My Brilliant Career (21 page)

Aunt Helen's slender fingers looked artistic among some pretty fancywork upon which she was engaged. Bright butterflies flitted
round the garden, and thousands of bees droned lazily among the flowers. I closed my eyes—my being filled with the beauty of it all.

I could hear Grannie's pen fly over the paper as she made out a list of Christmas supplies on a table near me.

“Helen, I suppose a hundredweight of currants will be sufficient?”

“Yes; I should think so.”

“Seven dozen yards of unbleached calico be enough?”

“Yes; plenty.”

“Which tea service did you order?”

“Number two.”

“Do you or Sybylla want anything extra?”

“Yes; parasols, gloves, and some books.”

“Books! Can I get them at Hordern's?”

“Yes.”

Grannie's voice faded on my ears, my thoughts ran on Uncle Jay-Jay. He had promised to be home in time for my birthday spread, and I was sure he had a present for me. What would it be?—something nice. He would be nearly sure to bring someone home with him from Cummabella, and we would have games and fun to no end. I was just seventeen, only seventeen, and had a long, long life before me wherein to enjoy myself. Oh, it was good to be alive! What a delightful place the world was!—so accommodating, I felt complete mistress of it. It was like an orange—I merely had to squeeze it and it gave forth sweets plenteously. The stream sounded far away, the sunlight blazed and danced, Grannie's voice was a pleasant murmur in my ear, the cockatoos screamed over the house and passed away to the west. Summer is heavenly and life is a joy, I reiterated. Joy! Joy! There was joy in the
quit! quit!
of the green-and-crimson parrots, which swung for a moment in the rose bush over the gate, and then whizzed on into the summer day. There was joy in the gleam of the sun and in the hum of the bees, and it throbbed in my heart. Joy! Joy! A jackass laughed his joy as he perched on the telegraph wire out in the road. Joy! Joy! Summer is a dream of delight and life is a joy, I said in my heart. I was repeating the one thing over and over—but ah! it was
a measure of happiness which allowed of much repetition. The cool murmur of the creek grew far away, I felt my poetry books slip off my knees and fall to the floor, but I was too content to bother about them—too happy to need their consolation, which I had previously so often and so hungrily sought. Youth! Joy! Warmth!

The clack of the garden gate, as it swung to, awoke me from a pleasant sleep. Grannie had left the veranda, and on the table where she had been writing Aunt Helen was filling many vases with maidenhair fern and La France roses. A pleasant clatter from the dining room announced that my birthday tea was in active preparation. The position of the yellow sunbeams at the far end of the wide veranda told that the dense shadows were lengthening, and that the last of the afternoon was wheeling westward. Taking this in, in an instant I straightened the piece of mosquito netting, which, to protect me from the flies, someone—Auntie probably—had spread across my face, and feigned to be yet asleep. By the footsteps which sounded on the stoned garden walk, I knew that Harold Beecham was one of the individuals approaching.

“How do you do, Mrs. Bell? Allow me to introduce my friend, Archie Goodchum. Mrs. Bell, Mr. Goodchum. Hasn't it been a roaster today? Considerably over a hundred degrees in the shade. Terribly hot!”

Aunt Helen acknowledged the introduction, and seated her guests, saying, “Harry, have you got an artistic eye? If so, you can assist me with these flowers. So might Mr. Goodchum, if he feels disposed.”

Harold accepted the proposal, and remarked, “What is the matter with your niece? It is the first time I ever saw her quiet.”

“Yes; she is a noisy little article—a perfect whirlwind in the house—but she is a little tired this afternoon; she has been seeing those sheep through today.”

“Don't you think it would be a good lark if I get something and tickle her?” said Goodchum.

“Yes, do,” said Harold; “but look out for squalls. She is a great little fizzer.”

“Then she might be insulted.”

“Not she,” interposed Auntie. “No one will enjoy the fun more than herself.”

I had my eyes half open beneath the net, so saw him cautiously approach with a rose stem between his fingers. Being extremely sensitive to tickling, so soon as touched under the ear I took a flying leap from the chair, somewhat disconcerting my tormentor.

He was a pleasant-looking young fellow somewhere about twenty, whose face was quite familiar to me.

