My Brilliant Career by Miles Franklin (book recommendations TXT) 📕

which was addressed in my grandmother’s handwriting. In it she told me that she and my aunt were only just recovering from bad colds, and on account of the inclemency of the weather thought it unwise to come to town to meet me; but Frank Hawden, the jackeroo, would 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 of the 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 and cake with all expedition, so as not to delay Mr. Hawden, who was waiting to assist me into the buggy, where the groom was in charge of the horses in the yard. He struck up a conversation with me immediately.

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

“Yes, I am.”

“Well, miss, please remember me most kindly to yer pa; he was a good boss was Dick Melvyn. I hope he’s doin’ well. I’m Billy Haizelip, brother to Mary and Jane. 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 was bowling off at a great pace, in less than two minutes covering a rise which put Gool-Gool out of sight. It was raining a little, so I held over us the big umbrella, which grannie had sent, while we discussed the weather, to the effect that rain was badly needed and was a great novelty nowadays, and it was to be hoped it would continue. There had been but little, but the soil here away was of that rich loamy description which little water turns to mud. It clogged the wheels and loaded the break-blocks; and the near side horse had a nasty way of throwing his front feet, so that he deposited soft red lumps of mud in our laps at every step. But, despite these trifling drawbacks, it was delightful to be drawn without effort by a pair of fat horses in splendid harness. It was a great contrast to our poor skinny old horse at home, crawling along in much-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 the weather, there was silence for some time, which he broke with, “So you are Mrs. Bossier’s granddaughter, 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’s granddaughter! Well, I should smile!”

“What at?”

“Your being Mrs. Bossier’s granddaughter.”

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

“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, and I’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 to amuse myself by drawing him out.

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

“Indeed!”

“I was disappointed when I saw you had no pretensions to prettiness, as there’s not a girl up these parts worth wasting a man’s affections on, and I was building 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 to be worthy of such affection as I’m sure yours would be,” I replied sympathetically.

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

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

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

By his accent and innocent style I detected he was not a colonial, so I got him to 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 of note, and had played Old Harry everywhere.

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

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

We were now within an hour of our destination. How familiar were many landmarks to 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 visible through the shrubbery which profusely lined its banks. The short evening was drawing to a close. The white mists brought by the rain were crawling slowly down the hills, and settling in