My Brilliant Career, Miles Franklin [ebook offline .TXT] 📗

dog; he resumed his way behind the crawling sheep; I cantered home quickly and dismounted at the front gate at 2:30 p.m., a dusty, heated, tired girl.

Grannie came out to question me regarding the sex, age, condition, and species of the sheep, what was their destination, whether they were in search of grass or were for sale, had they spread or eaten much grass, and had the men been civil?

When I had satisfactorily informed her on all these points, she bade me have something to eat, to bathe and dress, and gave me a holiday for the remainder of the day.

My hair was grey with dust, so I washed all over, arrayed myself in a cool white dress, and throwing myself in a squatter’s chair in the veranda, spread my hair over the back of it to dry. Copies of Gordon, Kendall, and Lawson were on my lap, but I was too physically content and comfortable to indulge in even these, my sworn friends and companions. I surrendered myself to the mere joy of being alive. How the sunlight blazed and danced in the roadway⁠—the leaves of the gum-trees gleaming in it like a myriad gems! A cloud of white, which I knew to be cockatoos, circled over the distant hilltop. Nearer they wheeled until I could hear their discordant screech. The thermometer on the wall rested at 104 degrees despite the dense shade thrown on the broad old veranda by the foliage of creepers, shrubs, and trees. The gurgling rush of the creek, the scent of the flower-laden garden, and the stamp, stamp of a horse in the orchard as he attempted to rid himself of tormenting flies, filled my senses. The warmth was delightful. Summer is heavenly, I said⁠—life is a joy.

Aunt Helen’s slender fingers looked artistic among some pretty fancywork upon which she was engaged. Bright butterflies flitted round the garden, and thousands of bees droned lazily among the flowers. I closed my eyes⁠—my being filled with the beauty of it all.

I could hear grannie’s pen fly over the paper as she made out a list of Christmas supplies on a table near me.

“Helen, I suppose a hundredweight of currants will be sufficient?”

“Yes; I should think so.”

“Seven dozen yards of unbleached calico be enough?”

“Yes; plenty.”

“Which tea-service did you order?”

“Number two.”

“Do you or Sybylla want anything extra?”

“Yes; parasols, gloves, and some books.”

“Books! Can I get them at Hordern’s?”

“Yes.”

Grannie’s voice faded on my ears, my thoughts ran on uncle Jay-Jay. He had promised to be home in time for my birthday spread, and I was sure he had a present for me. What would it be?⁠—something nice. He would be nearly sure to bring someone home with him from Cummabella, and we would have games and fun to no end. I was just seventeen, only seventeen, and had a long, long life before me wherein to enjoy myself. Oh, it was good to be alive! What a delightful place the world was!⁠—so accommodating, I felt complete mistress of it. It was like an orange⁠—I merely had to squeeze it and it gave forth sweets plenteously. The stream sounded far away, the sunlight blazed and danced, grannie’s voice was a pleasant murmur in my ear, the cockatoos screamed over the house and passed away to the west. Summer is heavenly and life is a joy, I reiterated. Joy! Joy! There was joy in the quit! quit! of the green-and-crimson parrots, which swung for a moment in the rosebush over the gate, and then whizzed on into the summer day. There was joy in the gleam of the sun and in the hum of the bees, and it throbbed in my heart. Joy! Joy! A jackass laughed his joy as he perched on the telegraph wire out in the road. Joy! joy! Summer is a dream of delight and life is a joy, I said in my heart. I was repeating the one thing over and over⁠—but ah! it was a measure of happiness which allowed of much repetition. The cool murmur of the creek grew far away, I felt my poetry books slip off my knees and fall to the floor, but I was too content to bother about them⁠—too happy to need their consolation, which I had previously so often and so hungrily sought. Youth! Joy! Warmth!

The clack of the garden gate, as it swung to, awoke me from a pleasant sleep. Grannie had left the veranda, and on the table where she had been writing aunt Helen was filling many vases with maidenhair fern and La France roses. A pleasant clatter from the dining-room announced that my birthday tea was in active preparation. The position of the yellow sunbeams at the far end of the wide veranda told that the dense shadows were lengthening, and that the last of the afternoon was wheeling westward. Taking this in, in an instant I straightened the piece of mosquito-netting, which, to protect me from the flies, someone⁠—auntie probably⁠—had spread across my face, and feigned to be yet asleep. By the footsteps which sounded on the stoned garden walk, I knew that Harold Beecham was one of the individuals approaching.

“How do you do, Mrs. Bell? Allow me to introduce my friend, Archie Goodchum. Mrs. Bell, Mr. Goodchum. Hasn’t it been a roaster today? Considerably over 100 degrees in the shade. Terribly hot!”

Aunt Helen acknowledged the introduction, and seated her guests, saying:

“Harry, have you got an artistic eye? If so, you can assist me with these flowers. So might Mr. Goodchum, if he feels disposed.”

Harold accepted the proposal, and remarked:

“What is the matter with your niece? It is the first time I ever saw her quiet.”

“Yes; she is a noisy little article⁠—a perfect whirlwind in the house⁠—but she is a little tired this afternoon; she has been seeing those sheep through today.”

“Don’t you think it would be a good lark if I get something and tickle her?” said Goodchum.

“Yes, do,” said Harold; “but look out for squalls. She is a great little fizzer.”

“Then she might be insulted.”

“Not she,”