He smiled so good-humoredly at me that I widely did the same in return, and he came forward with extended hand, exclaiming, “At last!”

The others looked on in surprise, Harold remarking suspiciously, “You said you were unacquainted with Miss Melvyn, but an introduction does not seem necessary.”

“Oh, yes it is,” chirped Mr. Goodchum. “I haven't the slightest idea of the young lady's name.”

“Don't know each other!” ejaculated Harold; and Grannie, who had appeared upon the scene, inquired stiffly what we meant by such capers if unacquainted.

Mr. Goodchum hastened to explain. “I have seen the young lady on several occasions in the bank where I am employed, and I had the good fortune to be of a little service to her one day when I was out biking. Her harness, or at least the harness on the horse she was driving, broke, and I came to the rescue with my pocketknife and some string, thereby proving, if not ornamental, I was useful. After that I tried hard to find out who she was, but my inquiries always came to nothing. I little dreamt who Miss Melvyn was when Harry, telling me she was a Goulburn girl, asked if I knew her.”

“Quite romantic,” said Aunt Helen, smiling; and a great thankfulness overcame me that Mr. Goodchum had been unable to discover my identity until now. It was right enough to be unearthed as Miss Melvyn, granddaughter of Mrs. Bossier of Caddagat, and great friend and intimate of the swell Beechams of Five-Bob Downs Station. At Goulburn I was only the daughter of old Dick Melvyn, broken-down farmer-cockatoo, well known by reason of his sprees about the commonest pubs in town.

Mr. Goodchum told us it was his first experience of the country, and therefore he was enjoying himself immensely. He also mentioned that he was anxious to see some of the gullies around Caddagat, which, he had heard, were renowned for the beauty of their ferns. Aunt Helen, accordingly, proposed a walk in the direction of one of them, and hurried off to attend to a little matter before starting. While waiting for her, Harold happened to say it was my birthday, and Mr. Goodchum tendered me the orthodox wishes, remarking, “It is surely pardonable at your time of life to ask what age you have attained today?”

“Seventeen.”

“Oh! Oh! ‘Sweet seventeen, and never been kissed'; but I suppose you cannot truthfully say that, Miss Melvyn?”

“Oh yes, I can.”

“Well, you won't be able to say it much longer,” he said, making a suggestive move in my direction. I ran, and he followed, Grannie reappearing from the dining room just in time to see me bang the garden gate with great force on my pursuer.

“What on earth is the girl doing now?” I heard her inquire.

However, Mr. Goodchum did not execute his threat; instead we walked along decorously in the direction of the nearest ferns, while Harold and Aunt Helen followed, the latter carrying a sunbonnet for me.

After we had climbed some distance up a gully, Aunt Helen called out that she and Harold would rest while I did the honors of the fern grots to my companion.

We went on and on, soon getting out of sight of the others.

“What do you say to my carving our names on a gum tree, the bark is so nice and soft?” said the bank clerk; and I seconded the proposal.

“I will make it allegorical,” he remarked, setting to work.

He was very deft with his penknife, and in a few minutes had carved S. P. M. and A. S. G., encircling the initials by a ring and two hearts interlaced.

“That'll do nicely,” he remarked, and turning round, “Why, you'll get a sunstroke; do take my hat.”

I demurred, he pressed the matter, and I agreed on condition he allowed me to tie his handkerchief over his head. I was
wearing his hat and tying the ends of a big silk handkerchief beneath his chin when the cracking of a twig caused me to look up and see Harold Beecham with an expression on his face that startled me.

“Your aunt sent me on with your hood,” he said jerkily.

“You can wear it—I've been promoted,” I said flippantly, raising my head gear to him and bowing. He did not laugh as he usually did at my tricks, but frowned darkly instead.

“We've been carving our names—at least, I have,” remarked Goodchum.

Harold tossed my sunbonnet on the ground, and said shortly, “Come on, Goodchum, we must be going.”

“Oh, don't go, Mr. Beecham. I thought you came on purpose for my birthday tea. Auntie has made me a tremendous cake. You must stay. We never dreamt of you doing anything else.”

