny little hands, as wite as snow, like that woman inthe picter ma got off of the tea.”

“Yes, Peter,” chimed in another voice; “and her feet are that little that shedon’t make no nise wen she walks.”

“It ain’t only becos her feet are little, but cos she’s got them beautifulshoes like wot’s in picters,” said another.

“Her hair is tied with two great junks of ribbing, one up on her head an’another near the bottom; better than that bit er red ribbing wot Lizer keeps inthe box agin the time she might go to town some day.”

“Yes,” said the voice of Mrs M’Swat, “her hair is near to her knees, and aplait as thick as yer arm; and wen she writ a couple of letters in a minute,you could scarce see her hand move it was that wonderful quick; and she usesthem big words wot you couldn’t understand without bein’ eddicated.”

“She has tree brooches, and a necktie better than your best one wots you keepsto go seeing Susie Duffy in,” and Lizer giggled slyly.

“You shut up about Susie Duffy, or I’ll whack yuz up aside of the ear,” saidPeter angrily.

“She ain’t like ma. She’s fat up here, and goes in like she’d break in themiddle, Peter.”

“Great scissors! she must be a flyer,” said Peter. “I’ll bet she’ll make yousit up, Jimmy.”

“I’ll make her sit up,” retorted Jimmy, who came next to Lizer.—“She thinksshe’s a toff, but she’s only old Melvyn’s darter, that pa has to give moneyto.”

“Peter,” said another, “her face ain’t got them freckles on like yours, and itain’t dark like Lizer’s. It’s reel wite, and pinky round here.”

“I bet she won’t make me knuckle down to her, no matter wot colour she is,”returned Peter, in a surly tone.

No doubt it was this idea which later in the afternoon induced him to swaggerforward to shake hands with me with a flash insolent leer on his face. I tookpains to be especially nice to him, treating him with deference, and makingremarks upon the extreme heat of the weather with such pleasantness that he wasnonplussed, and looked relieved when able to escape. I smiled to myself, andapprehended no further trouble from Peter.

The table for tea was set exactly as it had been before, and was lighted by acouple of tallow candles made from bad fat, and their odour was such as myjockey travelling companion of the day before would have described as a toughsmell.

“Give us a toon on the peeany,” said Mrs M’Swat after the meal, when the disheshad been cleared away by Lizer and Rose Jane. The tea and scraps, of whichthere was any amount, remained on the floor, to be picked up by the fowls inthe morning.

The children lay on the old sofa and on the chairs, where they always slept atnight until their parents retired, when there was an all-round bawl as theywere wakened and bundled into bed, dirty as they were, and very often withtheir clothes on.

I acceded to Mrs M’Swat’s request with alacrity, thinking that while forced toremain there I would have one comfort, and would spend all my spare time at thepiano. I opened the instrument, brushed a little of the dust from the keys withmy pocket-handkerchief, and struck the opening chords of Kowalski’s “MarcheHongroise”.

I have heard of pianos sounding like a tin dish, but this was not as Pleasantas a tin dish by long chalks. Every note that I struck stayed down not to rise,and when I got them up the jarring, clanging, discordant clatter they producedbeggars description. There was not the slightest possibility of distinguishingany tune on the thing. Worthless to begin with, it had stood in the dust, heat,and wind so long that every sign that it had once made music had deserted it.

I closed it with a feeling of such keen disappointment that I had difficulty insuppressing tears.

“Won’t it play?” inquired Mr M’Swat.

“No; the keys stay down.”

“Then, Rose Jane, go ye an’ pick ’em up while she tries again.”

I tried again, Rose Jane fishing up the keys as I went along. I perceivedinstantly that not one had the least ear for music or idea what it was; so Ibeat on the demented piano with both hands, and often with all fingers at once,and the bigger row I made the better they liked it.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
To Life—continued

Mr M’Swat very kindly told me I need not begin my duties until Monday morning,and could rest during Saturday and Sunday. Saturday, which was sickeningly hotand sultry, and which seemed like an eternity, I spent in arranging mybelongings, brushing the dust from my travelling dress, and in mending a fewarticles. Next morning rain started to fall, which was a great God-send, beingthe first which had fallen for months, and the only rain I saw during myresidence at Barney’s Gap.

That was a hideous Sabbath. Without a word of remonstrance from their parents,the children entertained themselves by pushing each other into the rain, thesmaller ones getting the worst of it, until their clothing was saturated withwater. This made them very cold, so they sat upon the floor and yelledoutrageously.

It was the custom of Peter to spend his Sundays in riding about, but today,being deterred by the rain, he slept some of the time, and made a muzzle forone of his dogs, between whiles.

From breakfast to the midday meal I shut myself in my bedroom and wrote lettersto my mother and grandmother. I did not rant, rave, or say anything which Iought not to have said to my elders. I wrote those letters very coolly andcarefully, explaining things just as they were, and asked grannie to take meback to Caddagat, as I could never endure life at Barney’s Gap. I told mymother I had written thus, and asked her if she would not let grannie take meagain, would she get me some other situation? What I did not care, so long asit brought emancipation from the M’Swat’s. I stamped and addressed thesemissives, and put them by till a chance of posting should arise.

Mr M’Swat could read a little by spelling the long words and blundering overthe shorter ones, and he spent the morning and all the afternoon in perusal ofthe local paper—the only literature with which Barney’s Gap was acquainted.There was a long list of the prices of stock and farm produce in this edition,which perfectly fascinated its reader. The ecstasy of a man of fine, artistic,mental calibre, when dipping for the first time into the work of some congenialpoet, would be completely wiped out in comparison to the uttersoul-satisfaction of M’Swat when drinking in the items of that list.

“By damn, pigs was up last Toosday! Thames the things to make prawfit on,” hewould excitedly exclaim; or—“Wheat’s rose a shillun a bushel! By dad, I mustdouble my crops this year.” When he had plodded to the end, he started at thebeginning again.

His wife sat the whole afternoon in the one place, saying and doing nothing. Ilooked for something to read, but the only books in the house were a Bible,which was never opened, and a diary kept most religiously by M’Swat. I gotpermission to read this, and opening it, saw:

“September

1st. Fine. Wint to boggie creak for a cow.
2nd. Fine. Got the chestnut mair shode.
3rd. Fine. On the jury.
4th. Fine. Tail the lams 60 yeos 52 wethers.
5th. Cloudy. Wint to Duffys.
6th. Fine. Dave Duffy called.
7th. Fine. Roped the red filly.
8th. Showery. Sold the gray mair’s fole.
9th. Fine. Wint to the Red hill after a horse.
10th. Fine, Found tree sheap ded in sqre padick.”

I closed the book and put it up with a sigh. The little record was a perfectpicture of the dull narrow life of its writer. Week after week that diary wenton the same—drearily monotonous account of a drearily monotonous existence. Ifelt I would go mad if forced to live such a life for long.

“Pa has lots of diaries. Would I like to read them?”

They were brought and put before me. I inquired of Mr M’Swat which was theliveliest time of the year, and being told it was shearing and threshing, Iopened one first in November:

“November 1896

1st. Fine. Started to muster sheap.
2nd. Fine. Counten sheap very dusty 20 short.
3rd. Fine. Started shering. Joe Harris cut his hand bad and wint hoam.
4th. Showery. Shering stoped on account of rane.”

Then I skipped to December:

“December 1896

1st. Fine and hot. Stripped the weet 60 bages.
2nd. Fine. Killed a snake very hot day.
3rd. Fine. Very hot alle had a boagy in the river.
4th. Fine. Got returns of woll 7 1/2 fleece 5 1/4 bellies.
5th. Fine. Awful hot got a serkeler from Tatersal by the poast.
6th. Fine. Saw Joe Harris at Duffys.”

There was no entertainment to be had from the diaries, so I attempted aconversation with Mrs M’Swat.

“A penny for your thoughts.”

“I wuz jist watchin’ the rain and thinkin’ it would put a couple a bob a headmore on sheep if it keeps on.”

What was I to do to pass the day? I was ever very restless, even in the midstof full occupation. Uncle Jay-Jay used to accuse me of being in six places atonce, and of being incapable of sitting still for five minutes consecutively;so it was simply endurance to live that long, long day—nothing to read, nopiano on which to play hymns, too wet to walk, none with whom to converse, nopossibility of sleeping, as in an endeavour to kill a little of the time I hadgone to bed early and got up late. There was nothing but to sit still,tormented by maddening regret. I pictured what would be transpiring at Caddagatnow; what we had done this time last week, and so on, till the thing became anagony to me.

Among my duties before school I was to set the table, make all the beds, dustand sweep, and “do” the girls’ hair. After school I had to mend clothes, sew,set the table again, take a turn at nursing the baby, and on washing-day iron.This sounds a lot, but in reality was nothing, and did not half occupy my time.Setting the table was a mere sinecure, as there was nothing much to put on it;and the only ironing was a few articles outside my own, as Mr M’Swat and Peterdid not wear white shirts, and patronised paper collars. Mrs M’Swat did thewashing and a little scrubbing, also boiled the beef and baked the bread, whichformed our unvaried menu week in and week out. Most peasant mothers with afamily of nine have no time for idleness, but Mrs M’Swat managed things so thatshe spent most of the day rolling on her frowsy bed playing with her dirtyinfant, which was as fat and good-tempered as herself.

On Monday morning I marshalled my five scholars (Lizer, aged fourteen; Jimmy,twelve; Tommy, Sarah, and Rose Jane, younger) in a little back skillion, whichwas set apart as a schoolroom and store for flour and rock-salt. Like all thehouse, it was built of slabs, which, erected while green, and on account Of theheat, had shrunk until many of the cracks were sufficiently wide to insertone’s arm. On Monday—after the rain—the wind, which disturbed us through them,was piercingly cold, but as the week advanced summer and drought regained theirpitiless sway, and we were often sunburnt by the rough gusts which filled theroom with such clouds of dust and grit that we were forced to cover our headsuntil it passed.

A policeman came on Tuesday to take some returns, and to him I entrusted theposting of my letters, and then eagerly waited for the reply which was to giveme glorious release.

The nearest post-office was eight miles distant, and thither Jimmy wasdispatched on horseback twice a week. With trembling expectancy every mail-dayI watched for the boy’s return down the tortuous track to the house, but it wasalways, “No letters for the school-missus.”

A week, a fortnight, dragged away. Oh, the slow horror of those never-endingdays! At the end of three weeks Mr M’Swat went to the post unknown to me, andsurprised me with a couple of letters. They bore the handwriting of my motherand grandmother—what I had been wildly waiting for,—and now that they had comeat last I had not the nerve to open them while any one was observing me. Allday I carried them in my bosom till my work was done, when I shut myself in myroom and tore the envelopes open to read first my grannie’s letter, whichcontained two:

My dear child,

I have been a long time answering your letter on account of waiting to consultyour mother. I was willing to take you back, but your mother is not agreeable,so I cannot interfere between you. I enclose your mother’s letter, so you cansee how I stand in the matter. Try and do good where you are. We cannot getwhat we would like in this world, and must bow to God’s will. He will always,&c.

Mother’s Letter to Grannie

My dear mother,

I am truly grieved that Sybylla should have written and worried you. Take nonotice of her; it is only while she is unused to the place. She will soonsettle down. She has always been a trial to me, and it is no use of takingnotice of her complaints, which no doubt are greatly exaggerated, as she wasnever contented at home. I don’t know where her rebellious spirit willeventually lead her. I hope M’Swat’s will tame her; it will do her good. It isabsolutely necessary that she should remain there, so do not say anything togive her other ideas &c.

Mother’s Letter to Me

My dear Sybylla,

I wish you would not write and worry your poor old grandmother, who has been sogood to you. You must try and put up with things; you cannot expect to find itlike holidaying at Caddagat. Be careful not to give offence to any one, as itwould be awkward for us. What is wrong with the place? Have you too much workto do? Do you not get sufficient to cat? Are they unkind to you, or what? Whydon’t you have sense and not talk of getting another place, as it is utterlyimpossible; and unless you remain there, how are we to pay the interest on thatmoney? I’ve always been a good mother to you, and the least you might do inreturn is this, when you know how we are situated. Ask God &c.

Full of contempt and hatred for my mother, I tore her letters into tiny piecesand hurled them out the window. Oh, the hard want of sympathy they voiced! Shehad forced me to this place: it would have been different had I wanted to comeof my own accord, and then sung out for a removal immediately; but no, againstmy earnest pleadings she had forced me here, and now would not heed my cry. Andto whom in all the world can we turn when our mother spurns our prayer?

