My Brilliant Career Part 13

He

Here goes for a full account of my first, my last, my only _real_ sweetheart, for I considered the professions of that pestiferous jackeroo as merely a grotesque caricature on the genuine article.

On making my first appearance before my lover, I looked quite the reverse of a heroine. My lovely hair was not conveniently escaping from the comb at the right moment to catch him hard in the eye, neither was my thrillingly low sweet voice floating out on the scented air in a manner which went straight to his heart, like the girls I had read of.

On the contrary, I much resembled a female clown. It was on a day towards the end of September, and I had been up the creek making a collection of ferns. I had on a pair of men's boots with which to walk in the water, and was garbed in a most dilapidated old dress, which I had borrowed from one of the servants for the purpose. A pair of gloves made of basil, and a big hat, much torn in struggling through the undergrowth, completed my make-up. My hair was most unbecomingly screwed up, the short ends sticking out like a hurrah's nest.

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

"While you are in that trim, I wish you would pluck some lemons for me.

I'm sure there is no danger of you ruining your turn-out. A sketch of you would make a good item for the _Bulletin_," she said.

I went readily to do her bidding, and fetching a ladder with rungs about two feet six apart, placed it against a lemon-tree at the back of the house, and climbed 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 least disconcerted. Only a tramp, an agent, or a hawker, I bet, I thought, as I reached my big boot down for another rung of the ladder without turning my head to see whom it might be.

A pair of strong brown hands encircled my waist, I was tossed up a foot or so and then deposited lightly on the ground, a masculine voice saying, "You're a mighty 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 who was parodying Gordon. There stood a man I had never before set eyes on, smiling mischievously at me. He was a young man--a very young man, a bushman tremendously tall and big and sunburnt, with an open pleasant face and chestnut moustache--not at all an awe-inspiring fellow, in spite of his unusual, though well-proportioned and carried, height. I knew it must be Harold Beecham, of Five-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, and turned to flee, but that well-formed figure bounded before me with the agility of a cat and barred my way.

"Now, not a step do you go, my fine young blood, until you pick up every jolly lemon and put them away tidily, or I'll tell the missus on you as sure as eggs."

It dawned on me that he had mistaken me for one of the servant-girls.

That wasn't bad fun. I determined not to undeceive but to have a lark with him. I summed him up as conceited, but not with the disgusting conceit with which some are afflicted, or perhaps blessed. It was rather an air of I-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 let me 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 I feared 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 at this 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 got any 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 his long heavy stock-whip with its big lash and scented myall handle. He cracked it round and round my head and arms, but I did not feel the least afraid, as I saw at a glance that he was exceedingly dexterous in the bushman's art of handling a stock-whip, and knew, if I kept perfectly still, I was quite safe. It was thanks to uncle Jay-Jay that I was able to bear the operation with unruffled equanimity, as he was in the habit of testing my nerves in this way.

"Well, I never! Not so much as blinked an eyelas.h.!.+ Thoroughbred!" He said after a 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 of many long, long days in the saddle. I felt certain as I watched him that he had quite 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 will leave Harry Beecham in your charge, as I want to superintend the making of some of 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 yourself completely; you don't know what minute your uncle and his wors.h.i.+p will arrive."

I had taken a dip in the creek, so had not to bathe, and it took me but a short time to don full war-paint--blue evening dress, satin slippers, and all. I wore my hair flowing, simply tied with a ribbon. I slipped out into the pa.s.sage and called 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 you are at leisure. But, auntie, it will be a long time till dinner--how on earth will 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 the looking-gla.s.s while aunt Helen went to summon Harold Augustus Beecham, bachelor, owner of Five-Bob Downs, Wyambeet, Walleraw.a.n.g West, Quat-Quatta, and a couple more stations in New South Wales, besides an extensive one in Queensland.

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, and whip--his leggings had perforce to remain, as his nether garment was a pair of closely fitting grey cloth riding-breeches, which clearly defined the shapely contour 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 hurried off leaving us facing each other.

He stared down at me with undisguised surprise. I looked up at him and laughed merrily. The fun was all on my side. He was a great big man--rich and important. I was a chit--an insignificant nonent.i.ty--yet, despite his s.e.x, size, and importance, I was complete master of that situation, and knew it: thus I laughed.

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

"Do shake hands. When introduced I always shake hands with anyone I think I'll like. Besides, I seem to know you well. Just think of all the apples you brought me!"

He acceded to my request, holding my hand a deal longer than necessary, and looking at me helplessly. It amused me greatly, for I saw that it was he who did 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 he boggled 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 you are. You can't deceive me now if you pretend to be a virtuous well-behaved member of society."