“I've changed my mind,” he replied, striding on at such a pace that we had difficulty in keeping near him. As we resumed our own head wear, Goodchum whispered, “A bulldog ant must have stung the boss. Let's ask him.”

On reaching the house we found other company had arrived in the persons of young Mr. Goodjay from Cummabella, his sister, her governess, and a couple of jackeroos. They were seated on the veranda, and Uncle Jay-Jay, attired in his shirtsleeves, was appearing through the dining-room door with half a dozen bottles of homemade ginger ale in his arms. Dumping them down on the floor, he produced a couple of tots from his shirt pockets, saying, “Who votes for a draw of beer? Everyone must feel inclined for a swig. Harry, you want some; you don't look as though the heat was good for your temper. Hullo, Archie! Got up this far. Take a draw out of one of these bottles. If there had been a dozen pubs on the road, I'd have drunk every one of 'em dry today. I never felt such a daddy of a thirst on me before.”

“Good gracious, Julius!” exclaimed Grannie, as he offered the governess a pot full of beer, “Miss Craddock can't drink out of that pint.”

“Those who don't approve of my pints, let 'em bring their
own,” said that mischievous Uncle Jay-Jay, who was a great hand at acting the clown when he felt that way inclined.

I was dispatched for glasses, and after emptying the bottles Uncle proposed a game of tennis first, while the light lasted, and tea afterward. This proposition being carried with acclamation, we proceeded to the tennis court. Harold came too—he had apparently altered his intention of going home immediately.

There were strawberries to be had in the orchard, also some late cherries, so Uncle ordered me to go and get some. I procured a basket, and willingly agreed to obey him. Mr. Goodchum offered to accompany me, but Harold stepped forward saying he would go, in such a resolute, tragic manner that Goodchum winked audaciously, saying waggishly, “Behold, the hero descends into the burning mine!”

We walked in perfect silence, Harold not offering to carry my little basket. I did not dare lift my eyes, as something told me the face of the big man would not be pleasant to look upon just then. I twirled the ring he had given me round and round my finger. I occasionally put it on, wearing the stones on the palm side of my finger, so that it would not be taken for other than one of two or three Aunt Helen had lent me, saying I was at liberty to use them while at Caddagat, if it gave me any pleasure.

The Caddagat orchard contained six acres, and being a narrow enclosure, and the cherries growing at the extreme end from the house, it took us some time to reach them. I led the way to our destination—a secluded nook where grapevines clambered up fig trees, and where the top of gooseberry bushes met the lower limbs of cherry trees. Blue and yellow lupins stood knee high, and strawberries grew wild among them. We had not uttered a sound, and I had not glanced at my companion. I stopped; he wheeled abruptly and grasped my wrist in a manner which sent the basket whirling from my hand. I looked up at his face, which was blazing with passion, and dark with a darker tinge than Nature and the sun had given it, from the shapely swelling neck, in its soft well-turned-down collar, to where the stiff black hair, wet with perspiration, hung on the wide forehead.

“Unhand me, sir!” I said shortly, attempting to wrench myself free, but I might as well have tried to pull away from a lion.

“Unhand me!” I repeated.

For answer he took a firmer hold, in one hand seizing my arm above the elbow, and gripping my shoulder with the other
so tightly that, through my flimsy covering, his strong fingers bruised me so severely that in a calmer moment I would have squirmed and cried out with pain.

“How dare you touch me!” He drew me so closely to him that, through his thin shirt—the only garment on the upper part of his figure—I could feel the heat of his body, and his big heart beating wildly.

At last! At last! I had waked this calm silent giant into life. After many an ineffectual struggle I had got at a little real love or passion, or call it by any name—something wild and warm and splendidly alive that one could feel, the most thrilling, electric, and exquisite sensation known.

I thoroughly enjoyed the situation, but did not let this appear. A minute or two passed and he did not speak.

“Mr. Beecham, I'll trouble you to explain yourself. How dare you lay your hands upon me?”

“Explain!” he breathed rather than spoke, in a tone of concentrated fury. “I'll make
you
explain, and I'll do what I like with you. I'll touch you as much as I think fit. I'll throw you over the fence if
you
don't explain to
my
satisfaction.”

“What is there that I can explain?”