There never was any sympathy between my mother and myself. We are too unlike.She is intensely matter-of-fact and practical, possessed of no ambitions oraspirations not capable of being turned into cash value. She is very ladylike,and though containing no spice of either poet or musician, can take a part inconversation on such subjects, and play the piano correctly, because in heryoung days she was thus cultivated; but had she been horn a peasant, she wouldhave been a peasant, with no longings unattainable in that sphere. She no moreunderstood me than I understand the works of a watch. She looked upon me as adiscontented, rebellious, bad child, possessed of evil spirits, which wantedtrouncing out of me; and she would have felt that she was sinning had shehumoured me in any way, so after cooling I did not blame her for her letters.She was doing her duty according to her lights. Again, it was this way, granniedid not come to my rescue on this occasion on account of her attitude towardsmy father. The Bossiers were not at enmity with him, but they were so disgustedwith his insobriety that they never visited Possum Gully, and did not assist usas much as they would have done had my father’s failure been attributable tosome cause more deserving of sympathy.

After reading my letters I wept till every atom of my body writhed withagonized emotion. I was aroused by Mrs M’Swat hammering at my door andinquiring:

“What ails ye, child? Did ye git bad noos from home?”

I recovered myself as by a miracle, and replied, no; that I was merely a littlehomesick, and would be out presently.

I wrote again to my mother, but as I could not truthfully say I was hungry orill-treated, for, according to their ability, the M’Swats were very kind to me,she took no notice of my plaint, but told me that instead of complaining ofmonotony, it would suit me better if I cleared up the house a little.

Acting upon this advice, I asked Mr M’Swat to put a paling fence round thehouse, as it was useless trying to keep the house respectable while the fowlsand pigs ran in every time the door was opened.—

He was inclined to look with favour upon this proposition, but his wife satupon it determinedly—said the fowls would lose the scraps. “Would it not bepossible to throw them over the fence to the fowls?” I asked; but this wouldcause too much waste, she considered.

Next I suggested that the piano should be tuned, but they were united in theirdisapproval of such a fearful extravagance. “The peeany makes a good nise. Whatails it?”

Then I suggested that the children should be kept tidier, for which I wasinsulted by their father. I wanted them to be dressed up like swells, and if hedid that he would soon be a pauper like my father. This I found was thesentiment of the whole family regarding me. I was only the daughter of oldhard-up Melvyn, consequently I had little weight with the children, which madethings very hard for me as a teacher.

One day at lunch I asked my mistress if she would like the children to beinstructed in table-manners. “Certainly,” her husband replied, so I commenced.

“Jimmy, you must never put your knife in your mouth.”

“Pa does at any rate,” replied Jimmy.

“Yes,” said pa; “and I’m a richer man today than them as didn’t do it.”

“Liza, do not put a whole slice of bread to your mouth like that, and cram so.Cut it into small pieces.”

“Ma doesn’t,” returned Liza.

“Ye’ll have yer work cut out with ’em,” laughed Mrs M’Swat, who did not knowhow to correct her family herself, and was too ignorant to uphold my authority.

That was my only attempt at teaching manners there. In the face of such odds itwas a bootless task, and as there were not enough knives and forks to go round,I could not inculcate the correct method of handling those implements.

Mrs M’Swat had but one boiler in which to do all her cooking, and one small tubfor the washing, and there was seldom anything to eat but bread and beef; andthis was not because they were poor, but because they did not know, or want toknow, any better.

Their idea of religion, pleasure, manners, breeding, respectability, love, andeverything of that ilk, was the possession of money, and their one idea ofaccumulating wealth was by hard sordid dragging and grinding.

A man who rises from indigence to opulence by business capabilities must havebrains worthy of admiration, but the man who makes a fortune as M’Swat ofBarney’s Gap was making his must be dirt mean, grasping, narrow-minded, andsoulless—to me the most uncongenial of my fellows.

I wrote once more to my mother, to receive the same reply. One hope remained. Iwould write to aunt Helen. She understood me somewhat, and would know how Ifelt.

Acting on this inspiration, I requested her to plead for me. Her answer came asa slap in the face, as I had always imagined her above the common cant ofordinary religionists. She stated that life was full of trials. I must try andbear this little cross patiently, and at the end of a year they might have meback at Caddagat. A year! A year at Barney’s Gap! The possibility of such athing made me frantic. I picked up my pen and bitterly reproached my aunt in aletter to which she did not deign to reply; and from that day to this she hasrigidly ignored me—never so much as sending me the most commonplace message, orcasually using my name in her letters to my mother.

Aunt Helen, is there such a thing as firm friendship when even yours—best ofwomen—quibbled and went under at the hysterical wail from the overburdenedheart of a child?

My predecessor, previous to her debut at Barney’s Gap, had spent some time in alunatic asylum, and being a curious character, allowed the children to do asthey pleased, consequently they knew not what it meant to be ruled, and werevery hold. They attempted no insubordination while their father was about thehouse, but when he was absent they gave me a dog’s life, their mother sometimessmiling on their pranks, often lazily heedless of them, but never administeringany form of correction.

If I walked away from the house to get rid of them, they would follow and hootat me; and when I reproved them they informed me they were not going “toknuckle under to old Melvyn’s darter, the damnedest fool in the world, who’slost all his prawperty, and has to borry money off of pa.”

Did I shut myself in my room, they shoved sticks in the cracks and madegrimaces at me. I knew the fallacy of appealing to their father, as they andtheir mother would tell falsehoods, and my word would not be taken incontradiction of theirs. I had experience of this, as the postmistress hadcomplained of Jimmy, to be insulted by his father, who could see noimperfection in his children.

M’Swat was much away from home at that time. The drought necessitated theremoval of some of his sheep, for which he had rented a place eighty milescoastwards. There he left them under the charge of a man, but he repairedthither frequently to inspect them. Sometimes he was away from home a fortnightat a stretch. Peter would be away at work all day, and the children tookadvantage of my defenceless position. Jimmy was the ringleader. I could easilyhave managed the others had he been removed. I would have thrashed him well atthe start but for the letters I constantly received from home warning meagainst offence to the parents, and knew that to set my foot on the children’slarrikinism would require measures that would gain their mother’s ill-will atonce. But when M’Swat left home for three weeks Jim got so bold that I resolvedto take decisive steps towards subjugating him. I procured a switch—a verysmall one, as his mother had a great objection to corporal punishment—and when,as usual, he commenced to cheek me during lessons, I hit him on thecoat-sleeve. The blow would not have brought tears from the eyes of a toddler,but this great calf emitted a wild yope, and opening his mouth let his salivapour on to his slate. The others set up such blood-curdling yells in concertthat I was a little disconcerted, but I determined not to give in. I deliveredanother tap, whereupon he squealed and roared so that he brought his mother tohis rescue like a ton of bricks on stilts, a great fuss in her eyes whichgenerally beamed with a cowful calm.

Seizing my arm she shook me like a rat, broke my harmless little stick inpieces, threw it in my face, and patting Jimmy on the shoulder, said:

“Poor man! She sharn’t touch me Jimmy while I know. Sure you’ve got no sense.You’d had him dead if I hadn’t come in.”

I walked straight to my room and shut myself in, and did not teach any morethat afternoon. The children rattled on my door-handle and jeered:

“She thought she’d hit me, but ma settled her. Old poor Melvyn’s darter won’ttry no more of her airs on us.”

I pretended not to hear. What was I to do? There was no one to whom I couldturn for help. M’Swat would believe the story of his family, and my motherwould blame me. She would think I had been in fault because I hated the place.

Mrs M’Swat called me to tea, but I said I would not have any. I lay awake allnight and got desperate. On the morrow I made up my mind to conquer or leave. Iwould stand no more. If in all the wide world and the whole of life this wasthe only use for me, then I would die—take my own life if necessary.

Things progressed as usual next morning. I attended to my duties and marched myscholars into the schoolroom at the accustomed hour. There was no decidedinsubordination during the morning, but I felt Jimmy was waiting for anopportunity to defy me. It was a fearful day, possessed by a blasting windladen with red dust from Riverina, which filled the air like a fog. Thecrockery ware became so hot in the kitchen that when taking it into thedining-room we had to handle it with cloths. During the dinner-hour I slippedaway unnoticed to where some quince-trees were growing and procured a sharprod, which I secreted among the flour-bags in the schoolroom. At half-past oneI brought my scholars in and ordered them to their work with a confident air.Things went without a ripple until three o’clock, when the writing lessonbegan. Jimmy struck his pen on the bottom of the bottle every time hereplenished it with ink.

“Jimmy,” I gently remonstrated, “don’t jab your pen like that—it will spoil it.There is no necessity to shove it right to the bottom.”

Jab, jab, went Jimmy’s pen.

“Jimmy, did you hear me speak to you?”

Jab went the pen.

“James, I am speaking to you!”

Jab went the pen again.

“James,” I said sternly, “I give you one more chance.”

He deliberately defied me by stabbing into the ink-bottle with increasedvigour. Liza giggled triumphantly, and the little ones strove to emulate her. Icalmly produced my switch and brought it smartly over the shoulders of myrefractory pupil in a way that sent the dust in a cloud from his dirty coat,knocked the pen from his fingers, and upset the ink.

He acted as before—yelled ear-drum-breakingly, letting the saliva from hisdistended mouth run on his copy-book. His brothers and sisters also started toroar, but bringing the rod down on the table, I threatened to thrash every oneof them if they so much as whimpered; and they were so dumbfounded that theysat silent in terrified surprise. Jimmy continued to bawl. I hit him again.

“Cease instantly, sir.”

Through the cracks Mrs M’Swat could be seen approaching. Seeing her, Jimmyhollered anew. I expected her to attack me. She stood five feet nine inches,and weighed about sixteen stones; I measured five feet one inch, and turned thescale at eight stones—scarcely a fair match; but my spirit was aroused, andinstead of feeling afraid, I rejoiced at the encounter which was imminent, andhad difficulty to refrain from shouting “Come on! I’m ready, physically andmentally, for you and a dozen others such.”

My curious ideas regarding human equality gave me confidence. My theory is thatthe cripple is equal to the giant, and the idiot to the genius. As, if onaccount of his want of strength the cripple is subservient to the giant, thelatter, on account of that strength, is compelled to give in to the cripple. Sowith the dolt and the man of brain, so with Mrs M’Swat and me.

The fact of not only my own but my family’s dependence on M’Swat—sank intooblivion. I merely recognized that she was one human being and I another.Should I have been deferential to her by reason of her age and maternity, thenfrom the vantage which this gave her, she should have been lenient to me onaccount of my chit-ship and inexperience. Thus we were equal.

Jimmy hollered with renewed energy to attract his mother, and I continued torain blows across his shoulders. Mrs M’Swat approached to within a foot of thedoor, and then, as though changing her mind, retraced her steps and entered thehot low-roofed kitchen. I knew I had won, and felt disappointed that theconquest had been so easy. Jimmy, seeing he was worsted, ceased his uproar,cleaned his copy-book on his sleeve, and sheepishly went on with his writing.

Whether Mrs M’Swat saw she had been in fault the day before I know not; certainit is that the children ever after that obeyed me, and I heard no more of thematter; neither, as far as I could ascertain, did the “ruction” reach the earsof M’Swat.

“How long, how long!” was my cry, as I walked out ankle-deep in the dust to seethe sun, like a ball of blood, sink behind the hills on that February evening.

CHAPTER THIRTY
Where Ignorance is Bliss, ’Tis Folly to be Wise

When by myself, I fretted so constantly that the traces it left upon me becameevident even to the dull comprehension of Mrs M’Swat.

“I don’t hold with too much pleasure and disherpation, but you ain’t hadovermuch of it lately. You’ve stuck at home pretty constant, and ye and Lizercan have a little fly round. It’ll do yous good,” she said.

The dissipation, pleasure, and flying round allotted to “Lizer” and me were tovisit some of the neighbours. Those, like the M’Swats, were sheep-farmingselectors. They were very friendly and kind to me, and I found them superior tomy employers, in that their houses were beautifully clean; but they lived thesame slow life, and their soul’s existence fed on the same small ideas. I waskeenly disappointed that none of them had a piano, as my hunger for music couldbe understood only by one with a passion for that art.

I borrowed something to read, but all that I could get in the way of books werea fewYoung Ladies’ Journals, which I devoured ravenously, so to speak.

When Lizer’s back would be turned, the girls would ask me how I managed to liveat Barney’s Gap, and expressed themselves of the opinion that it was the mosthorrible hole in the world, and Mrs M’Swat the dirtiest creature living, andthat they would not go there for 50 pounds a week. I made a point of neversaying anything against Mrs M’Swat; but I fumed inwardly that this life wasforced upon me, when girls with no longings or aspirations beyond being thewife of a Peter M’Swat recoiled from the thought of it.

My mother insisted upon my writing to her regularly, so once a week I headed aletter “Black’s Camp”, and condemned the place, while mother as unfailinglyreplied that these bad times I should be thankful to God that I was fed andclothed. I knew this as well as any one, and was aware there were plenty ofgirls willing to jump at my place; but they were of different temperament tome, and when one is seventeen, that kind of reasoning does not weigh veryheavily.

