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

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-humouredly 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 honours 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 headgear 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