We felt the loss of the Beechams very, very much. It was sad to think of Five–Bob — pleasant, hospitable Five–Bob — as shut up, with no one but a solitary caretaker there pending the settling of the Beecham insolvency; with flowers running 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 the quiet, sunburnt, gentlemanly, young giant whose pleasant countenance and strapping 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, uncle Jay–Jay was preparing for a trip, and fussed so that the whole place was kept in a state of ferment.
We had fun, feasting, and company to no end on Christmas Day. There were bank clerks and young fellows out of offices from Gool–Gool, jackeroos and governesses 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 to combine business with pleasure, as he meant to bring back some stud stock if he could make a satisfactory bargain. Boxing Day had fallen on a Saturday that year, and the last of our guests departed on Sunday morning. It was the first time we had had any quietude for many weeks, so in the afternoon I went out to swing in my hammock and meditate upon things in general. Taking with me a bountiful supply of figs, apricots, and mulberries, I laid myself out for a deal of enjoyment in the cool dense shade under the leafy kurrajong — and cedar-trees.
To begin with, Harold Beecham was gone, and I missed him at every turn. I need not worry about being engaged to be married, as four years was a long, long time. 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 to occupy my mind: I had much to contemplate with joyful anticipation.
Towards the end of February a great shooting and camping party, organized by grannie, was to take place. Aunt Helen, grannie, Frank Hawden, myself, and a number of other ladies and gentlemen, were going to have ten days or a fortnight in tents among the blue hills in the distance, which held many treasures in the shape of lyrebirds, musk, ferns, and such scenery as would make the thing perfection. After this auntie and I were to have our three months’ 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 Anthony Hordern’s to Paddy’s Market. Who knows what might happen then? Everard had promised to have my talents tested by good judges. Might it not be possible for me 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 unattainable ambitions in the little pleasures of everyday life. Such a thing as writing never entered my head. I occasionally dreamt out a little yarn which, had it appeared on paper, would have brimmed over with pleasure and love — in fact, have been redolent of life as I found it. It was nice to live in comfort, and among ladies and gentlemen — people who knew how to conduct themselves properly, and who 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 the perusal of my book by the clatter of galloping hoofs approaching along the road. I climbed on to the fence to see who it could be who was coming at such a breakneck pace. He pulled the rein opposite me, and I recognized a man from Dogtrap. He was in his shirt-sleeves; his horse was all in a lather, and its scarlet nostrils were wide open, and its sides heaving rapidly.
“I say, miss, hunt up the men quickly, will you?” he said hurriedly. “There’s a tremenjous fire on Wyambeet, and we’re short-handed. I’m goin’ on to knock them up at Bimbalong.”
“Hold hard,” I replied. “We haven’t a man on the place, only Joe Slocombe, and I 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 go back 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 and went 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 had come. The letters fell, address upwards, on the ground — one to myself and one to grannie, both in my mother’s handwriting. I left them where they lay. The main substance of mother’s letters to me was a hope that I was a better girl to my grannie 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 Flea Creek, 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, where old Tadpole had been left in case of emergency. I clapped a side-saddle on his back, a hat on my head, jumped on just as I was, and galloped for my life in the direction of Bimbalong, seven miles distant. I eased my horse a little going up Flea Creek pinch, but with this delay reached my destination in half an hour, and sent the men galloping in the direction of the fire. I lingered for afternoon tea, and returned at my leisure.
It was sundown when I got in sight of Caddagat. Knowing the men would not be home for some time, I rode across the paddock to yard the cows. I drove them home 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 hot day, with a blasting, drought-breathed wind; but the wind had dropped to sleep with the sunlight, and now the air had cooled. Blue smoke wreathed hill and hollow like a beauteous veil. I had traversed drought-baked land that afternoon, but in the immediate vicinity of Caddagat house there was no evidence of an unkind season. Irrigation had draped the place with beauty, and I 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 of greenery, flowers, and fruit — the place where I was born — home! Save for the murmur 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, put it in its place in the harness-room among the fig — and apricot-trees — laden to breaking point with ripe and ripening fruit. The two servant girls had departed on their Christmas holiday that morning, so grannie and auntie were the only members 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 to my tea, where it had been left for me on the dining-table. I remembered — wonderful aberration from my usual thoughtlessness — that the book I had left in the hammock had a beautiful cover which the dew would spoil, so I left my tea to bring it in. Two little white squares struck my eye in the gathering dusk. I picked them up also, and, bringing them to the light, opened the one addressed to me, and read:
No doubt what I have to write will not be very palatable to you; but it is time you gave up pleasuring and began to meet the responsibilities of life. Your father is............