My eldest brother, Horace, twin brother of my sister Gertie, took it uponhimself to honour me with the following letter:

Why the deuce don’t you give up writing those letters to mother? We gettongue-pie on account of them, and it’s not as if they did you any good. Itonly makes mother more determined to leave you where you are. She says you arethat conceited you think you ought to have something better, and you’re not fitfor the place you have, and she’s glad it is such a place, and it will do youthe world of good and take the nonsense out of you—that it’s time you got a bitof sense. Sullivan’s Ginger. After she gets your letters she does jaw, andwishes she never had a child, and what a good mother she is, and what baddevils we are to her. You are a fool not to stay where you are. I wish I couldget away to M’Swat or Mack Pot, and I would jump at the chance like a good un.The boss still sprees and loafs about town till some one has to go and haul himhome. I’m about full of him, and I’m going to leave home before next Christmas,or my name ain’t what it is. Mother says the kiddies would starve if I leave;but Stanley is coming on like a haystack, I tell him, and he does kick up, andhe ought to be able to plough next time. I ploughed when I was younger thanhim. I put in fourteen acres of wheat and oats this year, and I don’t thinkI’ll cut a wheelbarrow-load of it. I’m full of the place. I never have a singlepenny to my name, and it ain’t father’s drinking that’s all to blame; if hedidn’t booze it wouldn’t be much better. It’s the slowest hole in the world,and I’ll chuck it and go shearing or droving. I hate this dairying, it’s tooslow for a funeral: there would be more life in trapping ’possums out onTimlinbilly. Mother always says to have patience, and when the drought breaksand good seasons come round again things will be better, but it’s no good oftrying to stuff me like that. I remember when the seasons were wet. It was nogood growing anything, because every one grew so much that there was no market,and the sheep died of foot-rot and you couldn’t give your butter away, and itis not much worse to have nothing to sell than not be able to sell a thing whenyou have it. And the long and short of it is that I hate dairying like bluemurder. It’s as tame as a clucking hen. Fancy a cove sitting down every morningand evening pulling at a cow’s tits fit to bust himself, and then turning anold separator, and washing it up in a dish of water like a blooming girl’swork. And if you go to a picnic, just when the fun commences you have to nickoff home and milk, and when you tog yourself on Sunday evening you have toundress again and lay into the milking, and then you have to change everythingon you and have a bath, or your best girl would scent the cow-yard on you, andnot have you within cooee of her. We won’t know what rain is when we see it;but I suppose it will come in floods and finish the little left by the drought.The grasshoppers have eaten all the fruit and even the bark off the trees, andthe caterpillars made a croker of the few tomatoes we kept alive with the suds.All the cockeys round here and dad are applying to the Government to have theirrents suspended for a time. We have not heard yet whether it will be granted,but if Gov. doesn’t like it, they’ll have to lump it, for none of us have apenny to bless ourselves with, let alone dub up for taxes. I’ve written you along letter, and if you growl about the spelling and grammar I won’t write toyou any more, so there, and you take my tip and don’t write to mother on thatflute any more, for she won’t take a bit of notice.

Yr loving brother,
Horace.

So! Mother had no pity for me, and the more I pleaded with her the moredetermined she grew upon leaving me to suffer on, so I wrote to her no more.However, I continued to correspond with grannie, and in one of her letters shetold me that Harry Beecham (that was in February) was still in Sydney settlinghis affairs; but when that was concluded he was going to Queensland. He had puthis case in the hands of squatters he had known in his palmy days, and thefirst thing that turned up in managing or overseeing he was to have; but forthe present he had been offered the charge of 1600 head of bullocks from astation up near the Gulf of Carpentaria overland to Victoria. Uncle Jay-Jay wasnot home yet: he had extended his tour to Hong Kong, and grannie was afraid hewas spending too much money, as in the face of the drought she had difficultyin making both ends meet, and feared she would be compelled to go on the banks.She grieved that I was not becoming more reconciled to my place. It was dull,no doubt, but it would do my reputation no harm, whereas, were I in a livelysituation, there might be numerous temptations hard to resist. Why did I nottry to look at it in that way?

She sent a copy of theAustralasian, which was a great treat to me, alsoto the children, as they were quite ignorant of the commonest things in life,and the advent of this illustrated paper was an event to be recorded in thediary in capital letters. They clustered round me eagerly to see the pictures.In this edition there chanced to be a page devoted to the portraits of elevenAustralian singers, and our eyes fell on Madame Melba, who was in the middle.As what character she was dressed I do not remember, but she lookedmagnificent. There was a crown upon her beautiful head, the plentiful hair wasworn flowing, and the shapely bosom and arms exposed.

“Who’s that?” they inquired.

“Madame Melba; did you ever hear her name?”

“Who’s Madame Melba? What’s she do? Is she a queen?”

“Yes, a queen, and a great queen of song;” and being inspired with greatadmiration for our own Australian cantatrice, who was great among the greatestprima-donnas of the world, I began to tell them a little of her fame, and thatshe had been recently offered 40,000 pounds to sing for three months inAmerica.

They were incredulous. Forty thousand pounds! Ten times as much as “pa” hadgiven for a paid-up selection he had lately bought. They told me it was no useof me trying to tell them fibs. No one would give a woman anything to sing, noteven one pound. Why, Susie Duffy was the best singer on the Murrumbidgee, andshe would sing for any one who asked her, and free of charge.

At this juncture Jimmy, who had been absent, came to see the show. After gazingfor a few seconds he remarked what the others had failed to observe, “Why, thewoman’s naked!”

I attempted to explain that among rich people in high society it was customaryto dress like that in the evening, and that it looked very pretty.

Mrs M’Swat admonished me for showing the children low pictures.

“She must be a very bold woman,” said Jimmy; and Lizer pronounced her madbecause, as she put it, “It’s a wonder she’d be half-undressed in her photo;you’d think she oughter dress herself up complete then.”

Lizer certainly acted upon this principle, as a photo of her, which had beentaken by a travelling artist, bore evidence that for the occasion she hadarrayed herself in two pairs of ill-fitting cuffs, Peter’s watch and chain,strings, jackets, flowers, and other gewgaws galore.

“There ain’t no such person as Madame Melber; it’s only a fairy-tale,” said MrsM’Swat.

“Did you ever hear of Gladstone?” I inquired.

“No; where is that place?”

“Did you ever hear of Jesus Christ?”

“Sure, yes; he’s got something to do with God, ain’t he?”

After that I never attempted to enlighten them regarding our celebrities.

Oh, how I envied them their ignorant contentment! They were as ducks on aduck-pond; but I was as a duck forced for ever to live in a desert, ever wildlylonging for water, but never reaching it outside of dreams.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Mr M’Swat and I Have a Bust-up

Men only, and they merely on business, came to Barney’s Gap—women tabooed theplace. Some of them told me they would come to see me, but not Mrs M’Swat, asshe always allowed the children to be as rude to them as they pleased. With thefew individuals who chanced to come M’Swat would sit down, light his pipe, andvulgarly and profusely expectorate on the floor, while they yarned and yarnedfor hours and hours about the price of wool, the probable breeding capacity ofthe male stock they kept, and of the want of grass—never a word about theircountry’s politics or the events of the day; even the news of the “MountainMurders” by Butler had not penetrated here. I wondered if they were acquaintedwith the names of their Governor and Prime Minister.

It was not the poor food and the filthy way of preparing it that worried me, orthat Mr M’Swat used “damn” on an average twice in five minutes when conversing,or that the children for ever nagged about my father’s poverty and tormented mein a thousand other ways—it was the dead monotony that was killing me.

I longed feveredly for something to happen. Agony is a tame word wherewith toexpress what that life meant to me. Solitary confinement to a gipsy would besomething on a par.

Every night unfailingly when at home M’Swat sat in the bosom of his family andspeculated as to how much richer he was than his neighbours, what old Reccelived on, and who had the best breed of sheep and who was the smartest atcounting these animals, until the sordidness of it turned me dizzy, and I wouldsteal out under the stars to try and cool my heated spirit. This became apractice with me, and every night I would slip away out of hearing of thehousehold to sing the songs I had heard at Caddagat, and in imagination torelive every day and hour there, till the thing became too much for me, and Iwas scarcely responsible for my actions. Often I knelt on the parched groundbeneath the balmy summer sky to pray—wild passionate prayers that were neveranswered.

I was under the impression that my nightly ramble was not specially noticed byany one, but I was mistaken. Mr M’Swat, it appears, suspected me of having alover, but was never able to catch me red-handed.

The possibility of a girl going out at night to gaze at the stars and dream wasas improbable a thought for him as flying is to me, and having no soul abovemud, had I attempted an explanation he would have considered me mad, anddangerous to have about the place.

Peter, junior, had a sweetheart, one Susie Duffy, who lived some miles on theother side of the Murrumbidgee. He was in the habit of courting her everySunday and two or three nights during the week, and I often heard the clang ofhis stirrup-irons and the clink of hobble-chain when he returned late; but onone occasion I stayed out later than usual, and he passed me going home. Istood still and he did not see me, but his horse shied violently. I thought hewould imagine I was a ghost, so called out:

“It is I.”

“Well, I’ll be hanged! What are ye doin’ at this time ev night. Ain’t yuzafraid of ghosts?”

“Oh dear no. I had a bad headache and couldn’t sleep, so came out to try if awalk would cure it,” I explained.

We were a quarter of a mile or so from the house, so Peter slackened his speedthat I might keep pace with him. His knowledge of ‘etiquette did not extend asfar as dismounting. There is a great difference between rudeness and ignorance.Peter was not rude; he was merely ignorant. For the same reason he let hismother feed the pigs, clean his boots, and chop wood, while he sat down andsmoked and spat. It was not that he was unmanly, as that this was the onlymanliness he had known.

I was alone in the schoolroom next afternoon when Mr M’Swat sidled in, andafter stuttering and hawing a little, delivered himself of:

“I want to tell ye that I don’t hold with a gu-r-r-r-l going out of nights forto meet young men: if ye want to do any coortin’ yuz can do it inside, if it’sa decent young man. I have no objections to yer hangin’ yer cap up to ourPeter, only that ye have no prawperty—in yerself I like ye well enough, but wehave other views for Peter. He’s almost as good as made it sure with SusieDuffy, an’ as ole Duffy will have a bit ev prawperty I want him to git her, an’wouldn’t like ye to spoil the fun.”

Peter was “tall and freckled and sandy, face of a country lout”, and, likeMiddleton’s rouse-about, “hadn’t any opinions, hadn’t any ideas”, but possessedsufficient instinct and common bushcraft with which, by hard slogging, to amassmoney. He was developing a moustache, and had a “gu-r-r-r-l”; he wore tighttrousers and long spurs; he walked with a sidling swagger that was a crossbetween shyness and flashness, and took as much pride in his necktie as anyman; he had a kind heart, honest principles, and would not hurt a fly; heworked away from morning till night, and contentedly did his duty like abullock in the sphere in which God had placed him; he never had a bath while Iknew him, and was a man according to his lights. He knew there was such a thingas the outside world, as I know there is such a thing as algebra; but ittroubled him no more than algebra troubles me.

This was my estimation of Peter M’Swat, junior. I respected him right enough inhis place, as I trust he respected me in mine, but though fate thought fit forthe present to place us in the one groove, yet our lives were unmixablecommodities as oil and water, which lay apart and would never meet until takenin hand by the omnipotent leveller—death.

Marriage with Peter M’Swat!

Consternation and disgust held me speechless, and yet I was half inclined tolaugh at the preposterousness of the thing, when Peter’s father continued:

“I’m sorry if you’ve got smitten on Peter, but I know you’ll be sensible. Yesee I have a lot of children, and when the place is divided among ’em it won’tbe much. I tell ye wot, old Duffy has a good bit of money and only twochildren, Susie and Mick. I could get you to meet Mick—he mayn’t be sopersonable as our Peter,” he reflected, with evident pride in his weedyfirstborn, and he got no farther, for I had been as a yeast-bottle bubbling up,and now went off bang!

“Silence, you ignorant old creature! How dare you have the incomparableimpertinence to mention my name in conjunction with that of your boor of a son.Though he were a millionaire I would think his touch contamination. You havefallen through for once if you imagine I go out at night to meet any one—Imerely go away to be free for a few minutes from the suffocating atmosphere ofyour odious home. You must not think that because you have grasped and slavedand got a little money that it makes a gentleman of you; and never youdare to again mention my name in regard to matrimony with any one abouthere;” and with my head high and shoulders thrown back I marched to my room,where I wept till I was weak and ill.

This monotonous sordid life was unhinging me, and there was no legitimate wayof escape from it. I formed wild plans of running away, to do what I did notcare so long as it brought a little action, anything but this torturingmaddening monotony; but my love for my little brothers and sisters held meback. I could not do anything that would put me for ever beyond the pale oftheir society.

