My Brilliant Career - Miles Franklin (no david read aloud txt) 📗

all tempers. But he is not vindictive, and is easy managed, if you don’t mind giving in and coaxing a little.”

“Now, uncle, you have had your say, I will have mine. You seem to think I have more than a friendly regard for Mr. Beecham, but I have not. I would not marry him even if I could. I am so sick of everyone thinking I would marry any man for his possessions. I would not stoop to marry a king if I did not love him. As for trying to win a man, I would scorn any action that way; I never intend to marry. Instead of wasting so much money on me in presents and other ways, I wish you would get me something to do, a profession that will last me all my life, so that I may be independent.”

“No mistake, you’re a rum youngster. You can be my companion till further orders. That’s a profession that will last you a goodish while.”

With this I had to be contented, as I saw he considered what I had said as a joke.

I left uncle and went in quest of grannie, who, by this, was beyond the other side of the course, fully a quarter of a mile away. Going in her direction I met Joe Archer, one of the Five-Bob jackeroos, and a great chum of mine. He had a taste for literature, and we got on together like one o’clock. We sat on a log under a stringybark-tree and discussed the books we had read since last we met, and enjoyed ourselves so much that we quite forgot about the races or the flight of time until recalled from book-land by Harold Beecham’s voice.

“Excuse me, Miss Melvyn, but your grannie has commissioned me to find you as we want to have lunch, and it appears you are the only one who knows the run of some of the tucker bags.”

“How do you do, Mr. Beecham? Where are they going to have lunch?”

“Over in that clump of box-trees,” he replied, pointing in the direction of a little rise at a good distance.

“How are you enjoying yourself?” he asked, looking straight at me.

“Treminjous intoirely, sor,” I replied.

“I suppose you know the winner of every race,” he remarked, quizzically watching Joe Archer, who was blushing and as uneasy as a schoolgirl when nabbed in the enjoyment of an illicit love-letter.

“Really, Mr. Beecham, Mr. Archer and I have been so interested in ourselves that we quite forgot there was such a thing as a race at all,” I returned.

“You’d better see where old Boxer is. He might kick some of the other horses if you don’t keep a sharp lookout,” he said, turning to his jackeroo.

“Ladies before gentlemen,” I interposed. “I want Mr. Archer to take me to grannie, then he can go and look after old Boxer.”

“I’ll escort you,” said Beecham.

“Thank you, but I have requested Mr. Archer to do so.”

“In that case, I beg your pardon, and will attend to Boxer while Joe does as you request.”

Raising his hat he walked swiftly away with a curious expression on his usually pleasant face.

“By Jove, I’m in for it!” ejaculated my escort. “The boss doesn’t get that expression on his face for nothing. You take my tip for it, he felt inclined to seize me by the scruff of the neck and kick me from here to Yabtree.”

“Go on!”

“It’s a fact. He did not believe in me not going to do his bidding immediately. He has a roaring derry on disobedience. Everyone has to obey him like winkie or they can take their beds up and trot off quick and lively.”

“Mr. Beecham has sufficient sense to see I was the cause of your disobedience,” I replied.

“That’s where it is. He would not have cared had it been some other lady, but he gets mad if anyone dares to monopolize you. I don’t know how you are going to manage him. He is a pretty hot member sometimes.”

“Mr. Archer, you presume! But throwing such empty banter aside, is Mr. Beecham really bad-tempered?”

“Bad-tempered is a tame name for it. You should have seen the dust he raised the other day with old Benson. He just did perform.”

I was always hearing of Harold Beecham’s temper, and wished I could see a little of it. He was always so imperturbably calm, and unfailingly good-tempered under the most trying circumstances, that I feared he had no emotions in him, and longed to stir him up.

Grannie greeted me with, “Sybylla, you are such a tiresome girl. I don’t know how you have packed these hampers, and we want to have lunch. Where on earth have you been?”

Miss Augusta Beecham saluted me warmly with a kiss, and presented me to her sister Sarah, who also embraced me. I went through an introduction to several ladies and gentlemen, greeted my acquaintances, and then set to work in dead earnest to get our provisions laid out⁠—the Five-Bob Downs party had theirs in readiness. Needless to say, we were combining forces. I had my work completed when Mr. Beecham appeared upon the scene with two young ladies. One was a bright-faced little brunette, and the other a tall light blonde, whom, on account of her much trimmed hat, I recognized as the lady who had been sitting on the box-seat of the Beecham drag that morning.

Joe Archer informed me in a whisper that she was Miss Blanche Derrick from Melbourne, and was considered one of the greatest beauties of that city.

This made me anxious to examine her carefully, but I did not get an opportunity of doing so. In the hurry to attend on the party, I missed the honour of an introduction, and when I was at leisure she was sitting at some distance on a log, Harold Beecham shading her in a most religious manner with a dainty parasol. In the afternoon she strolled away with him, and after I had attended to the remains of the feast, I took Joe Archer in tow. He informed me that Miss