Page 27 of My Brilliant Career

‘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 shoe nearly 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’t relish,’ he said laughingly. But I knew he was thinking of a punishment which I would have secretly enjoyed.

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

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

‘Oh well, then, I’m floored, and will have to put up with the consequences,’ he good-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 a dainty white wrapper and fly-away sort of hat. In one hand my host held a big white 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 our delectation.

Having traversed the half-mile between the house and river, we pushed off from the bank in a tiny boat just big enough for two. In the teeth of Harold’s remonstrance 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, but for my companion it would have been all up with me. When I rose to the surface he promptly seized me, and without much effort, clothes and all, swam with me to the bank, where we landed — a pair of sorry figures. Harold had mud all over his nose, and in general looked very ludicrous. As soon as I could stand I laughed.

‘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 looking such 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 forty times worse. Run for your life and get a hot bath and a drop of spirits or you’ll catch your death of cold. Aunt Augusta will take a fit and tie you up for 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 am always live till nearly ninety, to plague themselves and everybody else. I’ll sneak 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, for it had suddenly dawned upon me that my thin wet clothing was outlining my figure rather too clearly for propriety.

By a circuitous way I managed to reach my bedroom unseen. It did not take me long to change my clothes, hang them to dry, and appear on the main veranda where Miss Augusta was still sewing. I picked up the book I had left on the mat, 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 your head? I never saw the like of it. Such a mass of it. It will take all day to dry.’

Half an hour later Harold appeared dressed in a warm suit of tweed. He was looking pale and languid, as though he had caught a chill, and shivered as he threw 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 like this. Sybylla has changed hers too, when I come to notice it, and her hair is wet. Have you had an accident?’ said Miss Augusta, rising from her chair in a startled manner.

‘Rubbish!’ ejaculated Harold in a tone which forbade further questioning, and the matter dropped.

She presently left the veranda, and I took the opportunity to say, ‘It is yourself 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. It gave me a bit of a turn when I rose to the top and could not see you. I was afraid the boat might have stunned you in capsizing, and you would be drowned before I could find you.’

‘Yes; I would have been such a loss to the world in general if I had been drowned,’ I said satirically.

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