I was so reduced in spirit that had Harold Beecham appeared then with amatrimonial scheme to be fulfilled at once, I would have quickly erased thefine lines I had drawn and accepted his proposal; but he did not come, and Iwas unacquainted with his whereabouts or welfare. As I remembered him, howlovable and superior he seemed in comparison with the men I met nowadays: notthat he was any better than these men in their place and according to theirlights, but his lights—at least not his lights, for Harold Beecham was nothingof a philosopher, but the furniture of the drawing-room which theyilluminated—was more artistic. What a prince of gentlemanliness and winninggallantries he was in his quiet way!

This information concerning him was in a letter I received from my grandmotherat Easter:

Who should surprise us with a visit the other day but Harold Beecham. He was asthin as a whipping-post, and very sunburnt [I smiled, imagining it impossiblefor Harold to be any browner than of yore]. He has been near death’s door withthe measles—caught them in Queensland while droving, and got wet. He was so illthat he had to give up charge of that 1600 head of cattle he was bringing. Hecame to say good-bye to us, as he is off to Western Australia next week to seeif he can mend his fortunes there. I was afraid he was going to be like youngCharters, and swear he would never come back unless he made a pile, but he sayshe will be back next Christmas three years for certain, if he is alive andkicking, as he says himself. Why he intends returning at that stipulated time Idon’t know, as he never was very communicative, and is more unsociable thanever now. He is a man who never shows his feelings, but he must feel the lossof his old position deeply. He seemed surprised not to find you here, and saysit was a pity to set you teaching, as it will take all the life and fun out ofyou, and that is the first time I ever heard him express an opinion in anyone’s business but his own. Frank Hawden sends kind regards, &c.

Teaching certainly had the effect upon me anticipated by Harold Beecham, but itwas not the teaching but the place in which I taught which was doing themischief—good, my mother termed it.

I was often sleepless for more than forty-eight hours at a stretch, and criedthrough the nights until my eyes had black rings round them, which washingfailed to remove. The neighbours described me as “a sorrowful lookin’ delicatecreetur’, that couldn’t larf to save her life”—quite a different character tothe girl who at Caddagat was continually chid for being a romp, a hoyden, aboisterous tomboy, a whirlwind, and for excessive laughter at anything andeverything. I got into such a state of nervousness that I would jump at theopening of a door or an unexpected footfall.

When cooling down, after having so vigorously delivered Mr M’Swat a piece of mymind, I felt that I owed him an apology. According to his lights (and that isthe only fair way of judging our fellows) he had acted in a kind of fatherlyway. I was a young girl under his charge, and he would have in a measure beenresponsible had I come to harm through going out in the night. He had beengood-natured, too, in offering to help things along by providing an eligible,and allowing us to “spoon” under his surveillance. That I was of temperamentand aspirations that made his plans loathsome to me was no fault of his—only aheavy misfortune to myself. Yes; I had been in the wrong entirely.

With this idea in my head, sinking ankle-deep in the dust, and threading my waythrough the pigs and fowls which hung around the back door, I went in search ofmy master. Mrs M’Swat was teaching Jimmy how to kill a sheep and dress it foruse; while Lizer, who was nurse to the baby and spectator of the performance,was volubly and ungrammatically giving instructions in the art. Peter and someof the younger children were away felling stringybark-trees for the sustenanceof the sheep. The fall of their axes and the murmur of the Murrumbidgee echoedfaintly from the sunset. They would be home presently and at tea; I reflectedit would be “The old yeos looks terrible skinny, but the hoggets is fat yet. Bycrikey! They did go into the bushes. They chawed up stems and all—some as thickas a pencil.”

This information in that parlance had been given yesterday, the day before,would be given today, tomorrow, and the next day. It was the boss item on theconversational programme until further orders.

I had a pretty good idea where to find Mr M’Swat, as he had lately purchased apair of stud rams, and was in the habit of admiring them for a couple of hoursevery evening. I went to where they usually grazed, and there, as I expected,found Mr M’Swat, pipe in mouth, with glistening eyes, surveying his darlings.

“Mr M’Swat, I have come to beg your pardon.”

“That’s all right, me gu-r-r-r-l. I didn’t take no notice to anything ye mightspit out in a rage.”

“But I was not in a rage. I meant every word I said, but I want to apologizefor the rude way in which I said it, as I had no right to speak so to myelders. And I want to tell you that you need not fear me running away withPeter, even supposing he should honour me with his affections, as I am engagedto another man.”

“By dad, I’ll be hanged!” he exclaimed, with nothing but curiosity on hiswrinkled dried tobacco-leaf-looking face. He expressed no resentment on accountof my behaviour to him.

“Are ye to be married soon? Has he got any prawperty? Who is he? I suppose he’srespectable. Ye’re very young.”

“Yes; he is renowned for respectability, but I am not going to marry him till Iam twenty-one. He is poor, but has good prospects. You must promise me not totell anyone, as I wish it kept a secret, and only mention it to you so that youneed not be disturbed about Peter.”

He assured me that he would keep the secret, and I knew I could rely on hisword. He was greatly perturbed that my intended was poor.

“Never ye marry a man widout a bit er prawperty, me gu-r-r-r-l. Take myadvice—the divil’s in a poor match, no matter how good the man may be. Don’t yebe in a hurry; ye’re personable enough in yer way, and there’s as good fish inthe seas as ever come out of ’em. Yer very small; I admire a good lump of awoman meself—but don’t ye lose heart. I’ve heerd some men say they like littlegirls, but, as I said, I like a good lump of a woman meself.”

“And you’ve got a good lump of a squaw,” I thought to myself.

Do not mistake me. I do not for an instant fancy myself above the M’Swats.Quite the reverse; they are much superior to me. Mr M’Swat was upright andclean in his morals, and in his little sphere was as sensible and kind a man asone could wish for. Mrs M’Swat was faithful to him, contented and good-natured,and bore uncomplainingly, year after year, that most cruelly agonising of humanduties—childbirth, and did more for her nation and her Maker than I will everbe noble enough to do.

But I could not help it that their life was warping my very soul. Naturefashions us all; we have no voice in the matter, and I could not change myorganisation to one which would find sufficient sustenance in the mentalatmosphere of Barney’s Gap.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Ta-ta to Barney’s Gap

It chanced at last, as June gave place to July and July to August, that I couldbear it no longer. I would go away even if I had to walk, and what I would do Idid not know or care, my one idea being to leave Barney’s Gap far and farbehind. One evening I got a lot of letters from my little brothers and sistersat home. I fretted over them a good deal, and put them under my pillow; and asI had not slept for nights, and was feeling weak and queer, I laid my head uponthem to rest a little before going out to get the tea ready. The next thing Iknew was that Mrs M’Swat was shaking me vigorously with one hand, holding aflaring candle in the other, and saying:

“Lizer, shut the winder quick. She’s been lyin’ here in the draught till she’sfroze, and must have the nightmare, the way she’s been singin’ out that queer,an’ I can’t git her woke up. What ails ye, child? Are ye sick?”

I did not know what ailed me, but learnt subsequently that I laughed and criedvery much, and pleaded hard with grannie and some Harold to save me, and keptreiterating, “I cannot bear it, I cannot bear it,” and altogether behaved sostrangely that Mr M’Swat became so alarmed that he sent seventeen miles for thenearest doctor. He came next morning, felt my pulse, asked a few questions, andstated that I was suffering from nervous prostration.

“Why, the child is completely run down, and in a fair way to contract brainfever!” he exclaimed. “What has she been doing? It seems as though she had beenunder some great mental strain. She must have complete rest and change, plentyof diversion and nourishing food, or her mind will become impaired.”

He left me a bottle of tonic and Mr and Mrs M’Swat many fears. Poorkind-hearted souls, they got in a great state, and understood about as much ofthe cause of my breakdown as I do of the inside of the moon. They ascribed itto the paltry amount of teaching and work I had done.

Mrs M’Swat killed a fowl and stewed it for my delectation. There was part ofthe inside with many feathers to flavour the dish, and having no appetite, Idid not enjoy it, but made a feint of so doing to please the good-natured cook.

They intended writing at once to give my parents notice when I would be put onthe train. I was pronounced too ill to act as scribe; Lizer was suggested, andthen Jimmy, but M’Swat settled the matter thus:

“Sure, damn it! I’m the proper one to write on an important business mattherlike this here.”

So pens, ink, and paper were laid on the dining-room table, and the greatproclamation went forth among the youngsters, “Pa is goin’ to write a wholeletter all by hisself.”

My door opened with the dining-room, and from my bed I could see theproceeding. Mr M’Swat hitched his trousers well through the saddle-strap whichhe always wore as a belt, took off his coat and folded it on the back of achair, rolled his shirt-sleeves up to his elbows, pulled his hat well over hiseyes, and “shaped up” to the writing material, none of which met with hisapproval. The ink was “warter”, the pens had not enough “pint”, and the paperwas “trash”; but on being assured it was the good stuff he had purchasedespecially for himself, he buckled to the fray, producing in three hours ahalf-sheet epistle, which in grammar, composition, and spelling quite eclipsedthe entries in his diary. However, it served its purpose, and my parents wroteback that, did I reach Goulburn on a certain day, a neighbour who would be intown then would bring me home.

Now that it was settled that I had no more to teach the dirty children, out ofdirty books, lessons for which they had great disinclination, and no more todirect Lizer’s greasy fingers over the yellow keys of that demented piano in avain endeavour to teach her “choones”, of which her mother expected her tolearn on an average two daily, it seemed as though I had a mountain lifted offme, and I revived magically, got out of bed and packed my things.

I was delighted at the prospect of throwing off the leaden shackles of Barney’sGap, but there was a little regret mingled with my relief. The little boys hadnot been always bold. Did I express a wish for a parrot-wing or water-wornstone, or such like, after a time I would be certain, on issuing from mybedroom, to find that it had been surreptitiously laid there, and the littlesoft-eyed fellows would squabble for the privilege of bringing me my post,simply to give me pleasure. Poor little Lizer, and Rose Jane too, copied me instyle of dress and manners in a way that was somewhat ludicrous but morepathetic.

They clustered round to say good-bye. I would be sure to write. Oh yes, ofcourse, and they would write in return and tell me if the bay mare got well,and where they would find the yellow turkey-hen’s nest. When I got well I mustcome back, and I wouldn’t have as much work to do, but go for more rides tokeep well, and so on. Mrs M’Swat very anxiously impressed it upon me that I wasto explain to my mother that it was not her (Mrs M’Swat’s) fault that I “ailed”from overwork, as I had never complained and always seemed well.

With a kindly light on his homely sunburnt face, M’Swat said, as he put me onthe train:

“Sure, tell yer father he needn’t worry over the money. I’ll never be hard onhim, an’ if ever I could help ye, I’d be glad.”

“Thank you; you are very good, and have done too much already.”

“Too much! Sure, damn it, wot’s the good er bein’ alive if we can’t help eachother sometimes. I don’t mind how much I help a person if they have a littlegratitood, but, damn it, I can’t abear ingratitood.”

“Good-bye, Mr M’Swat, and thank you.”

“Good-bye, me gu-r-r-r-l, and never marry that bloke of yours if he don’t git abit er prawperty, for the divil’s in a poor match.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Back at Possum Gully

They were expecting me on the frosty evening in September, and the childrencame bounding and shouting to meet me, when myself and luggage were depositedat Possum Gully by a neighbour, as he passed in a great hurry to reach his ownhome ere it got too dark. They bustled me to a glowing fire in no time.

My father sat reading, and, greeting me in a very quiet fashion, continued theperusal of his paper. My mother shut her lips tightly, saying exultingly, “Itseems it was possible for you to find a worse place than home”; and that littlespeech was the thorn on the rose of my welcome home. But there was no sting inGertie’s greeting, and how beautiful she was growing, and so tall! It touchedme to see she had made an especial dainty for my tea, and had put things on thetable which were only used for visitors. The boys and little Aurora chatteredand danced around me all the while. One brought for my inspection somesoup-plates which had been procured during my absence; another came with apicture-book; and nothing would do them but that I must, despite the darkness,straightaway go out and admire a new fowl-house which “Horace and Stanley builtall by theirselves, and no one helped them one single bit.”

After Mrs M’Swat it was a rest, a relief, a treat, to hear my mother’scultivated voice, and observe her lady-like and refined figure as she movedabout; and, what a palace the place seemed in comparison to Barney’s Gap!simply because it was clean, orderly, and bore traces of refinement; for thestamp of indigent circumstances was legibly imprinted upon it, and many thingswhich had been considered “done for” when thirteen months before I had lefthome, were still in use.

I carefully studied my brothers and sisters. They had grown during my absence,and were all big for their age, and though some of them not exactly handsome,yet all pleasant to look upon—I was the only wanting in physical charms—alsothey were often discontented, and wished, as children will, for things theycould not have; but they were natural, understandable children, not likemyself, cursed with a fevered ambition for the utterly unattainable.

“Oh, were I seated high as my ambition,
I’d place this loot on naked necks of monarchs!”

At the time of my departure for Caddagat my father had been negotiating withbeer regarding the sale of his manhood; on returning I found that he hadcompleted the bargain, and held a stamped receipt in his miserable appearanceand demeanour. In the broken-down man, regardless of manners, one would havefailed to recognize Dick Melvyn, “Smart Dick Melvyn”, “Jolly-good-fellowMelvyn” “Thorough Gentleman” and “Manly Melvyn” of the handsome face andingratiating manners, one-time holder of Bruggabrong, Bin Bin East, and Bin BinWest. He never corrected his family nowadays, and his example was mostdeleterious to them.

Mother gave me a list of her worries in private after tea that night. Shewished she had never married: not only was her husband a failure, but to allappearances her children would be the same. I wasn’t worth my salt or I wouldhave remained at Barney’s Gap; and there was Horace—heaven only knew where hewould end. God would surely punish him for his disrespect to his father. It wasimpossible to keep things together much longer, etc., etc.

When we went to bed that night Gertie poured all her troubles into my ear in ajumbled string. It was terrible to have such a father. She was ashamed of him.He was always going into town, and stayed there till mother had to go afterhim, or some of the neighbours were so good as to bring him home. It took allthe money to pay the publican’s bills, and Gertie was ashamed to be seen abroadin the nice clothes which grannie sent, as the neighbours said the Melvynsought to pay up the old man’s bills instead of dressing like swells; and shecouldn’t help it, and she was sick and tired of trying to keep uprespectability in the teeth of such odds.

I comforted her with the assurance that the only thing was to feel right withinourselves, and let people say whatsoever entertained their poor little minds.And I fell asleep thinking that parents have a duty to children greater thanchildren to parents, and they who do not fulfil their responsibility in thisrespect are as bad in their morals as a debauchée, corrupt the community asmuch as a thief, and are among the ablest underminers of their nation.

On the morrow, the first time we were alone, Horace seized the opportunity ofholding forth onhis woes. It was no use, he was choke full of PossumGully: he would stick to it for another year, and then he would chuck it, evenif he had to go on the wallaby. He wasn’t going to be slaving for ever for theboss to swallow the proceeds, and there was nothing to be made out of dairying.When it wasn’t drought it was floods and caterpillars and grasshoppers.

Among my brothers and sisters I quickly revived to a certain extent, and motherasserted her opinion that I had not been ill at all, but had made up my mind totorment her; had not taken sufficient exercise, and might have had a littlederangement of the system but nothing more. It was proposed that I shouldreturn to Barney’s Gap. I demurred, and was anathematized as ungrateful andaltogether corrupt, that I would not go back to M’Swat, who was so good as tolend my father money out of pure friendship; but for once in my life I couldnot be made submit by either coercion or persuasion. Grannie offered to takeone of us to Caddagat; mother preferred that Gertie should go. So we sent thepretty girl to dwell among her kindred in a land of comfort and pleasure.

I remained at Possum Gully to tread the same old life in its tame narrow path,with its never-ending dawn-till-daylight round of tasks; with, as itsentertainments, an occasional picnic or funeral or a day in town, when, shouldit happen to be Sunday, I never fail to patronize one of the cathedrals. I lovethe organ music, and the hush which pervades the building; and there is muchentertainment in various ways if one goes early and watches the well-dressedcongregation filing in. The costumes and the women are pretty, and, in his ownparticular line, the ability of the verger is something at which to marvel.Regular attendants, of course, pay for and have reserved their seats, but it isin classing the visitors that the verger displays his talent. He can cull thecommoners from the parvenu aristocrats, and put them in their respective placesas skilfully as an expert horse-dealer can draft his stock at a sale. Then,when the audience is complete, in the middle and front of the edifice are to befound they of the white hands and fine jewels; and in the topmost seat of thesynagogue, praying audibly, is one who has made all his wealth by devouringwidows’ houses; while pushed away to the corners and wings are they who earntheir bread by the sweat of their brow; and those who cannot afford good linenare too proud to be seen here at all.

“The choir sings and the organ rings,” the uninteresting prayers are rattledoff (“O come, let us worship, and fall down: and kneel before the Lord, ourMaker”); a sermon, mostly of the debts of the concern, of the customs of theancients, or of the rites and ceremonies of up-to-date churchism, is delivered,and the play is done, and as I leave the building a great hunger for a littleChristianity fills my heart.

Oh that a preacher might arise and expound from the Book of books a religionwith a God, a religion with a heart in it—a Christian religion, which wouldabolish the cold legend whose centre is respectability, and which rears greatbuildings in which the rich recline on silken hassocks while the poor perish inthe shadow thereof.

Through the hot dry summer, then the heartless winter and the scorching summeragain which have spent themselves since Gertie’s departure, I have struggledhard to do my duty in that state of life unto which it had pleased God to callme, and sometimes I have partially succeeded. I have had no books or papers,nothing but peasant surroundings and peasant tasks, and have encouraged peasantignorance—ignorance being the mainspring of contentment, and contentment thebed-rock of happiness; but it is all to no purpose. A note from the other worldwill strike upon the chord of my being, and the spirit which has been dozingwithin me awakens and fiercely beats at its bars, demanding some noblerthought, some higher aspiration, some wider action, a more saturnalianpleasure, something more than the peasant life can ever yield. Then I hold myspirit tight till wild passionate longing sinks down, down to sickening dumbdespair, and had I the privilege extended to job of old—to curse God and die—Iwould leap at it eagerly.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
But Absent Friends are Soon Forgot

We received a great many letters from Gertie for a little while after she wentup the country, but they grew shorter and farther between as time went on.

In one of grannie’s letters there was concerning my sister: “I find Gertie is amuch younger girl for her age than Sybylla was, and not nearly so wild and hardto manage. She is a great comfort to me. Every one remarks upon her goodlooks.”

From one of Gertie’s letters:

Uncle Julius came home from Hong Kong and America last week, and brought such alot of funny presents for every one. He had a lot for you, but he has giventhem to me instead as you are not here. He calls me his pretty little sunbeam,and says I must always live with him.

I sighed to myself as I read this. Uncle Jay-Jay had said much the same to me,and where was I now? My thoughts were ever turning to the people and old placeI love so well, but Gertie’s letters showed me that I was utterly forgotten andunmissed.

Gertie left us in October 1897, and it was somewhere about January 1898 thatall the letters from Caddagat were full to overflowing with the wonderful newsof Harold Beecham’s reinstatement at Five-Bob Downs, under the same conditionsas he had held sway there in my day.

From grannie’s letters I learnt that some old sweetheart of Harold’s father hadbequeathed untold wealth to this her lost love’s son. The wealth was in bondsand stocks principally, and though it would be some time ere Harold wasactually in possession of it, yet he had no difficulty in getting advancementsto any amount, and had immediately repurchased Five-Bob.

I had never dreamed of such a possibility. True, I had often said were Harold acharacter in fiction instead of real life, some relative would die opportunelyand set him up in his former position, but, here, this utterly unanticipatedcontingency had arisen in a manner which would affect my own life, and whatwere my feelings regarding the matter?

I think I was not fully aware of the extent of my lack of wifely love forHarold Beecham, until experiencing the sense of relief which stole over me onholding in my hand the announcement of his return to the smile of fortune.

He was rich; he would not need me now; my obligation to him ceased to exist; Iwas free. He would no longer wish to be hampered with me. He could take hischoice of beauty and worth; he might even purchase a princess did his ambitionpoint that way.

One of Gertie’s letters ran:

That Mr Beecham you used to tell me so much about has come back to live atFive-Bob. He has brought his aunts back. Every one went to welcome them, andthere was a great fuss. Aunt Helen says he (Mr B.) is very conservative; he haseverything just as it used to be. I believe he is richer than ever. Every oneis laughing about his luck. He was here twice last week, and has just left thisevening. He is very quiet. I don’t know how you thought him so wonderful. Ithink he is too slow, I have great work to talk to him, but he is very kind,and I like him. He seems to remember you well, and often says you were a gameyoungster, and could ride like old Nick himself.

I wrote to the owner of Five-Bob desiring to know if what I heard concerninghis good fortune was correct, and he replied by return post:

My dear little Syb,

Yes, thank goodness it is all true. The old lady left me nearly a million. Itseems like a fairy yarn, and I will know how to value it more now. I would havewritten sooner, only you remember our bargain, and I was just waiting to getthings fixed up a little, when I’m off at great tracks to claim you in theflesh, as there is no need for us to wait above a month or two now if you areagreeable. I am just run to death. It takes a bit of jigging to get thingsstraight again, but it’s simply too good to believe to be back in the same oldbeat. I’ve seen Gertie a good many times, and find your descriptions of herwere not at all overdrawn. I won’t send any love in this, or there would be a“bust up” in the post-office, because I’d be sure to overdo the thing, and I’dhave all the officials on to me for damages. Gather up your goods and chattels,because I’ll be along in a week or two to take possession of you.

—Yr devoted
Hal.

I screwed the letter in two and dropped it into the kitchen-fire.

I knew Harold meant what he had said. He was a strong-natured man of firmdeterminations, and having made up his mind to marry me would never for aninstant think of anything else; but I could see what he could not seehimself—that he had probably tired of me, and was becoming enamoured ofGertie’s beauty.

The discordance of life smote hard upon me, and the letter I wrote was notpleasant. It ran:

To H. A. BEECHAM, Esq.,
Five-Bob Downs Station,
Gool-Gool, N.S.W.

Sir,

Your favour duly to hand. I heartily rejoice at your good fortune, and trustyou may live long and have health to enjoy it. Do not for an instant consideryourself under any obligations to me, for you are perfectly free. Choose someone who will reflect more credit on your taste and sense.

With all good wishes,
Faithfully yrs,
S. PENELOPE MELVYN.

As I closed and directed this how far away Harold Beecham seemed! Less than twoyears ago I had been familiar with every curve and expression of his face,every outline of his great figure, every intonation of his strong cultivatedvoice; but now he seemed as the shadow of a former age.

He wrote in reply: What did I mean? Was it a joke—just a little of my oldtormenting spirit? Would I explain immediately? He couldn’t get down to see mefor a fortnight at the least.

I explained, and very tersely, that I had meant what I said, and in returnreceived a letter as short as my own:

Dear Miss Melvyn,

I regret your decision, but trust I have sufficient manhood to prevent me fromthrusting myself upon any lady, much less you.

Your sincere friend,
HAROLD AUGUSTUS BEECHAM.

He did not demand a reason for my decision, but accepted it unquestionably. AsI read his words he grew near to me, as in the days gone by.

I closed my eyes, and before my mental vision there arose an overgrown oldorchard, skirting one of the great stock-routes from Riverina to Monaro. Aglorious day was languidly smiling good night on abundance of ripe and ripeningfruit and flowers. The scent of stock and the merry cry of the tennis-playersfilled the air. I could feel Harold’s wild jolting heart-beats, his burningbreath on my brow, and his voice husky with rage in my ear. As he wrote thatletter I could fancy the well-cut mouth settling into a sullen line, as it haddone on my birthday when, by caressing, I had won it back to its habitualpleasant expression; but on this occasion I would not be there. He would beangry just a little while—a man of his strength and importance could not longhold ill-will towards a woman, a girl, a child! as weak and insignificant as I.Then when I should meet him in the years to come, when he would be the faithfuland loving husband of another woman, he would be a little embarrassed perhaps;but I would set him at his case, and we would laugh together re what he wouldterm our foolish young days, and he would like me in a brotherly way. Yes, thatwas how it would be. The tiny note blackened in the flames.

So much for my romance of love! It had ended in a bottle of smoke, as all myother dreams of life bid fair to do.

I think I was not fully aware how near I had been to loving Harold Beechamuntil experiencing the sense of loss which stole over me on holding in my handthe acceptance of his dismissal. It was a something gone out of my life, whichcontained so few somethings, that I crushingly felt the loss of any one.

Our greatest heart-treasure is a knowledge that there is in creation anindividual to whom our existence is necessary—some one who is part of our lifeas we are part of theirs, some one in whose life we feel assured our deathwould leave a gap for a day or two. And who can be this but a husband or wife?Our parents have other children and themselves, our brothers and sisters marryand have lives apart, so with our friends; but one’s husband would bedifferent. And I had thrown behind me this chance; but in the days thatfollowed I knew that I had acted wisely.

Gertie’s letters would contain: “Harold Beecham, he makes me call him Harry,took me to Five-Bob last week, and it was lovely fun.”

Again it would be: “Harry says I am the prettiest little girl ever was,Caddagat or anywhere else, and he gave me such a lovely bracelet. I wish youcould see it.”

Or this:

We all went to church yesterday. Harry rode with me. There is to be a veryswell ball at Wyambeet next month, and Harry says I am to keep nearly all mydances for him. Frank Hawden sailed for England last week. We have a newjackeroo. He is better-looking than Frank, but I don’t like him as well.

Grannie’s and aunt Helen’s letters to my mother corroborated these admissions.Grannie wrote:

Harry Beecham seems to be very much struck with Gertie. I think it would be agood thing, as he is immensely rich, and a very steady young fellow into thebargain. They say no woman could live with him on account of his temper; but hehas always been a favourite of mine, and we cannot expect a man without somefaults.

Aunt Helen remarked:

Don’t be surprised if you have young Beecham down there presently on an “askingpapa” excursion. He spends a great deal of time here, and has been inquiringthe best route to Possum Gully. Do you remember him? I don’t think he was herein your day. He is an estimable and likeable young fellow, and I think willmake a good husband apart from his wealth. He and Gertie present a markedcontrast.

Sometimes on reading this kind of thing I would wax rather bitter. Love, Isaid, was not a lasting thing; but knowledge told me that it was for those ofbeauty and winsome ways, and not for me. I was ever to be a lonely-hearted waiffrom end to end of the world of love—an alien among my own kin.

But there were other things to worry me. Horace had left the family roof. Heaverred he was “full up of life under the old man’s rule. It was too slow andmessed up.” His uncle, George Melvyn, his father’s eldest brother, who had sooften and so kindly set us up with cows, had offered to take him, and hisfather had consented to let him go. George Melvyn had a large station outback,a large sheep-shearing machine, and other improvements. Thence, strong in thehope of sixteen years, Horace set out on horseback one springless springmorning ere the sun had risen, with all his earthly possessions strapped beforehim. Bravely the horse stepped out for its week’s journey, and bravely itsrider sat, leaving me and the shadeless, wooden sun-baked house on the side ofthe hill, with the regretlessness of teens—especially masculine teens. Iwatched him depart until the clacking of his horse’s hoofs grew faint on thestony hillside and his form disappeared amid the she-oak scrub which crownedthe ridge to the westward. He was gone. Such is life. I sat down and buried myface in my apron, too miserable even for tears. Here was another article I illcould spare wrenched from my poorly and sparsely furnished existence.

True, our intercourse had not always been carpeted with rose-leaves. Hispitiless scorn of my want of size and beauty had often given me a sleeplessnight; but I felt no bitterness against him for this, but merely cursed thePotter who had fashioned the clay that was thus described.

On the other hand, he was the only one who had ever stood up and said a word ofextenuation for me in the teeth of a family squall. Father did not count; mymother thought me bad from end to end; Gertie, in addition to the gifts ofbeauty and lovableness, possessed that of holding with the hare and runningwith the hound; but Horace once had put in a word for me that I would neverforget. I missed his presence in the house, his pounding of the old piano withfour dumb notes in the middle, as he bawled thereto rollicking sea and comicsongs; I missed his energetic dissertations on spurs, whips, and blood-horses,and his spirited rendering of snatches of Paterson and Gordon, as he came inand out, banging doors and gates, teasing the cats and dogs and tormenting thechildren.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
The 3rd of December 1898

It was a very hot day. So extreme was the heat that to save the lives of someyoung swallows my father had to put wet bags over the iron roof above theirnest. A galvanized-iron awning connected our kitchen and house: in this someswallows had built, placing their nest so near the iron that the young oneswere baking with the heat until rescued by the wet bagging. I had a heavy day’swork before me, and, from my exertions of the day before, was tired at thebeginning. Bush-fires had been raging in the vicinity during the week, andyesterday had come so close that I had been called out to carry buckets ofwater all the afternoon in the blazing sun. The fire had been allayed, aftermaking a gap in one of our boundary fences. Father and the boys had been forcedto leave the harvesting of the miserable pinched wheat while they went to mendit, as the small allowance of grass the drought gave us was precious, and hadto be carefully preserved from neighbours’ stock.

I had baked and cooked, scrubbed floors and whitewashed hearths, scouredtinware and cutlery, cleaned windows, swept yards, and discharged numerousmiscellaneous jobs, and half-past two in the afternoon found me very dirty andvery tired, and with very much more yet to do.

One of my half-starved poddy calves was very ill, and I went out to doctor itprevious to bathing and tidying myself for my finishing household duties.

My mother was busy upon piles and piles of wearying mending, which was one ofthe most hopeless of the many slaveries of her life. This was hard work, and myfather was slaving away in the sun, and mine was arduous labour, and it was avery hot day, and a drought-smitten and a long day, and poddy calves ever havea tendency to make me moralize and snarl. This was life, my life and myparents’ life, and the life of those around us, and if I was a good girl andhonoured my parents I would be rewarded with a long stretch of it. Yah!

These pagan meditations were interrupted by a footfall slowly approaching. Idid not turn to ascertain who it might be, but trusted it was no one ofimportance, as the poddy and I presented rather a grotesque appearance. It wasone of the most miserable and sickly of its miserable kind, and I was in theworking uniform of the Australian peasantry. My tattered skirt and my odd andbursted boots, laced with twine, were spattered with whitewash, for coolness mysoiled cotton blouse hung loose, an exceedingly dilapidated sun-bonnetsurmounted my head, and a bottle of castor-oil was in my hand.

I supposed it was one of the neighbours or a tea-agent, and I would send themto mother.

The footsteps had come to a halt beside me.

“Could you tell me if—”

I glanced upwards. Horrors! There stood Harold Beecham, as tall and broad as ofyore, even more sunburnt than ever, and looking very stylish in a suit of greyand a soft fashionable dinted-in hat; and it was the first time I had ever seenhim in a white shirt and high collar.

I wished he would explode, or I might sink into the ground, or the calf woulddisappear, or that something might happen.

On recognizing me his silence grew profound, but an unmistakable expression ofpity filled his eyes and stung me to the quick.

I have a faculty of self-pity, but my pride promptly refuses the slightestoffer of sympathy from another.

I could feel my heart grow as bitterly cold as my demeanour was icily stiff,when I stood up and said curtly:

“This is a great surprise, Mr Beecham.”

“Not an unpleasant one, I hope,” he said pleasantly.

“We will not discuss the matter. Come inside out of the heat.”

“I’m in no hurry, Syb, and couldn’t I help you with that poor little devil?”

“I’m only trying to give it another chance of life.”

“What will you do with it if it lives?”

“Sell it for half a crown when it’s a yearling.”

“It would pay better to shoot the poor little beggar now.”

“No doubt it would the owner of Five-Bob, but we have to be more careful,” Isaid tartly.

“I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“I’m not offended,” I returned, leading the way to the house, imagining with akeen pain that Harold Beecham must be wondering how for an instant he couldhave been foolish enough to fancy such an object two years ago.

Thank goodness I have never felt any humiliation on account of my mother, andfelt none then, as she rose to greet Harold upon my introduction. She was alady, and looked it, in spite of the piles of coarse mending, and the pair oftrousers, almost bullet-proof with patches, out of which she drew her hand,roughened and reddened with hard labour, in spite of her patched and fadedcotton gown, and the commonest and most poverty-stricken of peasantsurroundings, which failed to hide that she had not been always thus.

Leaving them together, I expeditiously proceeded to relieve the livery-stablehorse, on which Harold had come, of the valise, saddle, and bridle with whichit was encumbered, and then let it loose in one of the grassless paddocks nearat hand.

Then I threw myself on a stool in the kitchen, and felt, to the bone, the stingof having ideas above one’s position.

In a few minutes mother came hurrying out.

“Good gracious, what’s the matter? I suppose you didn’t like being caught insuch a pickle, but don’t get in the dumps about it. I’ll get him some tea whileyou clean yourself, and then you’ll be able to help me by and by.”

I found my little sister Aurora, and we climbed through the window into mybedroom to get tidy. I put a pair of white socks and shoes and a clean pinaforeon the little girl, and combed her golden curls. She was all mine—slept withme, obeyed me, championed me; while I—well, I worshipped her.

There was a hole in the wall, and through it I could see without being seen.

Mother was dispensing afternoon tea and talking to Harold. It was pleasant tosee that manly figure once again. My spirits rose considerably. After all, ifthe place was poor, it was very clean, as I had scrubbed it all that morning,and when I came to consider the matter, I remembered that men weren’t suchterrible creatures, and never made one feel the sting of one’s poverty half asmuch as women do.

“Aurora,” I said, I want you to go out and tell Mr Beecham something.

The little girl assented. I carefully instructed her in what she was to say,and dispatched her. She placed herself in front of Harold—a wide-eyed mite offour, that scarcely reached above his knee—and clasping her chubby hands behindher, gazed at him fearlessly and unwinkingly.

“Aurora, you mustn’t stand staring like that,” said mother.

“Yes, I must,” she replied confidently.

“Well, and what’s your name?” said Harold laughingly.

“Aurora and Roy. I belong to Sybyller, and got to tell you somesing.”

“Have you? Let’s hear it.”

“Sybyller says you’s Mr Beecher; when you’re done tea, you’d like me if I wouldto ’scort you to farver and the boys, and ’duce you.”

Mother laughed. “That’s some of Sybylla’s nonsense. She considers Rory herespecial property, and delights to make the child attempt long words. Perhapsyou would care to take a stroll to where they are at work, by and by.”

Harold said he would go at once, and accepting Rory’s escort, and with a fewdirections from mother, they presently set out—she importantly trudging beneatha big white sun-bonnet, and he looking down at her in amusement. Presently hetossed her high above his head, and depositing her upon his shoulder, held onesturdy brown leg in his browner hand, while she held on by his hair.

“My first impressions are very much in his favour,” said mother, when they hadgot out of hearing. “But fancy Gertie the wife of that great man!”

“She is four inches taller than I am,” I snapped. “And if he was as big as agum-tree, he would be a man all the same, and just as soft on a pretty face asall the rest of them.”

I bathed, dressed, arranged my hair, got something ready for tea, and prepareda room for our visitor. For this I collected from all parts of the house—a matfrom one room, a toilet-set from another, and so on—till I had quite anelaborately furnished chamber ready for my one-time lover.

They returned at dusk, Rory again seated on Harold’s shoulder, and two of thelittle boys clinging around him.

As I conducted him to his room I was in a different humour from that of thesweep-like object who had met him during the afternoon. I laughed to myself,for, as on a former occasion during our acquaintance, I felt I was master ofthe situation.

“I say, Syb, don’t treat a fellow as though he was altogether a stranger,” hesaid diffidently, leaning against the door-post.

Our hands met in a cordial grasp as I said, “I’m awfully glad to see you, Hal;but, but——”

“But what?”

“I didn’t feel over delighted to be caught in such a stew this afternoon.”

“Nonsense! It only reminded me of the first time we met,” he said with atwinkle in his eye. “That’s always the way with you girls. You can’t be civilto a man unless you’re dressed up fit to stun him, as though you couldn’t makefool enough of him without the aid of clothes at all.”

“You’d better shut up,” I said over my shoulder as I departed, “or you will besaying something better left unsaid, like at our first meeting. Do youremember?”

“Do I not? Great Scot, it’s just like old times to have you giving me impudenceover your shoulder like that!” he replied merrily.

“Like, yet unlike,” I retorted with a sigh.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Once Upon a Time, When the Days Were Long and Hot

Next day was Sunday—a blazing one it was too. I proposed that in the afternoonsome of us should go to church. Father sat upon the idea as a mad one. Walk twomiles in such heat for nothing! as walk we would be compelled to do, horsefleshbeing too precious in such a drought to fritter it away in idle jaunts.Surprising to say, however, Harold, who never walked anywhere when he could getany sort of a horse, uttered a wish to go. Accordingly, when the midday dinnerwas over, he, Stanley, and I set out. Going to church was quite the event ofthe week to the residents around Possum Gully. It was a small Dissentingchapel, where a layman ungrammatically held forth at 3 p.m. every Sunday; butthe congregation was composed of all denominations, who attended more for thesitting about on logs outside, and yarning about the price of butter, thecontinuance of the drought, and the latest gossip, before and after theservice, than for the service itself.

I knew the appearance of Harold Beecham, would make quite a miniaturesensation, and form food for no end of conjecture and chatter. In any companyhe was a distinguished-looking man, and particularly so among these hard-workedfarmer-selectors, on whose careworn features the cruel effects of the droughtwere leaving additional lines of worry. I felt proud of my quondam sweetheart.There was an unconscious air of physical lordliness about him, and he lookedsuch a swell—not the black-clothed, clean-shaved, great display of whitecollar-and-cuffs swell appertaining to the office and city street, but of theeasy sunburnt squatter type of swelldom, redolent of the sun, the saddle, thewide open country—a man who is a man, utterly free from the least suspicion ofeffeminacy, and capable of earning his bread by the sweat of his brow—with anarm ready and willing to save in an accident.

All eyes were turned on us as we approached, and I knew that the attentions hepaid me out of simple courtesy—tying my shoe, carrying my book, holding myparasol—would be put down as those of a lover.

I introduced him to a group of men who were sitting on a log, under the shadeof a stringybark, and leaving him to converse with them, made my way to wherethe women sat beneath a gum-tree. The children made a third group at somedistance. We always divided ourselves thus. A young fellow had to be very fargone ere he was willing to run the gauntlet of all the chaff levelled at himhad he the courage to single out a girl and talk to her.

I greeted all the girls and women, beginning at the great-grandmother of thecommunity, who illustrated to perfection the grim sarcasm of the fifthcommandment. She had worked hard from morning till night, until too old to doso longer, and now hung around with aching weariness waiting for the grave. Shegenerally poured into my ears a wail about her “rheumatisms”, and “How long itdo be waiting for the Lord”; but today she was too curious about Harold tothink of herself.

“Sure, Sybyller, who’s that? Is he yer sweetheart? Sure he’s as fine a man asiver I clapped me eyes on.”

I proceeded to give his pedigree, but was interrupted by the arrival of thepreacher, and we all went into the weatherboard iron-roofed house of prayer.

After service, one of the girls came up to me and whispered, “that is yoursweetheart, isn’t it, Sybyller? He was looking at you all the time in church.”

“Oh dear, no! I’ll introduce him to you.”

I did so, and watched him as they made remarks about the heat and drought.There was nothing of the cad or snob about him, and his short season ofadversity had rubbed all the little crudities off his character, leaving him aman that the majority of both sexes would admire: women for his bigness, hisgentleness, his fine brown moustache—and for his wealth; men, because he was amanly fellow.

I know he had walked to church on purpose to get a chance of speaking to meabout Gertie, before approaching her parents on the matter; but Stanleyaccompanied us, and, boy-like, never relaxed in vigilance for an instant, sothere was no opportunity for anything but matter-of-fact remarks. The heat wasintense. We wiped the perspiration and flies from our face frequently, anddisturbed millions of grasshoppers as we walked. They had devoured all thefruit in the orchards about, and had even destroyed many of the trees by eatingthe bark, and now they were stripping the briers of foliage. In one orchard wepassed, the apricot, plum, and peach-stones hung naked on their leafless treesas evidence of their ravages. It was too hot to indulge in any but the mostdesultory conversation. We dawdled along. A tiger-snake crossed our path.Harold procured a stick and killed it, and Stanley hung it on the top wire of afence which was near at hand. After this we discussed snakes for a few yards.

A blue sea-breeze, redolent of the bush-fires which were raging at Tocumwal andBombala, came rushing and roaring over the ranges from the cast, and enshroudedthe scene in its heavy fog-like folds. The sun was obscured, and thetemperature suddenly took such a great drop that I felt chilled in my flimsyclothing, and I noticed Harold draw his coat together.

Stanley had to go after the cows, which were little better than walking hides,yet were yarded morning and evening to yield a dribble of milk. He left usamong some sallie-trees, in a secluded nook, walled in by briers, and wentacross the paddock to roundup the cows. Harold and I came to a halt by tacitconsent.

“Syb, I want to speak to you,” he said earnestly, and then came to a dead stop.

“Very well; ‘tear into it,’ as Horace would say; but if it is anythingfrightful, break it gently,” I said flippantly.

“Surely, Syb, you can guess what it is I have to say.”

Yes, I could guess, I knew what he was going to say, and the knowledge left adull bitterness at my heart. I knew he was going to tell me that I had beenright and he wrong—that he had found some one he loved better than me, and thatsome one being my sister, he felt I needed some explanation before he could goin and win; and though I had refused him for want of love, yet it gave me painwhen the moment arrived that the only man who had ever pretended to love me wasgoing to say he had been mistaken, and preferred my sister.

There was silence save for the whirr of the countless grasshoppers in the brierbushes. I knew he was expecting me to help him out, but I felt doggedly savageand wouldn’t. I looked up at him. He was a tall grand man, and honest and trueand rich. He loved my sister; she would marry him, and they would be happy. Ithought bitterly that God was good to one and cruel to another—not that Iwanted this man, but why was I so different from other girls?

But then I thought of Gertie, so pretty, so girlish, so understandable, so fullof innocent winning coquetry. I softened. Could any one help preferring her tome, who was strange, weird, and perverse—too outspoken to be engaging, devoidof beauty and endearing little ways? It was my own misfortune and nobody’sfault that my singular individuality excluded me from the ordinary run ofyouthful joyous-heartednesses, and why should I be nasty to these young people?

I was no heroine, only a common little bush-girl, so had to make the best ofthe situation without any fooling. I raised my eyes from the scanty baked wispsof grass at my feet, placed my hand on Hal’s arm, and tiptoeing so as to bringmy five-foot stature more on a level with his, said:

“Yes, Hal, I know what you want to say. Say it all. I won’t be nasty.”

“Well, you see you are so jolly touchy, and have snubbed me so often, that Idon’t know how to begin; and if you know what I’m going to say, won’t you giveme an answer without hearing it?”

“Yes, Hal; but you’d better say it, as I don’t know what conditions—”

“Conditions!”—catching me up eagerly at the word. “If it is only conditionsthat are stopping you, you can make your own conditions if you will marry me.”

“Marry you, Harold! What do you mean? Do you know what you are saying?” Iexclaimed.

“There!” he replied: “I knew you would take it as an insult. I believe you arethe proudest girl in the world. I know you are too clever for me; but I loveyou, and could give you everything you fancied.”

“Hal, dear, let me explain. I’m not insulted, only surprised. I thought youwere going to tell me that you loved Gertie, and would ask me not to makethings unpleasant by telling her of the foolish little bit of flirtation therehad been between us.”

“Marry Gertie! Why, she’s only a child! A mere baby, in fact. Marry Gertie! Inever thought of her in that light; and did you think I was that sort of afellow, Syb?” he asked reproachfully.

“No, Hal,” I promptly made answer. “I did not think you were that sort offellow; but I thought that was the only sort of fellow there was.”

“Good heavens, Syb! Did you really mean those queer little letters you wrote melast February? I never for an instant looked upon them as anything but a littlebit of playful contrariness. And have you forgotten me? Did you not mean yourpromise of two years ago, that you speak of what passed between us as a paltrybit of flirtation? Is that all you thought it?”

“No, I did not consider it flirtation; but that is what I thought you wouldterm it when announcing your affection for Gertie.”

“Gertie! Pretty little Gertie! I never looked upon the child as anything butyour sister, consequently mine also. She’s a child.”

“Child! She is eighteen. More than a year older than I was when you firstintroduced the subject of matrimony to me, and she is very beautiful, andtwenty times as good and lovable as I could ever be even in my best moments.”

“Yes, I know you are young in years, but there is nothing of the child in you.As for beauty, it is nothing. If beauty was all a man required, he could, ifrich, have a harem full of it any day. I want some one to be true.”

“The world is filled with folly and sin,
And love must cling where it can, I say;
For beauty is easy enough to win,
But one isn’t loved every day,”

I quoted from Owen Meredith.

“Yes,” he said, “that is why I want you. Just think a moment; don’t say no. Youare not vexed with me—are you, Syb?”

“Vexed, Hal! I am scarcely inhuman enough to be angry on account of beingloved.”

Ah, why did I not love him as I have it in me to love! Why did he look soexasperatingly humble? I was weak, oh, so pitifully weak! I wanted a man whowould be masterful and strong, who would help me over the rough spots oflife—one who had done hard grinding in the mill of fate—one who had suffered,who had understood. No; I could never marry Harold Beecham.

“Well, Syb, little chum, what do you say?”

“Say!”—and the words fell from me bitterly—“I say, leave me; go and marry thesort of woman you ought to marry. The sort that all men like. A goodconventional woman, who will do the things she should at the proper time. Leaveme alone.”

He was painfully agitated. A look of pain crossed his face.

“Don’t say that, Syb, because I was a beastly cad once: I’ve had all thatknocked out of me.”

“I am the cad,” I replied. “What I said was nasty and unwomanly, and I wish Ihad left it unsaid. I am not good enough to be your wife, Hal, or that of anyman. Oh, Hal, I have never deceived you! There are scores of good noble womenin the world who would wed you for the asking—marry one of them.”

“But, Syb, I want you. You are the best and truest girl in the world.”

“Och! Sure, the blarney-stone is getting a good rub now,” I said playfully.

Annoyance and amusement struggled for mastery in his expression as he replied:

“You’re the queerest girl in the world. One minute you snub a person, the nextyou are the jolliest girl going, and then you get as grave and earnest as afellow’s mother would be.”

“Yes, I am queer. If you had any sense, you’d have nothing to do with me. I’mmore queer, too. I am given to something which a man never pardons in a woman.You will draw away as though I were a snake when you hear.”

“What is it?”

“I am given to writing stories, and literary people predict I will yet be anauthoress.”

He laughed—his soft, rich laugh.

“That’s just into my hand. I’d rather work all day than write the shortestletter; so if you will give me a hand occasionally, you can write as many yarnsas you like. I’ll give you a study, and send for a truck-load of writing-gearat once, if you like. Is that the only horror you had to tell me?”

I bowed my head.

“Well, I can have you now,” he said gently, folding me softly in his arms withsuch tender reverence that I cried out in pain, “Oh, Hal, don’t, don’t!” andstruggled free. I was ashamed, knowing I was not worthy of this.

He flushed a dusky red.

“Am I so hateful to you that you cannot bear my touch?” he asked halfwistfully, half angrily.

“Oh no; it isn’t that. I’m really very fond of you, if you’d only understand,”I said half to myself.

“Understand! If you care for me, that is all I want to understand. I love you,and have plenty of money. There is nothing to keep us apart. Now that I knowyou care for me, Iwill have you, in spite of the devil.”

“There will be a great tussle between you,” I said mischievously, laughing athim. “Old Nick has a great hold on me, and I’m sure he will dispute yourright.”

At any time Harold’s sense of humour was not at all in accordance with hissize, and he failed to see how my remark applied now.

He gripped my hands in a passion of pleading, as two years previously he hadseized me in jealous rage. He drew me to him. His eyes were dark and full ofentreaty; his voice was husky.

“Syb, poor little Syb, I will be good to you! You can have what you like. Youdon’t know what you mean when you say no.”

No; I would not yield. He offered me everything—but control. He was a man whomeant all he said. His were no idle promises on the spur of the moment. But no,no, no, no, he was not for me. My love must know, must have suffered, mustunderstand.

“Syb, you do not answer. May I call you mine? You must, you must, you must!”

His hot breath was upon my cheek. The pleasant, open, manly countenance wasvery near-perilously near. The intoxication of his love was overpowering me. Ihad no hesitation about trusting him. He was not distasteful to me in any way.What was the good of waiting for that other—the man who had suffered, who knew,who understood? I might never find him; and, if I did, ninety-nine chances toone he would not care for me.

“Syb, Syb, can’t you love me just a little?”

There was a winning charm in his manner. Nature had endowed him liberally withvirile fascination. My hard uncongenial life had rendered me weak. He wasdrawing me to him; he was irresistible. Yes; I would be his wife. I grew dizzy,and turned my head sharply backwards and took a long gasping breath, anotherand another, of that fresh cool air suggestive of the grand old sea and creakof cordage and bustle and strife of life. My old spirit revived, and mymomentary weakness fled. There was another to think of than myself, and thatwas Harold. Under a master-hand I would be harmless; but to this man I would beas a two-edged sword in the hand of a novice—gashing his fingers at every turn,and eventually stabbing his honest heart.

It was impossible to make him see my refusal was for his good. He was as afavourite child pleading for a dangerous toy. I desired to gratify him, but theawful responsibility of the after-effects loomed up and deterred me.

“Hal, it can never be.”

He dropped my hands and drew himself up.

“I will not take your No till the morning. Why do you refuse me? Is it mytemper? You need not be afraid of that. I don’t think I’d hurt you; and I don’tdrink, or smoke, or swear very much; and I’ve never destroyed a woman’s name. Iwould not stoop to press you against your will if you were like the ordinaryrun of women; but you are such a queer little party, that I’m afraid you mightbe boggling at some funny little point that could easily be wiped out.”

“Yes; it is only a little point. But if you wipe it out you will knock the endout of the whole thing—for the point is myself. I would not suit you. It wouldnot be wise for you to marry me.”

“But I’m the only person concerned. If you are not afraid for yourself, I amquite satisfied.”

We faced about and walked homewards in unbroken silence—too perturbed to fallinto our usual custom of chewing bush-leaves as we went.

I thought much that night when all the house was abed. It was tempting. Haroldwould be good to me, and would lift me from this life of poverty which I hated,to one of ease. Should I elect to remain where I was, till the grave there wasnothing before me but the life I was leading now: my only chance of gettingabove it was by marriage, and Harold Beecham’s offer was the one chance of alifetime. Perhaps he could manage me well enough. Yes; I had better marry him.

And I believe in marriage—that is, I think it the most sensible and respectablearrangement for the replenishing of a nation which has yet been suggested. Butmarriage is a solemn issue of life. I was as suited for matrimony as any of thesex, but only with an exceptional helpmeet—and Harold was not he. My latentwomanliness arose and pointed this out so plainly that I seized my pen andwrote:

Dear Harold,

I will not get a chance of speaking to you in the morning, so write. Nevermention marriage to me again. I have firmly made up my mind—it must be No. Itwill always be a comfort to me in the years to come to know that I was lovedonce, if only for a few hours. It is not that I do not care for you, as I likeyou better than any man I have ever seen; but I do not mean ever to marry. Whenyou lost your fortune I was willing to accede to your request, as I thought youwanted me; but now that you are rich again you will not need me. I am not goodenough to be your wife, for you are a good man; and better, because you do notknow you are good. You may feel uncomfortable or lonely for a little while,because, when you make up your mind, you are not easily thwarted; but you willfind that your fancy for me will soon pass. It is only a fancy, Hal. Take alook in the glass, and you will see reflected there the figure of a stalwartman who is purely virile, possessing not the slightest attribute of the weakersex, therefore your love is merely a passing flame. I do not impute ficklenessto you, but merely point out a masculine characteristic, and that you are aman, and only a man, pure and unadulterated. Look around, and from the numbersof good women to be found on every side choose one who will make you a fitterhelpmeet, a more conventional comrade, than I could ever do. I thank you forthe inestimable honour you have conferred upon me; but keep it till you findsome one worthy of it, and by and by you will be glad that I have set you free.

Good-bye, Hal!

Your sincere and affec. friend,
SYBYLLA PENELOPE MELVYN.

Then I crept into bed beside my little sister, and though the air inside hadnot cooled, and the room was warm, I shivered so that I clasped the chubby,golden-haired little sleeper in my arms that I might feel something living andreal and warm.

“Oh, Rory, Rory!” I whispered, raining upon her lonely-hearted tears. “In allthe world is there never a comrade strong and true to teach me the meaning ofthis hollow, grim little tragedy—life? Will it always be this ghastlyaloneness? Why am I not good and pretty and simple like other girls? Oh, Rory,Rory, why was I ever born? I am of no use or pleasure to any one in all theworld!”

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
He that despiseth little things, shall fall little by little

I

The morning came, breakfast, next Harold’s departure. I shook my head andslipped the note into his hand as we parted. He rode slowly down the road. Isat on the step of the garden gate, buried my face in my hands, and reviewedthe situation. I could see my life, stretching out ahead of me, barren andmonotonous as the thirsty track along which Harold was disappearing. Today itwas washing, ironing tomorrow, next day baking, after that scrubbing—thus onand on. We would occasionally see a neighbour or a tea-agent, a tramp or anAssyrian hawker. By hard slogging against flood, fire, drought, pests, stockdiseases, and the sweating occasioned by importation, we could manage to keepbread in our mouths. By training and education I was fitted for nought but whatI was, or a general slavey, which was many degrees worse. I could take mychoice. Life was too much for me. What was the end of it, what its meaning,aim, hope, or use?

In comparison to millions I knew that I had received more than a fair share ofthe goods of life; but knowing another has leprosy makes our cancer none theeasier to bear.

My mother’s voice, sharp and cross, roused me. “Sybylla, you lazy unprincipledgirl, to sit scheming there while your poor old mother is at the wash-tub. Yousit idling there, and then by and by you’ll be groaning about this terriblelife in which there’s time for nothing but work.”

How she fussed and bothered over the clothes was a marvel to me. My frame ofmind was such that it seemed it would not signify if all our clothes went tothe dogs, and the clothes of our neighbours, and the clothes of the wholeworld, and the world itself for the matter of that.

“Sybylla, you are a dirty careless washer. You’ve put Stanley’s trousers in theboil and the colour is coming out of them, and your father’s best whitehandkerchief should have been with the first lot, and here it is now.”

Poor mother got crosser as she grew weary with the fierce heat and arduoustoil, and as I in my abstraction continued to make mistakes, but the last strawwas the breaking of an old cup which I accidentally pushed off the table.

I got it hot. Had I committed an act of premeditated villainy I could not havereceived more lecturing. I deserved it—I was careless, cups were scarce withus, and we could not afford more; but what I rail against is the grindinglyuneventful narrowness of the life in which the unintentional breaking of acommon cup is good for a long scolding.

Ah, my mother! In my life of nineteen years I can look back and see a time whenshe was all gentleness and refinement, but the polish has been worn off it byyears and years of scrubbing and scratching, and washing and patching, andpoverty and husbandly neglect, and the bearing of burdens too heavy fordelicate shoulders. Would that we were more companionable, it would make manyan oasis in the desert of our lives. Oh that I could take an all-absorbinginterest in patterns and recipes, bargains and orthodoxy! Oh that you couldunderstand my desire to feel the rolling billows of the ocean beneath, to hearthe pealing of a great organ through dimly lit arches, or the sob and wail of aviolin in a brilliant crowded hall, to be swept on by the human stream.

Ah, thou cruel fiend—Ambition! Desire!

“Soul of the leaping flame,
Heart of the scarlet fire,
Spirit that hath for name
Only the name—Desire!”

To hot young hearts beating passionately in strong breasts, the sweetest thingis motion.

No, that part of me went beyond my mother’s understanding. On the other hand,there was a part of my mother—her brave cheerfulness, her trust in God, herheroic struggle to keep the home together—which went soaring on beyond myunderstanding, leaving me a coward weakling, grovelling in the dust.

Would that hot dreary day never close? What advantage when it did? The next andthe next and many weeks of others just the same were following hard after.

If the souls of lives were voiced in music, there are some that none but agreat organ could express, others the clash of a full orchestra, a few to whichnought but the refined and exquisite sadness of a violin could do justice. Manymight be likened unto common pianos, jangling and out of tune, and some to thefeeble piping of a penny whistle, and mine could be told with a couple of nailsin a rusty tin-pot.

Why do I write? For what does any one write? Shall I get a hearing? If so—whatthen?

I have voiced the things around me, the small-minded thoughts, the sodden roundof grinding tasks—a monotonous, purposeless, needless existence. But patience,O heart, surely I can make a purpose! For the present, of my family I am themost suited to wait about common public-houses to look after my father when heis inebriated. It breaks my mother’s heart to do it; it is dangerous for mybrothers; imagine Gertie in such a position! But me it does not injure, I havethe faculty for doing that sort of thing without coming to harm, and if itmakes me more bitter and godless, well, what matter?

II

The next letter I received from Gertie contained:

I suppose you were glad to see Harry. He did not tell me he was going, or Iwould have sent some things by him. I thought he would be able to tell me lotsabout you that I was dying to hear, but he never said a word, only that youwere all well. He went travelling some weeks ago. I missed him at first becausehe used to be so kind to me; but now I don’t, because Mr Creyton, whom Harryleft to manage Five-Bob, comes just as often as Harry used to, and is lotsfunnier. He brings me something nice every time. Uncle Jay-Jay teases me abouthim.

Happy butterfly-natured Gertie! I envied her. With Gertie’s letter came alsoone from grannie, with further mention of Harold Beecham.

We don’t know what to make of Harold Beecham. He was always such a steadyfellow, and hated to go away from home even for a short time, but now he hastaken an idea to rush away to America, and is not coming home till he has goneover the world. He is not going to see anything, because by cablegrams hisaunts got he is one place today and hundreds of miles away tomorrow. It is somecraze he has suddenly taken. I was asking Augusta if there was ever any lunacyin the family, and she says not that she knows of. It was a very unwise act toleave full management to Creyton and Benson in the face of such a drought. Onewarning and marvellous escape such as he has had ought to be enough for a manwith any sense. I told him he’d be poor again if he didn’t take care, but hesaid he didn’t mind if all his property was blown into atoms, as it had donehim more harm than good, whatever he means by talking that way. Insanity is theonly reason I can see for his conduct. I thought he had his eye on Gertie, butI questioned her, and it appears he has never said anything to her. I wonderwhat was his motive for going to Possum Gully that time?

Travel was indeed an unexpected development on the part of Harold Beecham. Hehad such a marked aversion to anything of that sort, and never went even toSydney or Melbourne for more than a few days at a stretch, and that on businessor at a time of stock shows.

There were many conjectures re the motive of his visit to Possum Gully, but Iheld my peace.

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Movatterモバイル変換

The Project Gutenberg eBook ofMy Brilliant Career

My Brilliant Career

by Miles Franklin

1901

Contents

PREFACE

INTRODUCTION

SPECIAL NOTICE

CHAPTER ONEI Remember, I Remember

CHAPTER TWOAn Introduction to Possum Gully

CHAPTER THREEA Lifeless Life

CHAPTER FOURA Career Which Soon Careered To An End

CHAPTER FIVEDisjointed Sketches And Grumbles

A DROUGHT IDYLL

CHAPTER SIXRevolt

CHAPTER SEVENWas E’er a Rose Without Its Thorn?

SELF-ANALYSIS

CHAPTER EIGHTPossum Gully Left Behind. Hurrah! Hurrah!

CHAPTER NINEAunt Helen’s Recipe

CHAPTER TENEverard Grey

CHAPTER ELEVENYah!

CHAPTER TWELVEOne Grand Passion

CHAPTER THIRTEENHe

CHAPTER FOURTEENPrincipally Letters

CHAPTER FIFTEENWhen the Heart is Young

CHAPTER SIXTEENWhen Fortune Smiles

CHAPTER SEVENTEENIdylls of Youth

CHAPTER EIGHTEENAs Short as I Wish had been the Majority of Sermons to which I have been Forcedto give Ear

CHAPTER NINETEENThe 9th of November 1896

CHAPTER TWENTYSame Yarn—continued

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONEMy Unladylike Behaviour Again

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWOSweet Seventeen

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREEAh, For One Hour of Burning Love, ’Tis Worth an Age of Cold Respect!

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOURThou Knowest Not What a Day May Bring Forth

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVEBecause?

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIXBoast Not Thyself of Tomorrow

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVENMy Journey

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHTTo Life

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINETo Life—continued

CHAPTER THIRTYWhere Ignorance is Bliss, ’Tis Folly to be Wise

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONEMr M’Swat and I Have a Bust-up

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWOTa-ta to Barney’s Gap

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREEBack at Possum Gully

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOURBut Absent Friends are Soon Forgot

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVEThe 3rd of December 1898

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIXOnce Upon a Time, When the Days Were Long and Hot

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVENHe that despiseth little things, shall fall little by little

I

II

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHTA Tale that is told and a Day that is done

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE

CHAPTER ONE
I Remember, I Remember

CHAPTER TWO
An Introduction to Possum Gully

CHAPTER THREE
A Lifeless Life

CHAPTER FOUR
A Career Which Soon Careered To An End

CHAPTER FIVE
Disjointed Sketches And Grumbles

CHAPTER SIX
Revolt

CHAPTER SEVEN
Was E’er a Rose Without Its Thorn?

CHAPTER EIGHT
Possum Gully Left Behind. Hurrah! Hurrah!

CHAPTER NINE
Aunt Helen’s Recipe

CHAPTER TEN
Everard Grey

CHAPTER ELEVEN
Yah!

CHAPTER TWELVE
One Grand Passion

CHAPTER THIRTEEN
He

CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Principally Letters

CHAPTER FIFTEEN
When the Heart is Young

CHAPTER SIXTEEN
When Fortune Smiles

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Idylls of Youth

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
As Short as I Wish had been the Majority of Sermons to which I have been Forcedto give Ear

CHAPTER NINETEEN
The 9th of November 1896

CHAPTER TWENTY
Same Yarn—continued

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
My Unladylike Behaviour Again

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Sweet Seventeen

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Ah, For One Hour of Burning Love, ’Tis Worth an Age of Cold Respect!

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Thou Knowest Not What a Day May Bring Forth

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Because?

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Boast Not Thyself of Tomorrow

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
My Journey

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
To Life

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
To Life—continued

CHAPTER THIRTY
Where Ignorance is Bliss, ’Tis Folly to be Wise

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Mr M’Swat and I Have a Bust-up

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Ta-ta to Barney’s Gap

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Back at Possum Gully

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
But Absent Friends are Soon Forgot

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
The 3rd of December 1898

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Once Upon a Time, When the Days Were Long and Hot

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
He that despiseth little things, shall fall little by little

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
A Tale that is told and a Day that is done